"Law bless you Miss, Mary's well enough." "Why did she not come then?" "She does not like dress-making no more." And Jane sat down, and took up her work, and became deeply absorbed in a sleeve trimming. Rachel reddened and looked pained. She liked Mary; the pale, sickly child reminded her strongly of her own lost sister, and though she could allow for the natural tartness with which Jane had no doubt fulfilled her errand, yet she knew that Jane was true, and that as she represented it, the matter must be. For a while she suspended her work, sadly wondering at the causeless ingratitude of a child whom she had treated with uniform kindness and indulgence, then she tried to dismiss the matter from her mind; but she could not do so, and when dusk came round, her first act, as soon as she laid by her work, was to slip out unperceived--for Mrs. Gray, highly indignant with Mr. Jones and his daughter, would certainly have opposed her--and go as far as the Teapot. Mr. Jones was serving a customer. He did not recognize Rachel as she entered the shop, and hastily called out: "Mary--Mary come and serve the lady." "It's only me, Mr. Jones," timidly said Rachel. "Walk in, Miss Gray," he replied, slightly embarrassed, "walk in, you'll find Mary in the back parlour, very glad to see you, Miss Gray." Much more sulky than glad looked Mary, but of this Rachel took no notice; she sat down by the side of the young girl, and, as if nothing had occurred, spoke of the Teapot and its prospects. To which discourse Mary gave replies pertinaciously sullen. "Mary!" at length said Rachel, "why did you not come to work to day, were you unwell?" This simple question obtaining no reply, Rachel repeated it; still Mary remained silent, but when a third time Rachel gently said: "Mary what was it ailed you?" Mary began to cry. "Well, well, what's the matter?" exclaimed her father looking in, "you ain't been scolding my little Mary have you. Miss Gray?" "I!" said Rachel, "no, Mr. Jones, I only asked her why she did not come this morning?" "Because I would not let her," he replied, almost sharply, "dress-making don't agree with my Mary, Miss Gray, and you know I told you from the first, that if her health wouldn't allow it, she was not to stay." And a customer calling him back to the shop, he left the parlour threshold. Rachel rose. "Good-night, Mary," she gently said; "if you feel stronger, and more able to work, you may come back to me." Mary did not reply. "Good-night, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, passing through the shop. "Good-night, Miss Gray," he replied, formally. "My best respects to Mrs. Gray, if you please." When people have done an insolent and ungrateful thing, they generally try to persuade themselves that it was a spirited, independent sort of thing; and so now endeavoured to think Richard Jones and his daughter-- but in vain. To both still came the thought: "Was this the return to make to Rachel Gray for all her kindness?"