Early the next morning, as soon as the shutters were down, Phebe was in the shop taking a general look round, and examining the stock. With the help of Reynolds, the shopman who gave her the roses, she got a very good grasp of the state of things. "The stock is very low indeed," said Reynolds; "some things we are out of altogether. It's not my fault, for I told master a fortnight ago, and again last week, but he took no notice—said it was not my business."
Phebe only replied, "We must see to these things as soon as possible; thank you for helping me," and then went in to breakfast.
She had got a clear view of the situation as far as the business was concerned, but all else was in a mist. When she tried to analyse her own feelings with regard to Ralph's conduct, what exactly it was that had prompted him to such a course, how it would appear to outsiders, what steps she was to take to secure capital to work the business, all seemed chaos.
Breakfast over, she picked up a little Revised Bible from her book-corner, and went out into the arbour for a few minutes' quiet, hoping she might gain a little light. She had only just bought this Revised Bible, indeed it had not been out long. Opening it at random, her eyes fell on these words, from the prayer of Asa, "We rely on Thee." A feeling of awe crept over her. Surely an angel must have opened the Book! The sign she had prayed for last night had come. Scanning the page to find out all the story, the leaf was turned over, and then she caught sight of this description: "The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth to show Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards Him."
"I must pray for the perfect heart," she said to herself, "and I shall just rely on God, and I am now going to watch how He will show Himself strong for me. I feel sure He will, for He knows I am relying on Him."
But the angel's work was not over yet. Just then there dropped out of the Bible a little New Year's card which she had never carefully read as yet. Picking it up she looked at it in an absent sort of way, and then feeling that it was in some way specially meant for her she read:
"An inner light, an inner calm,Have they who trust God's mighty arm,And hearing, do His will."
"An inner light, an inner calm,Have they who trust God's mighty arm,And hearing, do His will."
"For He hath said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' I took it as His word of honour."—David Livingstone.
"For He hath said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' I took it as His word of honour."—David Livingstone.
"And so will I," she said fervently. Just then there was a call from the shop, and all at once, with hardly a moment's warning, she went from the golden gate to the busy mart.
A commercial traveller was waiting to see her, presenting an account for twenty-five pounds.
With all a woman's wits about her she stood where her face was in the shadow. "I am sorry that Mr. Waring is not at home," she answered, "he is out of town. Can the account stand over till your next visit?" Her voice was quite steady. The traveller looked fixedly at her, but was quite unrewarded for his trouble, through her face being in the shadow. She however saw his uncertainty, but he answered suavely, "Certainly, madam, Mr. Waring's credit has always been good." Then added, after another moment's reflection, "Can I have another order to-day? I have some very cheap lines."
Turning to Reynolds, she said, "You know better than I do what we are wanting; just make a list of what we usually have from this gentleman's firm," and she stood quietly by while this was done.
"I hope Mr. Waring is well," remarked the traveller.
"He was quite well when he left home."
"I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting him the next time I call."
"I hope so, but, if possible, your cheque shall be sent on before then."
When he had gone she said to the shopman, "Reynolds, I think I can trust you." The man nodded; he wanted to say "Yes," but could not for a lump in his throat. "I do not know where Mr. Waring is, except that he has gone abroad. If anybody asks you where he is, you had better say frankly you do not know." It was hard work to keep the voice steady.
"Mrs. Waring," said Reynolds, huskily, "I'll stand by you to the best of my ability," and he put out his hand, which she took in both of hers.
"I feel sure you will," she said with a choking sob.
The thought which was uppermost in her mind that day was how she could explain her position to any one. Some report must be given to the outside world—what should that report be?—what could it be? If she did not give one the world would soon make one. She determined to go that evening and seek her sister's advice.
The first thing on arriving at the old home was to show her sister Ralph's letter. They were alone in the sister's bedroom. After it had been read twice over the sister threw her arms round Phebe's neck, exclaiming, "You poor child! you poor child!" and then they sobbed together as they had never done since the time when they were first motherless.
"What am I to do? What am I to tell people?" asked the deserted young wife.
"I don't know; I must think," was the sister's answer, who was usually so clearbrained. "Will you come home to live? I wish you would. Father wouldn't object to it if I coax him."
"No, I am not coming to be a burden on him. I must work for the children. But, oh, Lizzie, you don't know all. He has left me deeply in debt, and taken all my own money, and the stock is so low. But don't tell father!"
"Left you in debt!—the rascal!"
"No, no, don't say that; he asked me to go with him two months ago, and I would not consent. So you see it's partly my own fault. But I never thought he would go without me."
"Well, you will just have to tell anybody that asks that he has gone to start a business abroad, and that you may be joining him later. It will be best to be straight about it."
"If he sent for me, should I have to go?"
"I expect you would. You had better tell father all about it, or he will be dreadfully angry if he hears of it from anybody else."
The old father was sitting by the fire reading his paper. He was good at heart, and thought no end of his "girls," but he had always considered it would never do to let them know this, that it was a parent's duty to do a certain amount of scolding.
"How's Ralph?" was his first question. "He's not been to see me for an age."
"He was quite well when I saw him last."
"Saw him last? Why, is he away from home?"
"Yes."
"Where has he gone?"
"Abroad," in a very low voice.
"What did you say?" wheeling his chair round towards her in quite a fierce way. "Why can't you speak out properly?"
"Ralph has gone abroad."
"Gone abroad! Whatever for?"
"To start a business, I suppose."
"Well, you do astonish me. I think he might have come up to bid me 'good-bye,' that I do. And what part has he gone to?"
"To Australia, I think."
"You 'think'! Really, Phebe, you are most exasperating. What are you keeping back?"
"Look here, father," put in Lizzie, "it is like this: Ralph wanted Phebe to go to Australia and she objected. She didn't want to leave you, for one thing, so he's gone without her, and the worst of it is, he did not tell her he was going."
