"And what more," thought Rachel, "can I hope or wish for?"
"Now, Rachel, what are you moping about?" tartly asked her mother, who, though half blind, had a quick eye for her daughter's meditative fits.
Abruptly fled the dream. The childish memories, the holy remembrance of the dead, sank back once more to their quiet resting-place in Rachel's heart. Wakening up with a half-lightened start, she hastily resumed her work.
"I don't think there ever was such a moper as that girl," grumbled Mrs.
Gray to herself.
Rachel smiled cheerfully in her mother's face. But as to telling her that she had been thinking of the yellow crocuses, and of the spots they grew in, and of the power and greatness and glory of Him who made them, Rachel did not dream of it.
"There's Mrs. Brown," said Mrs. Gray, as a dark figure passed by the window. "Go, and open the door, Mary."
Mary did not stir, upon which Jane officiously rose and said, "I'll go." She went, and in came, or rather bounced, Mrs. Brown—a short, stout, vulgar-looking woman of fifty or so, who at once filled the room with noise.
"La, Mrs. Gray!" she began breathlessly, "What do you think? There's a new one. I have brought you the paper; third column, second page, first article, 'The Church in a Mess.' I thought you'd like to see it. Well, Rachel, and how are you getting on? Mrs. James's dress don't fit her a bit, and she says she'll not give you another stitch of work: but la! you don't care—do you? Why, Mary, how yellow you look to day. I declare you're as yellow as the crocuses in the pot. Ain't she now, Jane? And so you're not married yet—are you, my girl?" she added, giving the grim apprentice a slap on the back.
Jane eyed her quietly.
"You'd better not do that again, Mrs. Brown," she said, with some sternness, "and as to getting married: why, s'pose you mind your own business!"