They were alone; Rachel looked at the young girl; her eyes glittered; her cheeks were red with a hectic flush; her breathing was quick and oppressive. The eyes of Rachel filled with tears; she thought of her little dead sister in her grave. "Mary," she said, "do not work any more to-day--go home." Mary looked up in her face, and laughed--the gay laugh of an unconscious child, fearless of death. "Why, Miss, you are crying!" she exclaimed, amazed. "Am I?" said Rachel, trying to smile, "never mind, Mary; go home--or, rather, take this parcel to Mrs. Jameson, number three, Albert Terrace. It is a fine day--the walk will do you good." Mary jumped up, charmed at the prospect. She tied her bonnet-strings before the looking-glass, and hummed the tune of "Meet me by moonlight alone." Mary was turned sixteen; and vague ideas of romance sometimes fitted through her young brain. When she was fairly gone, Rachel rose, laid her work by, put on her bonnet and shawl, and quietly slipped round to the Teapot: ostensibly, she wanted to buy some tea: her real purpose was to call the attention of Mr. Jones to his daughter's state. But, strange to say, Rachel Gray could not make him understand her; his mind was full of the two Teapots; of the villany of that Saunders; of the world's ingratitude; of his misfortunes and his wrongs. "I dare say Mary feels it too," put in Rachel. "Of course she does, Miss Gray--of course she does. The child has feelings. And then you know, Miss Gray, if that fellow hadn't a come there, why, you know, we were getting on as well as could be." "I notice that she coughs," said Rachel "Why, yes, poor child; she can't get rid of that cough--she's growing, you see. And then, you see, that Saunders--" "And her breathing is so short," interrupted Rachel. "Sure to be, on account of the cough. And, as I was saying, that Saunders--" "But, Mr. Jones, don't you think you had better see a doctor?" again interrupted Rachel. "See a doctor!" exclaimed Jones, staring at her. "You don't mean to say my child is ill, Miss Gray?" "I don't think she is quite well, Mr. Jones," replied Rachel, trembling as she said so. He sank down on his seat behind the counter, pale as death. The obstinate cough, the short breathing, the hectic flush, all rushed back to his memory; unseen, unheeded, till then, they now told him one fearful story. With trembling hand he wiped away the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead. "The doctor must see her directly," he said, "directly. I'll go and look for him, and you'll send her round. It's nothing--nothing at all, I am sure; she's growing, you see. But still, it must be attended to, you know --it must be attended to." A light laugh at the door interrupted him. He turned round, and saw Mary looking in at him and Rachel Gray, through the glass windows; with another laugh, she vanished. Rachel went to the door, and called her back. "Mary, Mary, your father wants you."