"Didn't want to leaveme! that's all fiddle-sticks. She ought to have gone with him. It serves her just right he has left her. Look here, Phebe," putting his hand sharply on her knee, "I consider you have brought disgrace upon me. A wife's place is by her husband's side. A nice talk the town will make of it."
"Father! father!" exclaimed Lizzie, "do not be so hard on Phebe. You know very well you wouldn't let anybody else say a word against her. Of course it is the way of the world to put all the blame upon the woman, but it is rather hard if her own friends do not stand up for her."
"If she had got any fault to find with Ralph she should have come up and told me all about it."
"What! get a wife to tell tales about her husband!"
"Well, it is no good talking anything more about it at present. It came so suddenly upon me. It's a good thing, Phebe, my girl, he's left the business behind him, he couldn't take that with him very well. Of course he could have sold it, but then if he had done so the cat would have been out of the bag. You must just tackle things with a brave hand."
"Yes, I mean to do so, father," was all Phebe could manage to say.
Presently she bade him "good-bye" in her usual manner, though her heart was very full.
It was getting late, and there was a lonely bit of road to traverse, but the two sisters lingered at the garden gate, each loth to part from the other.
"You said, Phebe, darling," the elder sister whispered, "your stock was low and there were debts. What are you going to do for money?"
"I do not know. But I feel sure God will help me in some way or other. I am relying on Him."
"Bless you! you were always a good girl. I wish I had your faith."
"Don't say that, for you don't know how often my faith fails me. I am often ashamed of myself. But I feel sure the business will go on right enough." Just now the monetary difficulty seemed a very small one compared with the fresh shadow which had just fallen on her.
"Well, look here, dearie, let me help you. Take my money and put it in the business. You know how welcome you are to it. And if I never have it back, it will not matter; I should not make any trouble of it."
"You are good, but you know father would not like that, and we should be obliged to tell him;" then she added, as her sister was about to remonstrate, "I'll tell you what I'll do: if no other way is shown me, I will accept your loving offer."
"That's right, darling. And now good-night, and may God bless and comfort you."
All the way home her sister's words kept ringing in her ears, "It is the way of the world to put all the blame upon the woman." She had thought the world would wonder, and would doubtless pity her, but it had never dawned upon her before that the world might throw the blame of the present position upon her. Considering how she had suffered and patiently endured it was a bitter, galling thought. And how could she overcome it? how could she vindicate herself in the eyes of the world? What a stain would rest on the lives of her children! She had thought it would be a hard battle to shield them from poverty. Now she had in some way or other to fight a still harder battle—to shield them from dishonour.
Did Stephen Collins think she was to blame? He surely could not have done so, or he would not have looked so pityingly at her.
Neighbour Bessie was waiting when she arrived home. "I am so glad you have come," exclaimed the impetuous girl; "you have just saved me from such a sad fate."
"Whatever do you mean?" and Phebe, in spite of her heartache, was obliged to smile at Bessie's dramatic attitude.
"Mother thinks I am soundly asleep under the blankets by now. But how could I sleep without one sight of you?—haven't caught a glimpse of you all day. Mother will lock the door at ten o'clock, and if I am not in before then I shall have to sleep on the clothes line in the back yard. It is all up ready."
Late the next evening Stephen Collins called on Phebe again, still hoping his offer of help would be accepted.
They were alone together in the back parlour. "I do hope, Mrs. Waring, you will not think me too interfering, but for old friendship's sake I could not keep from coming. It grieves me so to think you are placed as you are and that you will not allow me to help you." He looked her steadily in the face, and she returned his gaze long enough to be quite sure he was not one of those who condemned her. Yet, in spite of that, her woman's heart craved for the assurance of word as well as look.
"But why should you trouble, Mr. Collins? There are plenty of people who will say it serves me right, and that I must have been to blame"—the words seemed as if they would not come—"that I was not—that it was not an easy thing to live with me—to get on with me."
Stephen Collins rose from his chair with an impetuous movement, and went and stood by the fire with his elbow on the mantelpiece. "Of course," he exclaimed, "the world will talk, but any one who knows you would fling back that accusation as a lie!"
They wore both silent for a minute. Phebe was feeling a relief and gladness no words she could think of would match. At last she said: "It makes a difference, too, if it is known that I could have gone with him if I had chosen. Ralph spoke to me about going two months ago."
"It would have been very difficult for Ralph to have taken you and the children with him, seeing he had no home prepared to take you to."
"Yes, that is so; but still he wanted us to go."
Stephen was looking intently into the fire, evidently weighing some thought over.
"Perhaps I had better tell you, Ralph secured his berth to Sydney three months ago."
"One berth?"
"Yes."
"May I ask how you know?"
"I made inquiries, as I thought it would rest your mind to know exactly where he had gone."
"And you think——" began Phebe.
"I think," interrupted Stephen, anxious to save her all the pain he could, "that it was not his intention to take you with him." Only God knew what it cost that man to say those words; it seemed to him that he was giving this crushed woman an extra stab, but it was only to save her all he could of future pain. He wanted to keep her from building on the hope that her husband would send for her, for he believed in his heart that Ralph was only too glad to be relieved from the responsibility of providing for wife and children.
"Perhaps it was much better he should go with a free hand," was all Phebe said. She wanted very much to ask Stephen to tell her all he knew, all he thought, but dared not do so; something held her back—something which told her there was a wound in that man's heart she might not touch nor look upon.
"He will send for me some day," she said, after another pause; but still Stephen did not answer. It was such a hard struggle to keep himself well in hand—so hard to keep from cursing the man who had stolen his love from him, and who, because she had not brought him the dowry he had hoped for, had basely deserted her!
