Finding that she still kept away from the school, I resolved one night to call at the Squire’s.  It was some time after dark when I reached there; and as I stood in the porch, brushing the snow from my boots, I became aware of loud talking in the kitchen.  Poor Rachel! both Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were upon her, laughing and sneering about her “setting her cap” for the schoolmaster, and accusing her of trying to get him to come home with her, of moving for him to sit down by her side!  Once I heard Rachel’s voice,—­“Oh, please don’t talk so!  I don’t do as you say.  It is dreadful for you to talk so!” I judged it better to defer my call, and walked slowly along the road.  It was not very cold, and I sat down upon the stone wall.  I sat down to think.  Presently Rachel herself hurried by, carrying a pitcher.  She was bound on some errand up the road.  I called out,—­

“Rachel, stop!”

She turned, in affright, and, upon seeing me, hurried the more.  But I overtook her, and placed her arm within mine in a moment, saying,—­

“Rachel, you are not afraid of me, I hope!”

“Oh, no, Sir! no, indeed!” she exclaimed.

“And yet you run away from me.”

She made no answer.

“Rachel,” I said, at last, “I wish you would talk to me freely.  I wish you would tell what troubles you.”

She hesitated a moment; and when, at last, she spoke, her answer rather surprised me.

“I ought not to be so weak, I know,” she replied; “but it is so hard to stand all alone, to live my life just right, that sometimes I get discouraged.”

I had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one but herself.

“And who said you must stand alone?” I asked.

“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,—­

“Not very well.”

“Then, why stay?  Why not find some other home?”

“I don’t think it is time yet,” she replied.