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.

"There will be about sixty guests, all told," she said, as if she