Phebe thought he was busy turning over ways and means as to how she was to run the business; instead of that he was praying for strength and calmness.
She got up from her seat and, standing by him, put her hand on his arm and said gently, "Stephen!"—that was how she used to call him—"you must not trouble about me. I shall battle through all right. God will help me. See these beautiful words I came across yesterday," and she picked up the Bible and read the words over again.
He took the Bible and looked at the page, but the words were all in a mist. "There is not the slightest doubt but that He will help you," he managed to say.
"My heart is not perfect," she continued, "but He knows I want it to be."
"But don't forget, Phebe—Mrs. Waring," he said, turning towards her, as they both stood facing the fire, "that God works through human agents—very often does so."
"I know He does," she replied, "and I think He prompted my sister last night to offer me the use of her money. I would have said 'Yes' at once, only I know it would vex father. Still, if no other way opens I shall accept her kind offer. So you see things will shape themselves—no, be shapened—all right. Reynolds is such a good 'stay-by' for me, and a commercial this morning let me order a lot of things, although I could not pay his account."
"Oh, yes," he answered; "I know very well you will be a downright successful woman of business. Only, you know," with a smile, "I wanted to have a share in the success!"
"And so you will have," she exclaimed. "Do you think it can ever go for nothing to have a friend like you—some one who believes in me?"
He took her hand in both of his, and, in a voice full of emotion, said: "Phebe, you were always wise and far-sighted—that was why you always won in the games we played together. Your plan is the wise one. It would not do for us to be in any way connected—not even in business matters. But promise me if ever you should want my help you will send for me!"
"I promise," she said, in a low voice; and then they parted: he to go right out, apparently, from her life for years; and yet, though she was long in learning it, never a week passed by but in some way or other his life touched hers.
After he had gone it came upon the lonely woman with overwhelming force the sense of what she had lost, but with a bravery only a pure heart could know she put the thought of it from her and turned resolutely to her ledgers.
Stephen Collins' way home led past Mrs. Colston's cottage. It was the desire for a little bit of human sympathy which led him to knock at her door. He could not unburden his heart to his mother—not that she would be unable or unwilling to understand and comfort, but because he was too chivalrous to burden her with any fresh trouble. He hardly realised it was sympathy he was wanting. Perhaps he might have resented such an idea if it had been presented to him in words, feeling that such a sorrow as his was too sacred for human sympathy; but at least there was the desire to talk over some of it with somebody, and to feel the nearness of sympathy. It surely was this same desire which bade Jesus so earnestly to request the three disciples to watch with him under the shadow of the olives!
Mrs. Colston was busy at her work as usual. A big lad was turning the handle of the mangle, but she sent him home when she saw who her visitor was. Work at once entirely ceased, and the two sat together by the fire, each strangely silent. Mrs. Colston seemed to feel that there was something on his mind which he wished to unburden to her, but knew no way in which she could help him to begin. At last she hit upon an idea.
"I don't suppose, Mr. Collins, you have had your supper," she exclaimed, rising from her chair with a kind of jump. "The idea of me not thinking of that before! and I've got the loveliest pork pie you ever tasted," and in a few minutes there was the refreshing fragrance of coffee in the room and a dainty supper laid on the little round table. Mrs. Colston had always a strong belief in keeping the body well nourished because of its great influence on the mind and heart. "So had the Lord Jesus," she often used to say; "don't you remember how He gave the plain hint to those parents that the girl would need food, and to the disciples about the crowd! And it was just lovely what He said to those fishermen on that early morning when they were cold and wet: 'Come and have something to eat.' Why, when the Lord wanted to give us a bright bit about Heaven He had to bring in a supper party."
For all that, Stephen did not eat much, though there is no doubt the fact of a meal being about does help conversation, and to a certain extent raises the spirits.
At last Stephen got near the secret of his visit. "Mrs. Colston"—his face was turned towards the fire—"suppose a shepherd out walking, who had become lame—could only walk on crutches—should come across on a dark night a lost lamb—a lamb he had loved dearly. What could he do? If he put the crutches down he could not carry it to its home? If you met a man like that what would you tell him to do?"
"I should tell him to speak a few love-words to the lamb, and then hurry away to the nearest cottage and ask the man there to return with him to the lamb and get the man to carry it home." The answer was given straight off, with all a woman's ready tact.
"And if he came to your house?" Stephen turned towards her eagerly.
"I might not be able to carry the lamb," she said, with a little laugh, "but I would certainly help the poor man all I could, and, at least, I'd try to carry it." Then she added: "Mr. Collins, you are the shepherd; but I don't know who the lamb is. Tell me all about it. I know you trust me or you wouldn't have come to me; and you know I'll do all I can for you."
"I know you will," and for the second time that evening he stretched out his hand to grasp another in a close grip. "The lamb is not on any hillside, but in a back parlour."
"Whose parlour?"
"A draper's."
"You don't mean to say it's my Miss Phebe?" bending anxiously towards him, trying to read all she could from his face.
"Yes."
"Is she ill?—I must go to her at once."
"Not ill in body, but heartsick, and in monetary difficulties."
"Oh, dear, dear, what can have caused it all? And me not to know a word of it!"
"She has told no one but her father and sister. I got to know of it in another way; but do not ask me how—some day I may tell you, but not now."
"Where is her husband?"
"On his way to Australia."
"Poor lamb! poor stricken lamb!"—the tears would not keep back, and something like a sob came from Stephen as he rose to his feet to go.
"Stay, stay," said Mrs. Colston, putting a detaining hand upon him, "the shepherd would be sure to give some particulars as to the lamb's whereabouts and what help it needed. Tell me how it is she is in difficulties about money, and what you would advise her to do."
