"I have made these for you," she added, opening and untying her parcel; and displaying the shirts to her father's view, and as she did so, she gazed very wistfully in his face. He gave them a careless look. "Why, my good girl," he said, "I have dozens of shirts--dozens!" And he returned to his work, a moment interrupted. Tears stood in Rachel's eyes. "I am sorry," she began, "but--but I did not know; and then I thought-- I thought you might like them." "'Taint of much consequence," he philosophically replied, "thank you all the same. Jim," he added, hailing a lad who was passing by, "just tell them at the 'Rose' to send down a pint of half-and-half, will you? I dare say you'll have something before you go," he continued, addressing his daughter. "If you'll just look in there," he added, jerking his head towards the back parlour, "you'll find some bread and cheese on the table, there's a plate too." Rachel rose and eagerly availed herself of this invitation, cold though it was; she felt curious too, to inspect, her father's domestic arrangements. She was almost disappointed to find everything so much more tidy than she could have imagined. She had hoped that her services as house-keeper might be more required, either then, or at some future period of time. She sat down, but she could not eat. "Here's the half-and-half," said her father from the shop. Rachel went and took it; she poured out some in a glass, but she could not drink; her heart was too full. "You'd better," said her father, who had now joined her. "I cannot," replied Rachel, feeling ready to cry, "I am neither hungry nor thirsty, thank you." "Oh! aint you?" said her father, "yet you have a long walk home, you know." It was the second time he said so. Rachel looked up into his face; she sought for something there, not for love, not for fondness, but for the shadow of kindness, for that which might one day become affection--she saw nothing but cold, hard, rooted indifference. The head of Rachel sank on her bosom, "The will of God be done," she thought. With a sigh she rose, and looked up in her father's face. "Good bye, father," she said, for her father she would call him once at least. "Good bye, Rachel," he replied. She held out her hand; he took it with the same hard indifference he had shown from the beginning. He did not seek to detain her; he did not ask her to come again. His farewell was as cold as had been his greeting. Rachel left him with a heart full to bursting. She had not gone ten steps when he called her. She hastened back; he stood on the threshold of his shop, a newspaper in his hand. "Just take that paper, and leave it at the 'Rose,' will you? You can't miss the 'Rose'--it's the public-house round the left-hand corner." "Yes, father," meekly said Rachel. She took the paper from his hand, turned away, and did as she was bid.