not acknowledged
to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had
consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful,
expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that
Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood
by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been
given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards.
She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she
had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and
simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had
in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was
ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had
obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a
hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and
now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the
current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed
across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume
that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her
mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those
rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the
possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one
imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been
his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and
treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him.
During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her
brow which her mother feared.

"I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs.
Ray.

"No, mamma."

"I can see how impatient you are."

"I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said
anything."

"If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear
to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's
best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to
a gentleman without being sure that it is proper."

"Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!"

"You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I
should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he
has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman,
and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should
have liked to have said a word about it to M