"You can guess how it is she is in difficulties; the worst reason you can think of will be the right one. What I want her to do is to accept my help, but that she refuses to do. If no other way opens up she will accept her sister's help, but she is rather afraid that would anger her father."
"Yes, he has rather close ways. How much does she require?"
"Three hundred pounds with care would set her upon her feet."
In another five minutes the two had parted company outside in the road—Stephen to go home to the lonely farmhouse; Mrs. Colston to go and do shepherd-work.
Mrs. Colston found Phebe seated at her books, where she had been ever since Stephen had left. A brighter look came into her face when she saw her old friend than had been there since Ralph's disappearance, but it was the brightness of the rainbow, for in a minute or two she was seated on a stool at Mrs. Colston's feet sobbing bitterly.
"Poor lamb! You precious dear!" murmured the old friend, gently stroking the brown bowed head and putting her arm lovingly round her neck. She never sought to check the tears, knowing what a safety-valve they are. And who can say tears are either weak or wicked, since "Jesus wept"?
"I am so glad to see you; I did so want you to come, but did not like to send for you," Phebe managed at length to say.
"I came off the first minute I knew you were in trouble. I only wish I had known before," and she put both arms round her then, and kissed her—just like a mother would have done.
"Stephen Collins told me, so I may as well tell you. Do you see these hands?" spreading them out before her. "There's a good deal of strength in them yet. No harm shall come near you that I can keep off. You're not alone in the world, thank God; there's one friend who'll stand by you if no one else does, and her name's Susan Colston!"
Phebe looked up with quite a smiling face. "That does sound nice!" she exclaimed. "You are a dear. I cannot tell you how lonely I have been since Ralph went—just as if I were living in a desert; but such a load seems gone now you have come."
Then Phebe told her story. Sometimes the words would hardly come for a choking sob; but at last it was spread out before her childhood's friend in all its grim, unromantic baldness.
When it was finished Mrs. Colston said: "Well, dearie, I'm not going to say one word against Ralph; I hope I never shall. We will pray for him, that is all: he must just be left to God's dealings."
"But he could not have loved me, could he?" sighed Phebe. Mrs. Colston wisely did not answer. Then Phebe spoke of her fresh trouble: "The world will blame me, won't it? People will say I was a dreadful sort of woman that Ralph could not live with."
"I dare say they will, but what will that matter? Lots of people are wrongly judged and wrongly punished. All this goes into the making of a Christian. You know Job stood the trials of loss and bereavement, but he could not stand the trial of the loss of his good name. It was then he opened his mouth and used bad language. Up to that time he had blessed the Lord—a pretty good difference. Suppose they do take away your good name, the Lord will give it back to you again. Don't try to vindicate yourself: you just leave all that to Him, and He'll make all come out clear. People think it was the washing of those men's feet that showed how humble Jesus was. I don't think so. I think it was when He 'made Himself of no reputation'—just calmly let people take His character away. Don't you see, Miss Phebe, dear, that your life is getting a little bit more like the life of Jesus. Just a little step more, and, like Paul, you'll glory in tribulation."
"I'm afraid I'm a long way from doing that."
"No doubt you think so. But there now, I'm afraid my tongue is going on too fast. What I particularly want to know is how you are going to manage this business?"
"I think I can manage very well if I have a little more capital, and if no other way opens up I can have my sister's money."
"Will you let me ask a favour?"
"Of course I will. You know that."
"And won't be offended?"
"How could I be?"
"I want you to let me open the way for you. You have asked God to open up the way for you, let God answer your prayer through me."
"Do you mean it?" in great astonishment.
"Yes. Perhaps you think a poor old mangle-woman could not have a banking-account, but I have"—this with a pleasant ring of laughter. "There now, what do you think of that? I've just got three hundred pounds in the savings bank. Will that be enough?"
Three hundred pounds!—just the amount Stephen said she would need. Phebe stood speechless.
"Say, dear, won't you?" repeated Mrs. Colston.
"Why, of course I will; am only too delighted. It is the wonder of it that made me quiet. You are good—so very good—and I'll see to it you shall never lose the money," lifting up a face full of love-light.
"You are not to trouble about that. If it is lost it is lost; I shall not mind so long as we're partners. But there is something else I want to ask you, and this you may not grant because it is asking so much."
"I am sure you cannot ask anything I should not be only too happy to grant."
"If you are going to manage the business, who is going to look after the housekeeping and the children? You cannot do all."
"No, I cannot." Then after a pause: "God, who has helped me thus far so wondrously, in such an unexpected way, will certainly make that clear also."
"So He will!" jubilantly exclaimed the dear old body. "So He will, only He will let me do it for Him. It's just splendid to be on errands like this!"
"Whatever do you mean?" Phebe was bewildered.
"I mean this: let me come and live with you and be your housekeeper and nurse! I am tired of living alone, tired of my musical-box, and tired of having no one to show bits of love to when I've a mind to. Will you let me? I'll be so good if you will."
"Let you! Why, it fairly takes away my breath. But I don't know if I ought to let you. It is taking too much from you. You would have to give up your own little home, and then there's the children——"
"I know what you are going to say: that old folks don't want to be bothered with children. Perhaps some don't, but what would my life be worth now if I'd never had anything to do with children?"
"Ah! but that was when you were younger."
"I'm not old yet," drawing herself up with laughable dignity; "no, not yet, thank you. But now to business. As far as you yourself are concerned, have you any objection to my plan?"
"None whatever, none. There's nothing you could have thought of that would give me greater joy."
"Then it's settled," and a kiss—no, it was more than one—sealed the bargain. And then those two women involuntarily knelt down, and the elder one in a quavering voice prayed: "Father, I have followed Your directions, which You whispered to me as I came along the road to-night. Miss Phebe and I love each other, we are going to help each other; do bless us both. Let us feel just now You are blessing us." A pause. "Thank You. The peace in our hearts is the token. We love each other. Tighten with Your own hand, dear Father, the knot. From this moment may this business prosper. May the business be altogether Yours. And bless the two dear bairns. Help me to be another Hannah."
