"To bed!—She ain't ill, I hope. Miss Gray," he exclaimed, with an alarmed start.
"Ill! Oh, no! but she felt tired. I am sorry you have had this long walk for nothing."
"Never mind, Miss Gray," he replied cheerfully; then sitting down, and wiping his moist brow, he added—"the walk does me good, and then I hear how she is, and I've the pleasure of seeing you all. And so she's quite well, is she?"
He leaned his two hands on the head of his walking-stick, and looking over it, smiled abstractedly at his own thoughts. Mrs. Gray roused him with the query—
"And what do you think of the state of the nation, Mr. Jones?"
Mr. Jones scratched his head, looked puzzled, hemmed, and at length came out with the candid confession:
"Mrs. Gray, I ain't no politician. For all I see, politics only brings a poor man into trouble. Look at the Chartists, and the tenth of April."
"Ah! poor things!" sighed Rachel, "I saw them—they passed by here. How thin they were—bow careworn they looked!"
Mrs. Gray remained aghast. Rachel had actually had the audacity to give an opinion on any subject unconnected with dress-making—and even on that, poor girl! she was not always allowed to speak.
"Now, Rachel," she said, rallying, "will you hold your tongue, and speak of what you know, and not meddle with politics."