that appeared to her the light of her independent mind; but it was not in the nature of things that, from her husband and his uncle, her character should not receive that tincture for which it had so long waited, strong and thorough in proportion to her nature, not rapid in receiving impressions, but steadfast and uncompromising in retaining and working on them when once accepted, a nature that Alick Keith had discerned and valued amid its worst errors far more than mere attractiveness, of which his sister had perhaps made him weary and distrustful.  Nor, indeed, under the force of the present influences, was attractiveness wanting, and she suited Alick’s peculiarities far better than many a more charming person would have done, and his uncle, knowing her only by her clear mellow voice, her consideration, helpfulness, and desire to think and do rightly, never understood the doubtful amazement now and then expressed in talking of Alick’s choice.  One great bond between Rachel and Mr. Clare was affection for the little babe, who continued to be Rachel’s special charge, and was a great deal dearer to her already than all the seven Temples put together.  She studied all the books on infant management that she could obtain, constantly listened for his voice, and filled her letters to her mother with questions and details on his health, and descriptions of his small person.  Alick was amused whenever he glanced at his strong-minded woman’s correspondence, and now and then used to divert himself with rousing her into emphatic declarations of her preference of this delicate little being to “great, stout, coarse creatures that people call fine children.”  In fact, Alick’s sensitive tenderness towards his sister’s motherless child took the form of avoiding the sight of it, and being ironical when it was discussed; but with Mr. Clare, Rachel was sure of sympathy, ever since the afternoon when he had said how the sounds upstairs reminded him of his own little daughter; and sitting under the yew-tree, he had told Rachel all the long stored-up memories of the little life that had been closed a few days after he had first heard himself called papa by the baby lips.  He had described all these events calmly, and not without smiles, and had said how his own blindness had made him feel thankful that he had safely laid his little Una on her mother’s bosom under the church’s shade; but when Rachel spoke of this conversation to her husband, she learnt that it was the first time that he had ever talked of those buried hopes.  He had often spoken of his wife, but though always fond of children, few who had not read little Una’s name beneath her mother’s cross, knew that he was a childless father.  And yet it was beautiful to see the pleasure he took in the touch of Bessie’s infant, and how skilfully and tenderly he would hold it, so that Rachel in full faith averred that the little Alexander was never so happy as with him.  The chief alarms came from Mrs Comyn Menteith, who used to descend on the Rectory