When they rose from their feet Mrs. Colston said: "Before I go I must just have a peep at my charges."
"Of course you shall," said Phebe, beginning at once to lead the way. "How I wish you were not going away from me to-night. I wish you could stay right off."
"I must go to-night, dearie; but I shall not be very long before I'm back, bag and baggage. Janie won't mind me coming, I know."
"She will be delighted."
The two children were in Phebe's bedroom, Queenie in a little cot to herself. They were both asleep. The sight of a sleeping infant always suggests the thought of angels. It is not always the fear of waking a sleeping child that makes the heaviest feet go on tip-toe, but the awe which comes from the near presence of heavenly visitants. To be near a sleeping child is to be near Heaven.
Jack was a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, chubby child. One little arm lay under his head, and a smile seemed playing round his lips. He seemed almost like a picture of sunshine asleep. Mrs. Colston stooped down and kissed him—what woman could have helped doing so? She had once said she believed Jesus kissed His disciples, because Mark used the words, "When He had taken leave of them"—and Easterns took leave by kissing.
Then she went to look at Queenie. Poor little Queenie! A dark-haired, sad-faced darling. Mrs. Colston could hardly have explained how it was she turned so quickly away from the little crib after ever such a hurried kiss. Perhaps it was because she had seen a mark on the child. Her father had been a forester, and often when out walking with him along the forest pathways she had seen a mark on some of the trees and knew by that sign they would soon be lying prostrate, stripped of all their green grandeur. It was not so much of the child she was thinking as of the child's mother.
But when she reached the little parlour again, her face was as bright as ever. "I want you," she said to Phebe, "to let me teach the children to call me 'Nanna.' I had a friend once who was called 'Nanna.' Nothing could make me more proud than to think I was a second 'Nanna.'"
"On certain conditions," said Phebe. "You are having it all your own way to-night. Now it is my turn."
"What are they?"
"That you call me Phebe, and that I call you 'Nanna,' too. I do so want to be mothered, and no one can do it but you." The little speech began with a laugh, but ended with something like a sob. How many there are who want "mothering," and how many could do "mothering" if they chose!
"That's another bargain."
"May I come in?" It was Neighbour Bessie's voice.
"Bessie comes in each night to bid me good-night," explained Phebe. "You couldn't guess what good news I have to tell you," she continued, turning to Bessie.
"Not that——" stammered Bessie.
"Nothing about Mr. Waring!" quickly put in Phebe; and then Bessie was told the whole story. She was sitting on a little stool near the fire by the side of Mrs. Colston.
"I am downright glad for your sake, Mrs. Waring," she exclaimed heartily. "It's just what you were wanting; but, oh dear," resting her chin on her hands, "there's lots of good times a-going, but I'm never in them."
"Why, my dear child, you are always in them," exclaimed Mrs. Colston, patting her head.
"Well, I should like very much to know how you reckon that sum up."
"I reckon it up out of the Bible. You are one of those who have a continual feast."
"A continual pickle, you should say, to be correct."
"No, 'feast.' I know one riddle—and only one. Can you guess it? What is the longest feast mentioned in the Bible?"
"I know," answered Bessie, laughing, "because you've done as good as tell it already: 'A merry heart is a continual feast.' But I haven't got the merry heart, you see. Now, why couldn't it have been arranged for me to be Mrs. Waring's partner?"
"That I cannot tell. That's the Sunshine Patch meant for me. Your Sunshine Patch is all round you already, only you are given to looking too much over the fence."
Thus, without any pillar of cloud, or shining light, or glittering gems, guidance came.
It did not take Mrs. Colston long to sell up some of her furniture and the goodwill of her mangle, and settle down in her new quarters and to her new duties. By that time the three hundred pounds had not only been drawn out, but used, partly in paying debts and partly in adding to stock. On one point Phebe was very firm, and that was that a legal document be drawn up acknowledging the loan and agreeing to pay interest at five per cent. Not that Phebe considered that would cover all her liability. "As I prosper—if I do prosper," she said to Mrs. Colston, "you shall prosper too. We will be real partners."
"I don't want any of that lawyer's writing. Your word is sufficient," said Mrs. Colston.
"That may be, but I might be taken away, or some one else might step in," replied Phebe quietly.
Mrs. Colston quickly saw what was in Phebe's mind, and wisely forbore saying anything further. When Nanna had been duly installed, not only by mistress Phebe and Janie but also by their majesties, Queenie and Jack, Phebe took hold of the business reins in true-going style.
The first thing was to institute several reforms. One class of goods which had usually been sold under different prices received one fixed price; charges to different customers were made uniform.
Reynolds was shocked.
"So-and-so," said he, "will think the things are common if you don't put the price on."
"Then shall we level up, instead of levelling down?" asked the shrewd mistress.
"Oh, dear, no; for Mrs. Dash will deal somewhere else if she doesn't think she's having things extra cheap."
"I cannot help all these little peculiarities," said Phebe. "I mean to run this business on true, straight lines, whatever happens."
Reynolds wanted to say something about it being a woman's whim, but somehow or other the words would not come out. But a climax was reached when he felt that to keep silence longer would be guilty; this was when Phebe announced that in future the entire establishment would be closed every Saturday evening at eight o'clock.
"Mrs. Waring!" he exclaimed; "you have no idea what sacrifice you are making. If it is your assistants you are considering, why not close earlier on Wednesdays?"
"I intend to do that as well," she replied graciously; "but I may as well be frank with you and say it isnotout of consideration to my assistants I am closing earlier on Saturdays."
