Mary had always been delicate. One chill evening she took cold; a cough settled on her chest; sometimes it seemed gone, then suddenly it returned again. "She felt very well," she said; and, strange to say, her father thought so too. Rachel was the first to see that something was wrong.
"Mary," she said to her, one morning, "what ails you? Your breath seems quite short."
"La! bless you, Miss," replied Mary, in her patronizing way, "I am all right."
They were alone; Rachel looked at the young girl; her eyes glittered; her cheeks were red with a hectic flush; her breathing was quick and oppressive. The eyes of Rachel filled with tears; she thought of her little dead sister in her grave.
"Mary," she said, "do not work any more to-day—go home."
Mary looked up in her face, and laughed—the gay laugh of an unconscious child, fearless of death.
"Why, Miss, you are crying!" she exclaimed, amazed.
"Am I?" said Rachel, trying to smile, "never mind, Mary; go home—or, rather, take this parcel to Mrs. Jameson, number three, Albert Terrace. It is a fine day—the walk will do you good."
Mary jumped up, charmed at the prospect. She tied her bonnet-strings before the looking-glass, and hummed the tune of "Meet me by moonlight alone." Mary was turned sixteen; and vague ideas of romance sometimes fitted through her young brain.
When she was fairly gone, Rachel rose, laid her work by, put on her bonnet and shawl, and quietly slipped round to the Teapot: ostensibly, she wanted to buy some tea: her real purpose was to call the attention of Mr. Jones to his daughter's state.