l!"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Browne! Suppose my temper rises, and I put it down, and
keep myself pleasant, do I not do myself good? And thinking about it in
this way, is not their unkindness a benefit to me,--to the real me,--to
the soul of Rachel Lowe?"

I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I
found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way,
taken for granted my own superiority.

"All this may be true," I remarked, after a pause, "but it is not the
common way of viewing things."

"Perhaps not," she answered. "My mother was not like other people. My
father was a strong man, but he looked _up_ to her, and he loved her;
but he killed her at last,--with his conduct, he killed her. But when
she was dead, he grew crazy with grief, he loved her so. He talked about
her always,--talked in an absent, dreamy way about her goodness, her
beauty, her white hands, her long hair. Sometimes he would seem to be
whispering with her, and would say, softly,--'Oh, yes! I'll take care of
Rachel! pretty Rachel! your Rachel!'"

I longed to have her go on; but we had now reached the bars, and she was
not willing to walk farther.

"I have been talking a great deal about myself," she said; "but you know
you kept asking me questions."

"Yes, Rachel, I know I kept asking you questions. Do you care? I may
wish to ask you others."

"Oh, no," she replied; "but I could not answer many questions. I have
only a few thoughts, and know very little."

I watched her into the house, and then walked slowly homewards,
thinking, all the way, of this strange young girl, striving thus to
stand alone, working out her own salvation. I passed a pleasant night,
half sleeping, half waking, having always before my eyes that white
face, earnest and beautiful, as it looked up to me in the winter
starlight, and in my ears her words, "Is not their unkindness a benefit
to me,--to the real me,--to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"

But spring came; my school drew to a close; and I began to think of
home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny. I wished that my sister could see Rachel.
I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all
her liveliness. Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to
Rachel. But then there was Aunt Huldah,--what would she say to a
foreigner? And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah. Besides, how did I know
that Rachel would have me? Was I equal to her? How worthless seemed my
little sto