The young girl was kinder and more attentive to her old friend than might have been expected from her pettish, indulged nature. She took a sort of pride in keeping Mrs. Gray company, in seeing to Mrs. Gray, as she called it Her little vanity was gratified in having the once redoubtable Mrs. Gray now wholly in her hands, and in some sort a helpless dependent on her good-will and kindness. It may be, too, that she found a not unworthy satisfaction in feeling and proving to the little world around her, that she also was a person of weight and consequence. But her childish kindness availed not. The time of Mrs. Gray had come; she too was to depart from a world where toil and few joys, and some heavy sorrows had been her portion. Mary and Rachel were alone with her in that hour. Mary was busy about the room. Rachel sat by her mother's bed. Pale and languid, Mrs. Gray turned to her step-daughter, and gathering her remaining strength to speak, she said feebly: "My poor Rachel, I am afraid I have often teazed and tormented you. It was all temper; but I never meant it unkindly--never indeed. And then, you see, Rachel," she added, true to her old spirit of patronizing and misunderstanding her step-daughter, "Your not being exactly like others provoked me at times; but I know it shouldn't--it wasn't fair to you, poor girl! for of course you couldn't help it." And Rachel, true to her spirit of humble submission, only smiled, and kissed her mother's wasted cheek, and said, meekly: "Do not think of it, dear mother--do not; you were not to blame." And she did not murmur, even in her heart. She did not find it hard that to the end she should be slighted, and held as one of little worth. A little while after this, Mrs. Gray spoke again. "Where is Mary?" she said. "And here I am, Mrs. Gray," said Mary, coming up to her on the other side of the bed. Mrs. Gray smiled, and stretched out her trembling hands, until they met and clasped those of the young girl. Then, with her fading eyes fixed on Mary's face, she said to Rachel: "Rachel, tell your father that I forgive him, will you?" "Yes, mother," replied Rachel, in a low tone. "Rachel," she said again, and her weak voice rose, "Rachel, you have been a good and a faithful daughter to me--may the Lord bless you!" Tears streamed down Rachel's face on hearing those few words that paid her for many a bitter hour; but her mother saw them not, still her look sought Mary. "In Thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit," she murmured, and with her look still fastened on little Mary's pale face, she died. Sad and empty seemed the house to Rachel Gray when her mother was gone. She missed her chiding voice, her step, heavy with age, her very scolding, which long habit had made light to bear. The solitude and liberty once so dear and so hardly won, now became painful and oppressive; but Rachel was not long troubled with either.