CHAPTER XIII.

RECOGNITION.

“After all, life is inexhaustible,” said Katherine.

She was speaking to Rachel Trant, who had laid aside her work to speak with the good friend who had come, as she often did, to see how she was going on and to cheer her.

“Life is very cruel,” she returned.  “Neither sorrow nor repentance can alter its pitiless law.

“Still, there are compensations.”  Katherine did not exactly think what she was saying; her mind was filled with the desire of knowing her interlocutor’s story.

“Compensations!” echoed Rachel.  “Not for those who deserve to suffer, nor, indeed, often for the innocent.  I don’t think we often find vice punished and virtue rewarded in history and lives—­true stories, I mean—­as we do in novels.”

Katherine did not reply at once; she thought for a moment, and then, looking full into Rachel’s eyes, said:  “I wonder how you came to be a dressmaker?  You have read a great deal for a girl who must have had her hands full all day.  I am not asking this from idle curiosity, but from real interest.”

“I may well believe you.  I should like to tell you much; but—­” She paused and grew very white for a second, her lips trembling, and a troubled look coming into her eyes.  “I always loved reading,” she resumed; “it has been almost my only pleasure, though I was apprenticed to a milliner and dressmaker when little more than sixteen.  Then I went to work with another, a very great person in her way, and I like the work.  Still I used to think I was a sort of lady; my poor mother certainly was.”

“I am sure of it,” cried Katherine, impulsively.  “I quite feel that you are.”

“Thank you,” said Rachel, in a very low voice, the color rising to her pale cheek.  “My mother was so sweet and pretty,” she continued, “but so sad!  I was an orphan at ten years old, and then a very stiff, severe-looking woman, the sister of my father, had charge of me.  I was sent to a school, a kind of institution, not exactly a charity school, for I know something was paid for me.  It was a very cold sort of place, but I was not unhappy there.  I had playfellows—­some kind, some spiteful.  One of the governesses was very good to me, and used to give me books to read.  Had she remained, things might have been very different; but she left long before I did.  The rare holidays when I was permitted to visit my father’s sister were terrible days to me.  She could not bear to see me.  I felt it.  She seemed to think my very existence was an offence.  I was ashamed of living in her presence.  Of my father I have a very faint recollection.  He died abroad, and I remember being on board ship for a long time with my mother.  When I was sixteen my father’s sister sent for me, and told me that the money my mother left was nearly exhausted, and what remained ought to provide me with some trade or calling by