Her errand fulfilled, Rachel walked home. There were no tears on her cheek, but there was a dull pain at her heart; an aching sorrow that dwelt there, and that--do what she would--would not depart. In vain she said to herself--"It was just what I expected; of course, I could not think it would come all in a day. Besides, if it be the will of God, must I not submit?" still disappointment murmured: "Oh! but it is hard! not one word, not one look, not one wish to see me again; nothing--nothing." It was late when Rachel reached home. Mrs. Gray, confounded at her step-daughter's audacity in thus again absenting herself without leave, had, during the whole day, amassed a store of resentment, which now burst forth on Rachel's head. The irritable old lady scolded herself into a violent passion. Rachel received her reproaches with more of apathy than of her usual resignation. They were alone; Jane and Mary had retired to their room. Rachel sat by the table where the supper things were laid, her head supported by her hand. At the other end of the table sat Mrs. Gray erect, sharp, bitter; scolding and railing by turns, and between both burned a yellow tallow candle unsnuffed, dreary looking, and but half lighting the gloomy little parlour. "And so you won't say where you have been, you good-for-nothing creature," at length cried Mrs. Gray, exasperated by her daughter's long silence. Rachel looked up in her step-mother's face. "You did not ask me where I had been," she said deliberately. "I have been to see my father." Not one word could Mrs. Gray utter. The face of Rachel, pale, desolate, and sorrow-stricken, told the whole story. Rachel added nothing. She, lit another candle, and merely saying, in her gentle voice-- "Good night, mother," she left the room. As Rachel passed by the little room of the apprentices, she saw a streak of light gliding out on the landing, through the half-open door. She pushed it, and entered. Jane sat reading by the little table; Mary lay in bed, but awake. "I did not know you were up," said Rachel to Jane, "and seeing a light, I felt afraid of fire." "Not much fear of fire," drily answered Jane. Rachel did not heed her-- she was bending over Mary. "How are you to-night, Mary?" she asked. "Oh! I am quite well," pettishly answered Mary. Rachel smoothed the young girl's hair away from her cheek. She remembered how dearly, how fondly loved was that peevish child; and she may be forgiven if she involuntarily thought the contrast between that love, and her own portion of indifference, bitter. "Mary," she softly whispered, "did you say your prayers to-night?" "Why, of course I did." "And, Mary, did you pray for your father?" "I wish you would let me sleep," crossly said the young girl. "Oh! Mary--Mary!" exclaimed Rachel, and there was tenderness and pathos in her voice; "Mary, I hope you love your father--I hope you love him." "Who said I didn't?" "Ah! but I fear you do not love him as much as he loves you."