"Then why do it? I want the business to be a success, and I am sure you do; but this plan, you will excuse me saying so, will be a dead loss. Why, we take as much sometimes on a Saturday evening as we do all day on Wednesday! And folks will say if we are so independent of their custom, they'll see we do without it altogether."
"Thank you most sincerely, Reynolds, for so unselfishly studying my interests. But your reasoning is a little at fault," she added, with a laugh. "If people think we can afford to be independent, that is the very best advertisement we could have, for you know the old saying, 'Nothing succeeds like success.' But neither success nor non-success weighs with me in this matter."
"May I ask, then, what does?" asked Reynolds, feeling quite in a fog. The question was put in a most respectful manner.
The answer was given in one word, "God," and when it was spoken both felt no inclination to pursue the subject further. But to Mrs. Colston, Reynold's felt he might explode to his heart's content.
"What's the good of trying to push things on, I should like to know? The mistress, with all these new-fangled ideas, will just ruin the business. What's God to do with a draper's shop, or a grocer's shop either?"
"Keep cool, my dear boy, keep cool. If God's got nothing to do with these shops then they'd better be closed."
"Do you mean to say God troubles Himself about sugar and calico?"
"Yes, I do, and with everything that goes on under this roof."
"Well, I don't, then; but if even He does, what has shutting up early on Saturday evenings to do with it?—that's what I want to know! I tell you it's only a woman's whim"—and he felt ever so much better after that expression had come out.
"To give herself and her friends proper time to prepare for the Sabbath."
"But she's not a Jewess."
Mrs. Colston could not keep from laughing. "The idea that only Jews want preparation-time! Why, Reynolds, I'm ashamed of you. To think that a grown-up Sunday School boy like you should be so dense! How can anybody keep the Sabbath properly who is toiling up to midnight on Saturday? And look how mean it seems, as though you said to the Lord, 'I'll take precious good care You don't get five minutes more time than I can help.' I tell you, Reynolds, your mistress won't lose a penny by honouring God. You mark my words, God has said, 'Them that honour Me, I will honour.' And if even she did lose some customers, she won't lose in the end, I tell you. You watch, but don't take short views of things."
"Well, you're a queer pair, that's all I can say." But it was not all he thought.
Phebe had received no business training whatever; even when a child a book had more fascination for her than a pair of scales, and to dream dreams was more in her line than playing at shop, or even dressing dolls. But she was one of those women who, when they once realise what the work is they are shut up to, quickly master all the details, and with zest determine to become master of it. She saw plainly there was no path before her but what led behind counters. For her children's sake, and for God's sake, she determined to make the business "go"; the zeal she put into it acted as balm to her wounded heart; her industry kept away the feeling of desolation, giving her no time to brood over the hardness of her lot. Indeed, the business was a "godsend," but for it she might have sunk into a spiritless, listless life; instead of that, faculties were developed in her that her nearest and dearest never dreamed she possessed. Of course her father warned her against all unwomanly ways, constantly reminding her that the duty of every member of her sex was to be like a flower and "blush unseen"; but to others he daily sung her praises.
Reynolds by degrees became reconciled to her reforms, and after watching the conflagration of a box of valuable feathers, doomed to destruction on account of the cruelty by which they were obtained, he decided that nothing which might happen in the future as to the conduct of the business would ever surprise him.
Away in Texas there is a little plant called the compass plant, and the Indians, even in the night, can tell by feeling its leaves the direction in which they are going. The top leaves, weighted by dew or dust, sometimes lose their power to point in the right direction, but the young leaves, standing edgewise to the earth, are always true, ever pointing north and south. To Reynolds Phebe was as a compass plant by which he learned to measure right and wrong, but, best of all, she pointed him to God. Of all this she was unconscious, and it was better so; but would she always point true? Would the world's dust ever cause her to lose that charm?
In spite of Reynolds' fears, all these reforms did not affect the business adversely; there were some losses, but the gains outnumbered them. A good many customers came out of curiosity, and gossip was pretty rife in the town, but all the information they got was that Mr. Waring had gone abroad with the idea of starting a business. Some even questioned Phebe herself and Mrs. Colston, but gained no further information.
No other letter had been received from Ralph, but Stephen Collins sent a note one day saying that the ship which Ralph had sailed in had safely arrived after a pleasant journey, and all were well on board. Phebe supposed Stephen had gathered this information from the newspapers, but asked no questions.
One day Reynolds startled his mistress by saying, "Don't you think we might begin to enlarge our borders?"
"What do you mean?—do you want us to take in a third shop?"
"No; but a long time ago master spoke of starting a village trade, and I don't see why we should not start it now." And then he went on to give the names of some villages which were quite growing localities through becoming small manufacturing centres, but where shops had not increased accordingly. By canvassing these and lonely farmhouses which lay between, he thought a good bit of business might be done.
"It could not be done without a horse and cart, and I could not afford to buy those just now," said Phebe, shaking her head.
"I have thought of that, but Higgins, the laundry people, have a horse and light van they use only three days a week; there's no doubt they would be willing to let us hire them."
"Perhaps so; the plan is worth thinking over; but what should I do here while you were away? I should be obliged to engage another assistant."
"Yes, you would; but I think you would find it pay."
Phebe promised she would give the subject serious consideration—"and we must both pray about it," she added. It took quite an effort to bring the words out, but she wanted in every possible way to show Reynolds that God was to be consulted in all business details.
The very next day Phebe had a visit from a young man seeking a situation. She liked his appearance very much, he had a frank expression on his face which touched her heart, and, besides that, she knew his mother very well and had a great respect for her.
"Have you a reference from your last situation?"
The young fellow's face darkened. "No, Mrs. Waring, I have not," he answered. "If I tell you all my trouble, will you promise not to tell my mother? It would break her heart if she knew all."
