"Dear me, father, how can you?" asked the young lady, rather pettishly. Upon which, Mr. Jones shook his head, looked delighted, and at length managed to tear himself away. "And is it thus, indeed, that fathers love their daughters?" thought Rachel Gray, as she sat alone in the little back room on the evening of that day. "And is it thus, indeed! Oh! my father--my father!" She laid down the book she had been attempting to read. She leaned her brow upon her hand; she envied none, but her heart felt full to over-flowing. Since the night when she had gone to look at her father, as we have recorded, Rachel had not felt strong or courageous enough to attempt more. Her nature was timid, sensitive and shrinking to a fault, and circumstances had made it doubly so, yet the repeated sight of Richard Jones's devoted love for his child, inspired her with involuntary hope. She had grown up in the belief of her father's rooted indifference; might she not have been mistaken? was it not possible that his daughter could become dear to Thomas Gray, as other daughters were dear to their father? Rachel had always cherished the secret hope that it would one day be so, but because that hope was so precious, she had deferred risking it, lest it should perish irretrievably. She now felt inwardly urged to make the attempt. Why should she not, like the prodigal son, rise and go to her father? "I will," she thought, clasping her hands, her cheeks flushing, her eyes kindling, "yes, I will go to-morrow, and my father shall know his daughter; and, perhaps, who knows, perhaps God Almighty will bless me."