What wind of fortune had wafted this little French fairy to a London cellar, no one ever knew. How she lived, was almost as great a mystery. Every Sunday morning, she went forth, with a little wooden stool, and planted herself at the door of the French chapel; she asked for nothing, but took what she got. Indeed, her business there did not seem to be to get anything, but to make herself busy. She nodded to every one who went in or out, gave unasked-for information, and assisted the policeman in keeping the carriages in order. She darted in and out, among wheels and horses, with reckless audacity; and once, to the infinite wrath of a fat liveried coachman, she suspended herself--she was rather short--from the aristocratic reins he held, and boldly attempted to turn the heads of his horses. On week days, Madame Rose stayed in her cellar, and knitted. It was this part of her life which Rachel knew, and it was the most beautiful; for this little, laughed-at being, who lived upon charity, was, herself, all charity. Never yet, for five years that Rachel had watched her, had she seen Madame Rose alone in her cellar. Poor girls, who looked very much like out-casts, old and infirm women, helpless children, had successively shared the home, the bed, and the board of Madame Rose. For her seemed written the beautiful record, "I was naked, and ye clothed me; I was hungry, and ye fed me: athirst, and ye gave me drink; and I was houseless, and you sheltered me." With humble admiration, Rachel saw a charity and a zeal which she could not imitate. Like Mary, she could sit at the feet of the Lord, and, looking up, listen, rapt and absorbed, to the divine teaching. But the spirit of Martha, the holy zeal and fervour with which she bade welcome to her heavenly guest, were not among the gifts of Rachel Gray. Yet, the pleasure with which she stood in the corner of her own window, and looked down into the cellar of Madame Rose, was not merely that of religious sympathy or admiration. As she saw it this evening, with the tallow light that burned on the table, rendering every object minutely distinct, Rachel looked with another feeling than that of mere curiosity. She 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.