"Marion," asked Mr. Berkley at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he helped his daughter to the best chop on the platter, "who was that young lady with Florence last night?"
"Miss Drayton," replied Marion, with the slightest possible change of manner,—"Rachel Drayton."
"Rachel Drayton. That's rather an uncommon name. I don't think I ever heard of a real bona fide Rachel before; handsome, isn't she?"
"No, not exactly; perhaps she would be if she were well."
"She's uncommon-looking," continued Mr. Berkley, as he helped himself to another slice of toast; "didn't you notice her, Margaret?—tall, with jet-black hair and eyes. Rachel is just the name for her."
"I noticed her; in fact, Florence introduced her, but I was attracted towards her first by the unusually sad expression of her face. I never saw it so noticeable in one so young; and I suppose she is young, though she looks much older than you or Florence."
"She is only seventeen," replied Marion, busily engaged in giving Charley sips of her coffee.
"Oh, well," said Mr. Berkley in his hearty way, "we'll soon get rid of that sad look; we'll have her in with Flo, and I guess after she's seen Warren once or twice she'll learn how to laugh. What do you think, Marion?"
"It won't be any use for you to invite her, papa. She wouldn't come; she's in deep mourning,—she lost her father just before she came to school."
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Berkley, whose heart always warmed towards any one in trouble; "poor child! Where does her mother live?"