As Rachel passed by the little room of the apprentices, she saw a streak of light gliding out on the landing, through the half-open door. She pushed it, and entered. Jane sat reading by the little table; Mary lay in bed, but awake.
"I did not know you were up," said Rachel to Jane, "and seeing a light, I felt afraid of fire."
"Not much fear of fire," drily answered Jane. Rachel did not heed her— she was bending over Mary.
"How are you to-night, Mary?" she asked.
"Oh! I am quite well," pettishly answered Mary.
Rachel smoothed the young girl's hair away from her cheek. She remembered how dearly, how fondly loved was that peevish child; and she may be forgiven if she involuntarily thought the contrast between that love, and her own portion of indifference, bitter.
"Mary," she softly whispered, "did you say your prayers to-night?"
"Why, of course I did."
"And, Mary, did you pray for your father?"
"I wish you would let me sleep," crossly said the young girl.