As Rachel knelt that day, the scales of self-conceit seemed to have

gone. She had her childhood's heart again. Her bitter remorse, her

afterthoughts of perplexity had been lulled in the long calm of the

respite, and when roused again, even by this sudden sorrow, she woke to

her old trust and hope. And when she listened to the expressive though

calm rehearsal of that solemn sunrise-greeting to the weary darkling

fishers on the shore of the mountain lake, it was to her as if the form

so long hidden from her by mists of her own raising, once more shone

forth, smoothing the vexed waters of her soul, and she could say with a

new thrill of recognition, "It is the Lord."

Once Mr. Clare missed a word, and paused for aid. She was crying too

much to be ready, and, through her tears, could not recover the passage

so as to prompt him before he had himself recalled the verse. Perhaps a

sense of failure was always good for Rachel, but she was much concerned,

and her apologies quite distressed Mr. Clare.

"Dear child, no one could be expected to keep the place when there was

so much to dwell on in the very comfort of the chapter. And now if you

are not in haste, would you take me to the place that dear Bessie spoke

of, by the willow-tree. I am almost afraid little Mary Lawrence's grave

may have left too little space."

Rachel guided him to a lovely spot, almost overhanging the stream, with

the dark calm pools beneath the high bank, and the willow casting a

long morning shadow over it. Her mind went back to the merry drive from

Avoncester, when she had first seen Elizabeth Keith, and had little

dreamt that in one short year she should be choosing the spot for her

grave. Mr. Clare paced the green nook and was satisfied, asking if it

were not a very pretty place.

"Yes," said Rachel, "there is such a quiet freshness, and the

willow-tree seems to guard it."

"Is there not a white foxglove on the bank?"

"Yes, but with only a bell or two left at the top of the side spikes."

"Your aunt sowed the seed. It is strange that I was very near choosing

this place nine years ago, but it could not be seen from my window,

which was an object with me then."

Just then his quick ear detected that some one was at the parsonage

door, and Rachel, turning round, exclaimed with horror, "It is that

unhappy Mr. Carleton."

"Poor young fellow," said Mr. Clare, with more of pity than of anger, "I

had better speak to him."

But they were far from the path, and it was not possible to guide the

blind steps rapidly between the graves and head stones, so that before

the pathway was reached young Carleton must have received the sad reply

to his inquiries, for hurrying from the door he threw himself on his

horse, and rode off at full speed.




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