“Miss Blythe!” cried the other, alarmed by her aspect--“Rachel! What's the matter? Why, my dear, you're ill! A glass o' wine; me own mekin', my dear. Theer's no better elderberry i' the parish. Tek a drop, now do; it'll do you good, I'm sure.” “No, thank you,” said Rachel, waving the proffered glass aside and sinking back into her chair. “It passes very soon. It is quite gone. I thank you. Pray take no notice of my ailments, Mrs. Eld. I am sorry, to have discommoded you, even for a moment.” She was her prim and mincing self again, though there was still a tremor in her voice, and the exalted look in her young eyes was more marked than common. After a little time she recovered herself completely, and Mrs. Sennacherib entertained her for an hour with mournful histories of death and burial. The good woman had a rare nose for an invalid and a passion for nursing. Such of her old school-fellows as had died since Rachel's departure had mostly been nursed out of life under the care of Mrs. Sennacherib, and she was intimate with the symptoms of all of them, from the earliest to the latest. There was but little need for Rachel to talk at all when once her hostess had entered upon this absorbing topic, and when the old maid arose to go she had altogether recovered from the effect of whatever emotion had assailed her. She walked homeward so prim, so old, so withered, that ninety-nine in a hundred would have laughed to know that she was living in the heart of a love-story, and that story her own. But we rarely grow old enough to forget our own griefs, howsoever cold the frost of age may make us to the griefs of others. CHAPTER VIII. The young Sennacherib, swaggering gayly from his unnatural parent's door, was aware of something as nearly approaching a flutter as not often disturbed the picturesque dulness of the village main street. By some unusual chance there were half a dozen people in the road, and not only did these turn to stare at him, but at least half a dozen others peered at him from behind the curtains of cottage interiors, or boldly flattened their noses against the bulbous little panes of glass in the diamonded windows. “Theer's a look of summat stirrin' i' the place, gaffer,” said Snac to one ancient of the village. “Why, yis, Mr. Eld, theer is that sort of a air about the pläas to-day,” the old fellow answered, with a fine unconsciousness. “But then theer mostly _is_ a bit of a crowd round our town pump.” The crowd about the town pump consisted of one slatternly small girl and a puppy. “Can't a chap call on his feyther 'ithout the Midland counties turnin' out to look at him?” Snac asked, smilingly. “Yis,” returned the ancient, who was conveniently deaf on a sudden. “Theer's been no such fine ripenin' weather for the wheat sence I wur a lad.” Snac gave the riding-whip he carried a burlesque threatening flourish, and the old boy grinned humorously. “Sin Joseph Beaker this mornin', Mr. Eld?” he asked.