Rachel did not answer; but there was a sad foreboding in her heart. "To be alone," he resumed; and he spoke with some sternness, "to be alone." And he went back to his planing. With tears which he saw not, Rachel looked at the stern, selfish old man, whom she called her father. The sentence which he had uttered, rung in her heart; but she did not venture to dispute its justice. Her simple pleading had been heard and rejected. More than she had said, she could not say; and it did not occur to her to urge a second time the homely eloquence which had so signally failed when first spoken. But she made bold to prefer a timid and humble petition. "Might she come to see him?" "What for?" he bluntly asked. "To see how you are, father," replied poor Rachel. "How I am," he echoed, with a suspicious gathering of the brow, "and why shouldn't I be well, just tell me that?" "It might please Providence to afflict you with sickness," began Rachel. "Sickness, sickness," he interrupted; indignantly, "I tell you, woman, I never was sick in my life. Is there the sign of illness, or of disease upon me?" "No, indeed, father, there is not." "And could you find a man of my age half so healthy, and so strong as I am--just tell me that?" he rather defiantly asked. Poor Rachel was literal as truth. Instead of eluding a reply, she simply said: "I have seen stronger men than you, father." "Oh I you have--have you!" he ejaculated eyeing her with very little favour. And though Rachel was not unconscious of her offence, she added: "And strong or weak, father, are we not all in the hands of God?" From beneath his bushy grey eyebrows, Thomas Gray looked askance at his daughter; but love often rises to a fearlessness that makes it heroic, and Rachel, not daunted, resumed: "Father," she said, earnestly, "you do not want me now; I know and see it, but if ever you should--and that time may come, pray, father, pray send for me." "Want you? and what should I want you for?" asked Thomas Gray. "I cannot tell, I do not know; but you might want me. Remember, that if you do, you have but to send for me. I am willing, ever willing." He looked at her as she stood there before him, a pale, sallow, sickly girl, then he laughed disdainfully, and impatiently motioned her away, as if his temper were chafed at her continued presence. Rachel felt, indeed, that her visit had been sufficiently long, and not wishing to close on herself the possibility of return--for she had one of those quietly pertinacious natures that never give up hope--she calmly bade her father good-bye. Without looking at her, he muttered an unintelligible reply. Rachel left the shop, and returned to her quiet street and solitary home. Yet solitary she did not find it. True, Jane was out on some errand or other, but Mary was alone in the parlour. She sat with her work on her lap, crying as if her heart would break.