"And here I am, Mrs. Gray," said Mary, coming up to her on the other side of the bed.
Mrs. Gray smiled, and stretched out her trembling hands, until they met and clasped those of the young girl. Then, with her fading eyes fixed on Mary's face, she said to Rachel:
"Rachel, tell your father that I forgive him, will you?"
"Yes, mother," replied Rachel, in a low tone.
"Rachel," she said again, and her weak voice rose, "Rachel, you have been a good and a faithful daughter to me—may the Lord bless you!"
Tears streamed down Rachel's face on hearing those few words that paid her for many a bitter hour; but her mother saw them not, still her look sought Mary.
"In Thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit," she murmured, and with her look still fastened on little Mary's pale face, she died.
Sad and empty seemed the house to Rachel Gray when her mother was gone. She missed her chiding voice, her step, heavy with age, her very scolding, which long habit had made light to bear.
The solitude and liberty once so dear and so hardly won, now became painful and oppressive; but Rachel was not long troubled with either.
We are told that "he whom He loveth He chasteneth;" and Rachel was not unloved, for she, too, was to have her share of affliction. Spite her sickly aspect, she enjoyed good health, and, therefore, when she rose one morning, shortly after her mother's death, and felt unusually languid and unwell, Rachel was more surprised than alarmed.