Rachel reddened a little, and there was a general laugh at her expense. The joke was certainly a witty one. But Mrs. Gray, who was a touchy woman, was not pleased; and no sooner were her amiable visitors gone, than she gave it to Rachel for having been laughed at with insolent rudeness.
"If you were not sich a simpleton," she said, in great anger, "people wouldn't dare to laugh at you. They wouldn't take the liberty. No one ever laughed at me, I can tell you. No Mrs. Brown; no, nor no Mrs. Smith either. But you! why, they'll do anythink to you."
Rachel looked up from her work into her mother's face. It rose to her lips to say—"If you were not the first to make little of me, would others dare to do so?" but she remembered her lonely forsaken childhood, and bending once more over her task, Rachel held her peace.
"I want to go to bed," peevishly said Mary.
"Then go, my dear," gently replied Rachel.
"You'll spoil that girl," observed Mrs. Gray, with great asperity.
"She is not strong," answered Rachel; "and I promised Mr. Jones she should not work too much."
"Not much fear of that," drily said Jane, as the door closed on Mary.
No one answered. Rachel worked; her mother read the paper, and for an hour there was deep silence in the parlour. As the church clock struck nine, a knock came at the door. Jane opened, and a rosy, good-humoured looking man entered the parlour. He was about forty, short, stout, with rather a low forehead, and stubby hair; altogether, he seemed more remarkable for good-nature than for intelligence. At once his look went round the room.
"Mary is gone to bed, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, smiling.