"That was one of the things my mother used to say."
"And what other things did she say?"
"Oh, Mr. Browne," she replied, "I wish I could tell you about my mother! But I can't talk; I am too ignorant; I don't know how to say it. When she was alive," she continued, speaking very slowly, "I never knew how good she was; but now her words keep coming back to me. Sometimes I think she whispers them,—for she is an angel, and you know the hymn says,
'There are angels hovering round.'
When we sing,
'Ye holy throng of angels bright,'
I always sing to her, for I know she is listening."
Here she stopped suddenly, as if frightened that she had said so much. The house to which she was going was now close by. I waited for her to come out, and walked back with her towards home. After proceeding a little way in silence, I said, abruptly,—
"Rachel, do they treat you well at the house yonder?"
She seemed reluctant to answer, but said, at last,—