Frederick Massingbird slightly laughed at the remark. "Do you think I
would take my wife into the claws of wolves and bears?" he asked, in a
tone of the deepest tenderness. "She will be too precious to me for
that, Sibylla."

The voices and the footsteps died away in the distance, and Rachel came
out of her hiding-place, and went quickly on towards the village. Her
father's cottage was soon gained. He did not live alone. His only son,
Robert--who had a wife and family--lived with him. Robert was the son of
his youth; Rachel the daughter of his age; the children of two wives.
Matthew Frost's wife had died in giving birth to Robert, and twenty
years elapsed ere he married a second. He was seventy years of age now,
but still upright as a dart, with a fine fresh complexion, a clear
bright eye, and snow-white hair that fell in curls behind, on the collar
of his white smock-frock.

He was sitting at a small table apart when Rachel entered, a candle and
a large open Bible on it. A flock of grandchildren crowded round him,
two of them on his knees. He was showing them the pictures. To gaze
wonderingly on those pictures, and never tire of asking explanations of
their mysteries, was the chief business of the little Frosts' lives.
Robert's wife--but he was hardly ever called anything but Robin--was
preparing something over the fire for the evening meal. Rachel went up
and kissed her father. He scattered the children from him to make room
for her. He loved her dearly. Robin loved her dearly. When Robin was a
grown-up young man the pretty baby had come to be his plaything. Robin
seemed to love her still better than he loved his own children.

"Thee'st been crying, child!" cried old Matthew Frost. "What has ailed