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?"

"Not a shadow," I said bitterly. "I accepted him for what I believed him
to be, not for what the world might think of him."

"I wish God had made me like you," she said solemnly; and then got up,
with a wild sad look in her face, and left me without another word,
forgetting to lift up her wet trailing habit, which she dragged along
the ground as she went.

After she had gone I sat there, angry, amazed, and sick at heart. I
thought she had well said to John, "I am weak and selfish." I had never
told her of my engagement, and she had talked to me of it unblushingly.
Thinking of her own sacrifice, she had forgotten my wrong and pain. I
had seen into the working of her thoughts. She could love John and
injure me, but she could not be content without the approval of the
world. The young farmer was worthy of love, but he was not rich enough,
nor grand enough, nor was his soiled name fitted for the spoilt child of
wealth. She could steal away my treasure without enriching
herself--could destroy the peace of two minds, without creating any
contentment for herself out of the wreck. "Poor John!" I thought, "