She was quiet, and silent, and preoccupied, moving about the house with a strange new dignity of manner (resulting from the total absence of self-consciousness), a sort of weary tolerance, as if she had lived in it all her life, and was tired of it. After watching her for a few days, secretly, and in much perplexed anxiety, Mrs. Reade made up her mind that something was seriously wrong, and that it was time for her to interfere to set it right. She went to her mother in the first place for information. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Mrs. Hardy was in her store-room, counting out the day's allowance of eggs to an aggrieved and majestic cook. The little woman stood by silently, watching the transaction with a smile in her brilliant eyes, thinking to herself what a great mistake it was, if poor mamma could but see it, to insist on an inflexible morality and economy in these petty matters; and when it was completed, after a little acrimonious discussion, she quietly shut the door, and addressed herself to her own business in her customary straightforward way. "I want to know what is the matter with Rachel," she began, spreading her handkerchief on a keg of vinegar, and sitting down on it deliberately. Mrs. Hardy mechanically sought repose in the one chair of the apartment, which stood in front of the little table where she was in the habit of making out her accounts. "I'm sure that is more than I can tell you, my dear. What an insolent woman that is!--if she thinks I am going to let her have the run of my stores, as Mrs. Robinson did, she is very much mistaken." "Something is wrong with Rachel," proceeded Mrs. Reade calmly; "and I want to find out what it is." Mrs. Hardy made an effort to smooth her ruffled feathers down. "I think the child must be fretting for Lucilla and the baby, Beatrice. She and Lucilla were bosom friends, and she just went wild about the baby--it was quite ridiculous to see her with it. And when she left them she cried as if she were completely heartbroken; and she has never been like herself since. I can't think what else ails her--unless she is out of sorts, and wants some medicine. I did give her some chamomilla yesterday, but it does not seem to have done her any good." "No," said Mrs. Reade, with a sudden smile, "I don't think it is a case for chamomilla. She is not ill; she is unhappy--anyone can see that. _You_ can see it, can't you?" "I'm sure no girl has less cause to be unhappy," protested Mrs. Hardy evasively, in a fretful and anxious tone. "It is very ungrateful of her if she is."