looked with the artistic pleasure we feel, when we gaze at some clearly-painted Dutch picture, with its back-ground of soft gloom, and its homely details of domestic life, relieved by touches of brilliant light. Poor as this cellar was, a painter would have liked it well; he would surely have delighted in the brown and crazy clothes-press, that stood at the further end, massive and dark; in the shining kitchen utensils that decorated the walls; in the low and many-coloured bed; in the clean, white deal table; in the smouldering fire, that burned in that dark grate, like a red eye; especially would he have gloried in the quaint little figure of Madame Rose.

She had been cooking her supper, and she now sat down to it. In doing so, she caught sight of Rachel's figure; they were acquainted—that is to say, that Madame Rose, partly aware of the interest Rachel took in such glimpses as she obtained of her own daily life, favoured her with tokens of recognition, whenever she caught sight of her, far or near. She now nodded in friendly style, laughed, nodded again, and with that communicativeness which formed part of her character, successively displayed every article of her supper for Rachel's inspection. First, came a dishful of dark liquid—onion soup it was—then, a piece of bread, not a large one; then, two apples; then a small bit of cheese— for Madame Rose was a Frenchwoman, and she would have her soup, and her dish, and her dessert, no matter on what scale, or in what quantity.

But the supper of Madame Rose did not alone attract the attention and interest of Rachel. For a week, Madame Rose had enjoyed her cellar to herself; her last guest, an old and infirm woman, having died of old age; but, since the preceding day, she had taken in a new tenant—an idiot girl, of some fourteen years of age, whom her father, an inhabitant of the court, had lately forsaken, and whom society, that negligent step-mother of man, had left to her fate.

And now, with tears of emotion and admiration, Rachel watched the little Frenchwoman feeding her adopted child; having first girt its neck with a sort of bib, Madame Rose armed herself with a long handled spoon, and standing before it—she was too short to sit—she deliberately poured a sufficient quantity of onion soup down its throat a proceeding which the idiot girl received with great equanimity, opening and shutting her mouth with exemplary regularity and seriousness.

So absorbed was Rachel in looking, that she never heard her mother calling her from below, until the summons was, for a third time, angrily repeated.

"Now, Rachel, what are you doing up there?" asked the sharp voice of Mrs.
Gray, at the foot of the staircase; "moping, as usual! Eh?"

Rachel started, and hastened down stairs, a little frightened. She had remained unusually long. What if her mother should suspect that she had gone up for the purpose of thinking? Mrs. Gray had no such suspicion, fortunately; else she would surely have been horror-struck at the monstrous idea, that Rachel should actually dare to think! The very extravagance of the supposition saved Rachel It was not to be thought of.

The candle was lit. Mrs. Brown and another neighbour had looked in. Gossip, flavoured with scandal—else it would have been tasteless—was at full galop.

"La! but didn't I always say so?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, who had always said everything.

"I couldn't have believed it, that I couldn't!" emphatically observed
Mrs. Gray.

"La, bless you, Mrs. Gray! I could," sneered the neighbour, who was sharp, thin, and irritable.

Even Jane had her word:

"I never liked her," she said, giving her thread a pull.

"Who is she?" languidly asked Mary, letting her work fall on her knees.

"Never you mind, Miss," tartly replied Jane. "Just stitch on, will you?"

Mrs. Brown was again down on the unlucky absent one.

"Serve her right," she said, benevolently. "Serve her right—the set up thing! Oh! there's Rachel. Lawk, Rachel! what a pity you ain't been here! You never heard such a story as has come out about that little staymaker, Humpy, as I call her. Why, she's been a making love to—la! but I can't help laughing, when I think of it; and it's all true, every word of it; aint it, Mrs. Smith?"

Mrs. Smith loftily acquiesced.

"Oh! my little room—my little room!" inwardly sighed Rachel, as she sat down to her work. She hoped that the story was, at least, finished and over; but if it was, the commentaries upon it were only beginning, and Heaven knows if they were not various and abundant.

Rachel did her best to abstract herself; to hear, and not listen. She succeeded so well that she only awoke from her dream when Mrs. Brown said to her,

"Well, Rachel, why don't you answer, then?"

Rachel looked up, with a start, and said, in some trepidation,

"Answer! I didn't hear you speak, ma'am."

"Didn't you now!" knowingly observed Mrs. Brown, winking on the rest of the company.

"No, ma'am, I did not, indeed," replied Rachel, earnestly.

"Bless the girl!" said Mrs. Brown, laughing outright; "why, you must be growing deaf."

"I hope not," said Rachel, rather perplexed; "yet, perhaps, I am; for, indeed, I did not hear you."

"La, Miss Gray! don't you see they are making fun of you?" impatiently observed Jane. "Why, Mrs. Brown hadn't been a saying anything at all."

Rachel reddened a little, and there was a general laugh at her expense. The joke was certainly a witty one. But Mrs. Gray, who was a touchy woman, was not pleased; and no sooner were her amiable visitors gone, than she gave it to Rachel for having been laughed at with insolent rudeness.

"If you were not sich a simpleton," she said, in great anger, "people wouldn't dare to laugh at you. They wouldn't take the liberty. No one ever laughed at me, I can tell you. No Mrs. Brown; no, nor no Mrs. Smith either. But you! why, they'll do anythink to you."

Rachel looked up from her work into her mother's face. It rose to her lips to say—"If you were not the first to make little of me, would others dare to do so?" but she remembered her lonely forsaken childhood, and bending once more over her task, Rachel held her peace.

"I want to go to bed," peevishly said Mary.

"Then go, my dear," gently replied Rachel.

"You'll spoil that girl," observed Mrs. Gray, with great asperity.

"She is not strong," answered Rachel; "and I promised Mr. Jones she should not work too much."

"Not much fear of that," drily said Jane, as the door closed on Mary.

No one answered. Rachel worked; her mother read the paper, and for an hour there was deep silence in the parlour. As the church clock struck nine, a knock came at the door. Jane opened, and a rosy, good-humoured looking man entered the parlour. He was about forty, short, stout, with rather a low forehead, and stubby hair; altogether, he seemed more remarkable for good-nature than for intelligence. At once his look went round the room.

"Mary is gone to bed, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, smiling.

"To bed!—She ain't ill, I hope. Miss Gray," he exclaimed, with an alarmed start.

"Ill! Oh, no! but she felt tired. I am sorry you have had this long walk for nothing."

"Never mind, Miss Gray," he replied cheerfully; then sitting down, and wiping his moist brow, he added—"the walk does me good, and then I hear how she is, and I've the pleasure of seeing you