We must apologize for using italics, but without their aid we never could convey to our readers a proper idea of the awful solemnity with which Mrs. Gray emphasized her address. Rachel was rather bewildered, for she was not conscious of having said a word on politics, a subject she did not understand, and never spoke on; but she had long learned the virtue of silence. She did not reply.
"As to the Chartists?" resumed Mrs. Gray, turning to Mr. Jones.
"Law bless you, Mrs. Gray, I ain't one of them!" he hastily replied. "I mind my own business—that's what I do, Mrs. Gray. The world must go round, you know."
"So it must," gravely replied that lady. "You never said a truer thing,
Mr. Jones."
And very likely Mr. Jones had not.
"And I must go off," said Mr. Jones, rising with a half-stifled sigh, "for it's getting late, and I have five miles to walk."
And, undetained by Mrs. Gray's slow but honest entreaty to stay and share their supper, he left Rachel lighted him out. As she closed the parlour door, he looked at her, and lowering his voice, he said hesitatingly:
"I couldn't see her, could I, Miss Gray?"
Poor Rachel hesitated. She knew that she should get scolded if she complied; but then, he looked at her with such beseeching eyes—he wished for it so very much. Kindness prevailed over fear; she smiled, and treading softly, led the way up-stairs. As softly, he followed her up into the little back room.
Mary was fast asleep; her hands were folded over the coverlet of variegated patchwork; her head lay slightly turned on the white pillow; the frill of her cap softly shaded her pale young face, now slightly flushed with sleep. Her father bent over her with fond love, keeping in his breath. Rachel held the light; she turned her head away, that Mr. Jones might not see her eyes, fest filling with tears. "Oh! my father— my father!" she thought, "never have you looked so at your child—never —never!"