Rachel Merion came flying in, splendid in her scarlet dress. “How do, Mis’ Peace?” she said. “Anne, will you lend me that mantilla pattern? I want to make one out of some of that black lace Grandmother Willard had. Will you, Anne? hurry up, I can’t wait.” Mrs. Peace looked at her with mild severity. “Rachel,” she said; “sit down a spell. I want to speak to you.” “Oh, I can’t, Mis’ Peace!” said Rachel. “Manuel’s waiting for me outside.” “Manuel _can_ wait,” said Mrs. Peace. “It’ll do him good. Sit down, Rachel!” “I’d full as lives stand, thank you,” said Rachel sullenly. “I asked you to sit down,” said Mrs. Peace quietly; and Rachel sat down with a flounce on the edge of a chair, and listened with lowering brows. “I want to speak to you about Grandmother,” said the little widow. “She isn’t well; Anne sees it, and I see it. She’s outdoing her strength, caring for Grandfather all day long, and I think you’d ought to help her more than what you do.” Rachel’s eyes flashed under their black brows. “She wanted him,” she said, “and she got him; now let her see to him. I don’t feel no call to take care of Grandfather; he isn’t my husband.” Anne’s soft eyes glowed with indignation. She was about to speak, her mother motioned her to silence. “Rachel Merion,” she said. “You’d ought to be slapped, and I’ve a good part of a mind to do it. You’re careless and shiftless, and heathen; and you’ll neither do good nor get it in this world till you get a human heart in your bosom. Grandmother is worth twenty of you, and I pay her no compliment either in saying it; it shows what she is, that she has put up with your actions so long. I wouldn’t have, not a single week. I’d have drove you out with a broomstick, Rachel, and give you time to learn manners before I let you in again. There! now I’ve said my say, and you can go.” As Anne said, it was a pretty sight there, in the Merion kitchen. The good old man sat in his great armchair, dozing or dreaming the hours away, less and less inclined to stir as the weeks went on; and always beside him was the slight figure in the clear print dress, watching, waiting, tending; yes, it was pretty enough. “Sing, Grandmother!” he would say now and then; and Grandmother would sing in her low sweet voice, like a flute: “Sweet sleep to fold me, Sweet dreams to hold me; Listen, oh! listen! This the angels told me. Fair grow the trees there, Soft blows the breeze there, Golden ways, golden days, When will ye enfold me?” Or that quaint little old song that he specially liked: “As I went walking, walking, I heard St. Michael talking, He spoke to sweet St. Gabriel, The one who loves my soul so well, ‘Oh, brother, tell me here, Why hold that soul so dear?’ ‘Because, alas, since e’er ‘twas born, I feel the piercing of its thorn.’” Or it would be the song of the river, and that she loved to sing, because Grandfather would fall asleep to the soft lulling time of it: