At last Rachel was able to earn a meagre living by type-writing, and for four years, happy by contrast with those when despair and failure had confronted her, she lived by the work of her hands among those poor as herself.  Gradually she had lost sight of all her acquaintances.  She had been out of the school-room for too short a time to make friends.  And, alas! in the set in which she had been launched poverty was a crime; no, perhaps not quite that, but as much a bar to intercourse as in another class a want of the letter h is found to be.

It was while Rachel was still struggling for a livelihood that the event happened which changed the bias of her character, as a geranium transplanted from the garden changes its attitude in a cottage window.

On one of the early days of her despair she met on the dreary stairs of the great rabbit-warren in which she had a room, a man with whom she had been acquainted in the short year of her social life before the collapse of her fortunes.  He had paid her considerable attention, and she had thought once or twice, with momentary bitterness, that, like the rest, he had not cared to find out what had become of her.  She greeted him with shy but evident pleasure.  She took for granted he had come to see her, and he allowed her to remain under that delusion.  In reality he had been hunting up an old model whom he wanted for his next picture, and who had silently left Museum Buildings some months before without leaving his address.  He had genuinely admired her, though he had forgotten her, and he was unaffectedly delighted to see her again.

That one chance meeting was the first of many.  Flowers came to Rachel’s little room, and romance came with them.  Rachel’s proud, tender heart struggled, and then gave way before this radiant first love blossoming in the midst of her loneliness.  At last, on a March afternoon, when the low sun caught the daffodils he had brought her, he told her he loved her.

Days followed, exquisite days, which have none like them in later life whatever later life may bring.  That year the spring came early, and they went often together into the country.  And that year when all the world was white with blossom the snow came and laid upon earth’s bridal veil a white shroud.  Every cup of May blossom, every petal of hawthorn, bent beneath its burden of snow.  And so it was in the full spring-tide of Rachel’s heart.  The snow came down upon it.  She discovered at last that though he loved her he did not wish to marry her; that even from the time of that first meeting he had never intended to marry her.  That discovery was a shroud.  She wrapped her dead love in it, and would fain have buried it out of her sight.

But only after a year of conflict was she suffered to bury it—­after a year during which the ghost of her dead ever came back, and came back to importune her vainly with its love.  Rachel’s poor neighbors grew accustomed to see the tall, handsome, waiting figure which always returned and returned, but which at last, after one dreadful day, was seen no more in Museum Buildings.  Rachel had laid the ghost at last.  But the conflict remained graven in her face.