After she had gone, Mrs. Hill came and sat with me, and tried to amuse me. She was a good little woman, but her gossip was tiresome, and her anecdotes worldly. I was glad when her duty to her other guests carried her away. You will find it hard, my dears, to understand from my account of this time that I was staying at a pleasant country-house full of merry-making people. But the people were only shadows to me, and the time a puzzle. What was not real to me then, I cannot make real to you now. The afternoon was wet and windy, and the riding-party returned early, all but Rachel and another lady and gentleman. These came home later. I was sitting in my room, in the firelight, alone, when Rachel came to me, laughing, in her wet riding-habit, saying she had had enough of the weather. I said, "Yes, it is a pity you went." "No, not a pity," she said. Then, "Has not Mrs. Hollingford been here?" "Yes," I said. "Here, in this room, with you?" "There, in that chair, by your side." She turned and looked at the chair with a strange look, which was wonderful to see, but quite indescribable. She drew it to the hearth, and sat down in it, throwing back her wet skirts and leaning towards the fire. Then I saw that she looked pale and worn, as if her riding had not done her much good. "Do you not love her, this Mrs. Hollingford?" she said, presently. "Dearly," I said. "Will you describe her to me?" said Rachel. "She is tall and handsome," I began. "Yes," put in Rachel, "I have heard so." "There is something grand about her, though she dresses as gravely and poorly as a nun. Her face is sweet and sad, and can be stern. Her hair is silver gray--" "No," said Rachel hurriedly, "brown. I heard that it was a beautiful chestnut-brown." "It is nearly white now," said I. Rachel did not speak again for some minutes. Looking at her presently, I was surprised to see her face quivering, and great shining tears following one another swiftly and silently into her lap. "Do not mind me," she said. "I went to see a poor girl on the estate, who is dying. Her mother was sitting at the head of her bed. She told me the girl had never vexed her in her life." "And has that made you sad?" asked I, thinking the girl was to be envied. "Very sad," said Rachel; "sadder than I could tell." We were silent awhile, and then said Rachel: "It must have made her grow old before her time, that trouble." "Do you mean Mrs. Hollingford?" said I. "Yes," said Rachel. "The grief, and the shame, and the blight." "There should be no shame, no blight for the innocent," I said. "The world does not think so," said Rachel, with a stern cloud on her face. "The world!" I said contemptuously. She lifted her eyes from the fire to my face. "Yes, I know you are a brave independent little soul," she said. "Will you answer me one thing truly? Did you not feel even a shadow of shrinking or regret when you promised to marry John Hollingford?"