"I promise," she replied. "Come into the parlour, and tell me all," and the young fellow did so—how he had been tempted to speculate, how he had used some of his master's money, and had been found out before he had time to withdraw money from the Post Office Savings Bank to refund it. "I have paid it all now," he added, "but the master said I need never ask him for a character. If you will trust me, Mrs. Waring, I promise you I will serve you faithfully. You shall never regret having me. Oh, for my mother's sake, do give me a chance!"
"Just wait a minute," and then she went to consult Mrs. Colston, whom she had previously spoken to about Reynolds' suggestion.
"Is this God's answer, Nanna? Or would it be unwise to engage a young man who had made such a mistake? I feel strongly inclined to give him a chance, if even we did not start a village trade."
"I should take it as God's answer, dearie, you are to extend your trade. And, bless me, why shouldn't you give the young fellow a chance? God gives us plenty! But don't start him with a rope round his neck."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Don't show any mistrust, that is all." Afterwards she said to herself, "Reynolds would call that another 'whim' if he knew about it. She wouldn't have engaged that young fellow as quickly as this before her trouble came, not she; it's just wonderful how trouble softens the heart. It's only them that's received mercy which show mercy."
The young fellow's name was Jones—D. Jones—the "D." standing for David. Neighbour Bessie came in just afterwards on what she called her ginger-beer cork visits—a pop and go visit, and, of course, she was told of the new "hand" and the new scheme—but no hint as to the young man's past was given.
"D. Jones," she exclaimed, clapping her hands, "makes me think of an old man in America my aunt knew, who had once been a soldier; he was 'D. Jones,' but you'd never guess what the 'D.' stood for, that you never would, but it is what I shall call your Mr. Jones."
"Well, tell us what it was, Miss Smarty, or I'll shake you," said Nanna, trying to look fierce.
"It's what I wish somebody would call me; it was 'Darling Jones.' It's a fact; I'm not making it up. Isn't it lovely! Just fancy, if my name was 'Darling,' what a fix mother would be in! She couldn't scold me and call me 'Darling' at the same time, now could she? Wouldn't it be rich to hear her call out 'Darling, you are a wretched girl!' It would be scrumptious, just!"
"You're a naughty darling, that's what you are," said Mrs. Colston, solemnly shaking her head. "It's a pity you can't put all your fun and energy to some good purpose."
"Well, I shall always call your Jones 'Darling,' you see if I don't."
That same evening Reynolds was informed that the extension scheme was to be tried at once.
"And may I ask," in a very quiet voice, looking earnestly into Phebe's face, "what led you to this decision?"
"Yes, certainly. A young man came and asked me to give him employment. I had not advertised, nor spoken of the matter to any one but Mrs. Colston. I liked his manner very much. I took that as a guidance, and have engaged him. I am sending to-night to printers to have circulars prepared, and next week I will help you to get out samples. Perhaps you would not mind seeing Mr. Higgins for me."
"Well, well," said Reynolds to himself, "the idea that God had anything to do with that young man coming here. We shall hear of angels serving the customers next."
The printed circulars were issued in Phebe's own name. Whether she had the legal right to do this or not she did not know, but knew well enough the moral right was hers.
The very first trial of the new scheme showed that it would prove a success. This was largely attributable to two things; first, to Reynolds' "push": the scheme being largely his own he felt the responsibility of it, and for his own credit's sake determined it should "go"; the other thing was Phebe's good sense; the grocery department she conducted from a housewife's standpoint, the drapery department from a Christian woman's standpoint, and thus in both had a considerable advantage over her husband.
Fellow tradespeople marvelled that in the absence of the husband there should be an extension of the business. Woman is supposed to be conservative, yet at the same time it is acknowledged she quickly sees a point and seizes it while the man is still thinking about it. Each cannot be fully true. Love may make her at times conservative; but if roused to devoted service she cannot be anything but progressive.
But if sunlight was growing in the business department the shadows were deepening in the home department. Sturdy little Jack had been elevated to sleeping in the crib, while frail little Queenie nestled each night to sleep in the mother's arms. Nanna could see that the child was a fading flower, soon to be transplanted to a fairer region, but, strange to say, the mother's eyes only saw the still brilliant tints of the sweet blossom. Very early every morning the child would sit up and stroke the mother's face till she wakened, such a glad light coming into her eyes when she had succeeded. A little later on she did not attempt to sit up, but stretched up her arms to her mother's face. Then came a morning when the mother woke without the touch of the little fingers; the child was awake, the love-light as usual in the soft, grey eyes, but with not strength enough left to show its love in the old way.
Then it was Phebe grew alarmed, and the doctor was sent for. But all that human aid could do Nanna had already done. And then came a day when even the shopmen stole about on tip-toe. (The Potter was about to put His cup into the furnace again. There was high work designed for it, for which it needed great preparation.)
All day long Phebe sat by the fire nursing her dying child on her knee.
The angels must have bent very closely round Mary of Nazareth as she nursed her Babe; but surely they gather just as closely round a mother whose child they are about to conduct to their King!
There was still the love-light in the little one's eyes. Nanna was standing at the window watching the sunlight fade from the sky; Phebe was watching the light slowly fade from her child's eyes.
The angels were bending still closer.
For one moment the little hand was once more raised to stroke the loving face bending over it. It was a last effort, and then the light was gone.
The angels had gone.
"It is time she had some more milk," said Nanna, coming near.
"She is asleep," said Phebe, in a strained voice, "let her alone just now," and quite hastily she put her arm over the child, drawing the shawl partly over its face.
Nanna did not feel she had the heart to press her point, and left the room for a few minutes. On her return she said, "Phebe, dear, you must wake Queenie, she must have her milk; it will never do to neglect any effort. Let me have her for a few moments. I'll promise to wake her gently," and she held out her arms beseechingly.
