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.