Rachel sat alone, working and thinking. The dull street was silent; the sound and stir of morning, alive elsewhere, reached it not; but the sky was clear and blue, and on that azure field mounted the burning sun, gladdening the very house-roofs as he went, and filling with light and life the quiet parlour of Rachel Gray.
Mrs. Gray was an ignorant woman, and she spoke bad English; but her literary tastes were superior to her education and to her language. Her few books were good—they were priceless; they included the poetical works of one John Milton. Whether Mrs. Gray understood him in all his beauty and sublimity, we know not, but at least, she read him, seriously, conscientiously—and many a fine lady cannot say as much. Rachel, too, read Milton, and loved him as a fine mind must ever love that noble poet. That very morning, she had been reading one of his sonnets, too little read, and too little known. We will give it here, for though, of course, all our readers are already acquainted with it, it might not be present to their memory.
"When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent,
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask: but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve, who only stand and wait'"
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'"
thought Rachel, brooding over the words, as was her wont, "and that is my case. Oh, God! I stand and wait, and alas! I do nothing, for I am blind, and ignorant, and helpless, and what am I that the Lord should make use of me; yet, in His goodness, my simple readiness to do His will, He takes as good service. Oh, Rachel! happy Rachel! to serve so kind a master."
Her work dropt on her lap; and so deep was her abstraction, that she heard not the door opening, and saw not Richard Jones, until he stood within a few paces of her chair. She gave a slight start on perceiving him; and her nervous emotion was not lessened, by remarking that he was rather pale and looked excited.
"Mary is very well," she said, hastily, and half smiling at the supposed alarm which had, she thought, brought him so suddenly in upon her.
"Of course she is—of course she is," he replied, nodding; then, drawing a chair near to Rachel's, he sat down upon it, and, bending forward, with his two hands resting on his knees, he said, in a deep, impressive whisper,
"Miss Gray, may I speak to you? I want you to advise me," he added, after a slight pause.
"To advise you, Mr. Jones!" echoed Rachel, looking up at him, with mild astonishment.