“Oh, we must have her,” said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferent finality that marked all her words and decisions—­a finality against which it was seldom of any avail to struggle.  People, who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled by the deceit of appearances.

Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale, pretty face, uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish eyes, and great masses of dull, soft, silky brown hair.  She had delicate aquiline features and a small, babyish red mouth.  She looked as if a breath would sway her.  The truth was that a tornado would hardly have caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path.

For a moment Rachel looked rebellious; then she yielded, as she generally did in all differences of opinion with her mother.  It was not worth while to quarrel over the comparatively unimportant matter of Aunt Jane’s invitation.  A quarrel might be inevitable later on; Rachel wanted to save all her resources for that.  She gave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote Aunt Jane’s name down on the wedding list in her large, somewhat untidy handwriting—­a handwriting which always seemed to irritate her mother.  Rachel never could understand this irritation.  She could never guess that it was because her writing looked so much like that in a certain packet of faded letters which Mrs. Spencer kept at the bottom of an old horsehair trunk in her bedroom.  They were postmarked from seaports all over the world.  Mrs. Spencer never read them or looked at them; but she remembered every dash and curve of the handwriting.

Isabella Spencer had overcome many things in her life by the sheer force and persistency of her will.  But she could not get the better of heredity.  Rachel was her father’s daughter at all points, and Isabella Spencer escaped hating her for it only by loving her the more fiercely because of it.  Even so, there were many times when she had to avert her eyes from Rachel’s face because of the pang of the more subtle remembrances; and never, since her child was born, could Isabella Spencer bear to gaze on that child’s face in sleep.

Rachel was to be married to Frank Bell in a fortnight’s time.  Mrs. Spencer was pleased with the match.  She was very fond of Frank, and his farm was so near to her own that she would not lose Rachel altogether.  Rachel fondly believed that her mother would not lose her at all; but Isabella Spencer, wiser by olden experience, knew what her daughter’s marriage must mean to her, and steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she might.

They were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding guests and other details.  The September sunshine was coming in through the waving boughs of the apple tree that grew close up to the low window.  The glints wavered over Rachel’s face, as white as a wood lily, with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks.  She wore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it.  Her forehead was very broad and white.  She was fresh and young and hopeful.  The mother’s heart contracted in a spasm of pain as she looked at her.  How like the girl was to—­to—­to the Spencers!  Those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes, that finely molded chin!  Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmly and crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories.