"La, Miss! how poorly you do look!" exclaimed Jane, laying down her work with concern.
"I do not feel very well," replied Rachel, calmly, "but I do not feel very ill, either," she added, smiling.
Her looks belied her words; vainly she endeavoured to work; by the united entreaties of Jane and Mary, she was at length persuaded to go up to her room. She laid down on her bed, and tried to sleep, but could not; she thought of her step-mother, so harsh, yet so kind in her very harshness; of her father, so cold and unloving; of her silent, lonely life, and its narrow cares and narrow duties, above which smiled so heavenly a hope, burning like a clear star above a dark and rugged valley; and with these thoughts and feelings, heightening them to intensity, blended the heat and languor of growing fever.
When Mary came up to know if Rachel Gray wanted anything, she found her so ill that she could scarcely answer her question. She grew rapidly worse. The medical man who was called in, pronounced her disease a slow fever, not dangerous, but wasting.
"Then there is nothing for it but patience," resignedly said Rachel, "I fear I shall be the cause of trouble to those around me, but the will of God be done."
"La, Miss! we'll take care of you," zealously said Jane, "shan't we,
Mary?"
"Of course we will," as zealously replied the young girl.
Rachel smiled at their earnestness; but their zeal was destined to be thrown in the shade by that of a third individual. On the fourth day of her illness, Rachel was awakened from a heavy sleep into which she had fallen, by the sound of angry though subdued voices on the staircase.
"I tell you 'taint a bit of use, and that you're not going to go up," said the deep, emphatic tones of Jane.
"Et je vous dis que je veux monter, moi!" obstinately exclaimed the shrill French voice of Madame Rose.