And she threw her apron over her face, and moaned with bitterness and anguish. "Mother, dear mother, do not, pray do not!" cried Rachel, distressed and alarmed at so unusual a burst of emotion. After a while, Mrs. Gray unveiled her face. It was pale and agitated; but her tears had ceased. For years they had not flowed, and until her dying day, they flowed no more. "Rachel," she said, looking in her step-daughter's face, "I forgive you. You have nearly broken my heart. Let Mary come, stay, and go; but talk to me no more of the dead. Rachel, when my darling died," here her pale lips quivered, "know that I rebelled against the Lord--know that I did not give her up willingly, but only after such agony of mind and heart as a mother goes through when she sees the child she has borne, reared, cherished, fondled, lying a pale, cold bit of earth before her! And, therefore, I say, talk no more to me about the dead, lest my rebellious heart should rise again, and cry out to its Maker: 'Oh God! oh God! why didst thou take her from me!'" Mrs. Gray rose to leave the room. On the threshold, she turned back to say in a low, sad voice: "The child may come to-morrow, Rachel." CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Gray had never cared about Mary Jones; she had always thought her what she was indeed--a sickly and peevish child. But now her heart yearned towards the young girl, she herself would have been loth to confess why. Mary took it as a matter of course, Jane wondered, Rachel well knew what had wrought such a change; but she said nothing, and watched silently. In softened tones, Mrs. Gray now addressed the young girl. If Rachel ventured to chide Mary, though ever so slightly, her step-mother sharply checked her. "Let the child alone," were her mildest words. As to Jane or Mrs. Brown, they both soon learned that Mary Jones was not to be looked at with impunity. Mrs. Gray wondered at them, she did, for teazing the poor little thing. In short, Mary was exalted to the post of favourite to the ruling powers, and she filled it with dignity and consequence. But the watchful eye of Rachel Gray noted other signs. She saw with silent uneasiness, the fading eye, the faltering step, the weakness daily increasing of her step-mother; and she felt with secret sorrow that she was soon to lose this harsh, yet not unloving or unloved companion of her quiet life. Mrs. Gray complained one day of feeling weak and ailing. She felt worse the next day, and still worse on the third. And thus, day by day, she slowly declined without hope of recovery. Mrs. Gray had a strong, though narrow mind, and a courageous heart. She heard the doctor's sentence calmly and firmly; and virtues which she had neglected in life, graced and adorned her last hours and her dying bed. Meek and patient she bore suffering and disease without repining or complaint, and granted herself but one indulgence: the sight and presence of Mary.