"Oh, no!" simply replied Rachel Gray, too well disciplined into humility to feel offended with the pertness of a child, "I am never afraid; but then, I am so much older than you. However, since you do not mind it, I shall go out. Either Jane or my mother will soon be in, and so you will not long remain alone, at all events." "La, bless you! I don't mind," replied Mary, again looking superior. And now, Rachel is gone out. She has been walking an hour and more. Again, she goes through a populous neighbourhood, and through crowded streets; but this time, in the broad daylight of a lazy summer afternoon. Rachel is neither nervous nor afraid--not, at least, of anything around her. On she goes, her heart full of hope, her mind full of dreams. On she goes: street after street is passed; at length, is reached the street where Thomas Gray, the father of Rachel, lives. She stops at the second-hand ironmonger's and looks at the portraits and the books, and feels faint and hopeless, and almost wishes that her father may not be within. Thomas Gray was at his work, and there was a book by him at which he glanced now and then, Tom Paine's "Rights of Man." There was an empty pewter pot too, and a dirty public-house paper, from which we do not mean to have it inferred that Thomas Gray was given to intoxication. He was essentially a sober, steady man, vehement in nothing, not even in politics, though he was a thorough Republican. Thomas Gray was planing sturdily, enjoying the sunshine, which fell full on his meagre figure. It was hot; but as he grew old he grew chilly, when, suddenly, a dark shadow came between him and the light. He looked up, and saw a woman standing on the threshold of his shop. She was young and simply clad, tall and slender, not handsome, and very timid looking. "Walk in ma'am," he said, civilly enough. The stranger entered; he looked at her, and she looked at him. "Want anything?" he asked, at length. She took courage and spoke. "My name is Rachel," she said. He said nothing. "Rachel Gray," she resumed. He looked at her steadily, but he was still silent. "I am your daughter," she continued, in faltering accents. "Well! I never said you was not;" he answered rather drily. "Come, you need not shake so; there's a chair there. Take it and at down." Rachel obeyed; but she was so agitated that she could not utter one word. Her father looked at her for awhile, then resumed his work. Rachel did not speak--she literally could not. Words would have choked her; so it was Thomas Gray who opened the conversation. "Well, and how's the old lady?" he asked. "My mother is quite well, thank you. Sir," replied Rachel The name of father was too strange to be used thus at first. "And you--how do you get on? You 're a milliner, stay-maker--ain't you?" "I am a dress-maker; but I can do other work," said Rachel, thinking this, poor girl! a favourable opening for her present.