"Who knows," she often asked herself, in her waking dreams, "who knows if the hour is not come at last? My father cannot always turn his face from me. Love me at once he cannot; but why should he not with time?" Yet it was not at once that Rachel acted on these thoughts. Never since he had received her so coldly, had she crossed her father's threshold; but often, in the evening, she had walked up and down before his door, looking at him through the shop window with sad and earnest eyes, never seeking for more than that stolen glance, though still with the persistency of a fond heart, she looked forward to a happier future. And thus she lingered until one morning, when she rose, nerved her heart, and went out; calmly resolved to bear as others, to act. She went to her father's house. She found him sturdy and stern, planing with the vigour of a man in the prime of life. His brow became clouded, as he saw and recognized his daughter's pale face and shrinking figure. Still he bade her come in, for she stood on the threshold timidly waiting for a welcome; and his ungraciousness was limited to the cold question of what had brought her. "I am come to see you, father," was her mild reply. And as to this Thomas Gray said nothing, Rachel added: "My mother is dead." "I know it, and have known it these three months," he drily answered. "She died very happy," resumed Rachel, "and before she died, she desired me to come and tell you that she sincerely forgave you all past unkindness." A frown knit the rugged brow of Thomas Gray. His late wife had had a sharp temper of her own; and perhaps he thought himself as much sinned against as sinning. But he made no comment. "Father," said Rachel, speaking from her very heart, and looking earnestly in his face, "may I come and live with you?" Thomas Gray looked steadily at his daughter, and did not reply. But Rachel, resolved not to be easily disheartened, persisted none the less. "Father," she resumed, and her voice faltered with the depth of her emotion, "pray let me. I know you do not care much for me. I dare say you are right, that I am not worth much; but still I might be useful to you. A burden I certainly should not be; and in sickness, in age, I think, I hope, father, you would like to have your daughter near you. "I am now your only child," she added, after a moment's pause; "the only living thing of your blood, not one relative have I in this wide world; and you, father, you too are alone. Let me come to live with you. Pray let me! If my presence is irksome to you," added Rachel, gazing wistfully in his face, as both hope and courage began to fail her, "I shall keep out of the way. Indeed, indeed," she added with tears in her eyes, "I shall." He had heard her out very quietly, and very quietly he replied: "Rachel, what did I go to America for?" Rachel, rather bewildered with the question, faltered that she did not know. "And what did I come to live here for?" he continued.