Phebe's answer was to strain the little form passionately to her breast.
"Come, come," said Nanna, more firmly, "let me take her."
"To wake her?" asked Phebe, looking at her with wild eyes.
"Yes, there's a dear. You will be quite worn out."
"She will never wake again," wailed Phebe, and then tears came to her relief, tears which in the first moments of her agony seemed to be freezing her life's blood.
"Phebe! Phebe! Why did you not tell me before? Did you know that she was gone when I spoke to you before?"
"Yes, but I could not let you have her, and I cannot let you have her now." She rose to go upstairs, still carrying the little cold form.
"But I must have her, Phebe, dear," said Nanna, planting herself firmly in Phebe's way.
"Surely, you will not take her from me yet! I cannot, oh, I cannot part with her. It is so hard! Oh, so hard!"
"It is hard just now, darling, I know. Sit down again, and let us look at the sweet little face." Phebe did so. "And won't you really let me have her at all?" Nanna continued; "surely, you will!" and Phebe, pressing a passionate kiss on the cold brow, yielded, knowing that never again in this life would she hold that little form in her arms. Was it any wonder she was loth to part with it, when, however much her arms might ache for it in the future, she could never again press it to her heart!
And then came days of darkness. Why had God allowed her child to be taken? He could not have prevented her husband's desertion without taking away his free will, but the child did not wish to leave her; why did not God touch her with His healing hand? Was not her lot hard enough without this last trial? Why did not God, to make up for the loss of husband, allow the child to remain? Would not an earthly loving father have done as much? These questionings would come, and her heart could find no answers—yet.
And Nanna, who knew all about them, never chided. She just waited, knowing that ere long comfortwouldcome. "It was the sight of sorrow such as yours that made Jesus shed tears," she said one day. "It fair broke the blessed Lord down to see that woman Mary cry so, and to see the trouble death brings."
"Then you don't think He's cross with me for fretting so?" asked Phebe, with some excitement.
"Not a bit of it, dearie. He knows right well what a blow it has been to you, and sympathises with you; rest on that."
"That is a comfort, but then, Nanna, why did He not prevent it? He is all-powerful, and could have prevented it if He had chosen!" It was the old cry from a broken heart, "Why! Why!"
"Because He wished for your child exactly the same as you do." She spoke very emphatically.
"What is that?" Phebe asked, eagerly.
"The greatest good. Be sure of this, if it had been for the child's good she would have stayed. God can judge so much better than we can what is the best, so He decided she was to go. You do believe, don't you, dearie, that God knows best?—He must do!"
"Yes." But the voice had no ringing tone in it.
"And there's another thing I want you to rest on, though you cannot work it out yet in your own mind, but it's true, for all that, and it's this, that God will make all this trouble work for good in your own life, quite apart from dear little Queenie's, or, even for your sake, He would not have permitted it."
"I believe it all, Nanna, and yet it seems so hard to live out the belief."
"Yes, dearie, I know, but that's just because the trouble has kind of stunned you. Just you wait awhile, and you will be able not only to rest on the fact of God's wisdom and goodness, butcheerfullyto rest."
"I wish I could!"
How strange it is that there is never a wounded heart but there's somebody close by to put in some extra drop of bitterness. A friend called in one day with the express intention of showing sympathy, but succeeded in doing just the opposite, by remarking she was sure it was not the will of God any little child should die, and what a pity it was we had not more faith. All this Phebe told to Nanna, and, for a wonder, Nanna was near to exploding.
"I do wish folk would have more sense! Why, it seems to me, some folks think they know better than God Himself. If you had prayed, 'My child is not going to die, my faith will keep her here,' wouldn't that have been dictating to God! Then, think of all the holy men and women who have died young! Do you think God allowed them to die before their time simply because they didn't know they might have healing through faith! Don't trouble your head about that. Why, God, perhaps, has some work up yonder to do that only an innocent child-spirit like Queenie could do, or He may have taken her to shield her from some evil. If your faith could have saved that child you would have had the faith. God knew right enough you didn't want to part with her." Then when the dear old soul had taken breath, she started off again. "What is a sign? It's something out of the ordinary way to teach you some special lesson. Well, Jesus said the sick were to be cured by faith, as a sign, not as a rule. Nobody can get over that, so there now," and off she went to give Jack his supper.
It was not long before Phebe herself realised at least one blessing which had come into her life since the child's departure, and that was the sense of the nearness of the spirit world. It seemed as if a line of light connected her world with the beyond, and the line of light was the pathway Queenie had trod. When she had lost her mother her grief was great, but it was the grief of a child, her soul had not the conscious power then to reach after her loved one as now she reached after her child.
The whole of her life seemed made up of strips of light and shade, and just as this gleam from the golden land dawned upon her, the old darkness seemed all to come back again. The following letter was received from Ralph:—
"Queen's Hotel, Adelaide."My Dear Phebe,"I dare say you have been wondering what part of the globe I have travelled to. This letter will set your mind at rest on that score. I do not suppose I shall stay here long, but any letters you send will be sure to be forwarded to me. I have already found several friends here and have good prospects. No doubt my sudden departure was a shock to you, but I did it out of regard for you, and you must think of it in that way. And you cannot say I did not leave you well provided for. The goodwill of the business and the stock are worth a great deal. You are in a much better position now than before you were married. As soon as ever I am permanently settled we will discuss future plans. Of course I miss you and the children very much, and no doubt you miss me. This is a splendid country, with room to breathe in. I only wish I had come years ago. I mean to make my mark here; no more small pettifogging ways for me. My friends tell me I am just the man to succeed here. It is nice to be appreciated."Write soon and tell me how you all are."I am,"Your affectionate husband,"Ralph Waring."
"Queen's Hotel, Adelaide."My Dear Phebe,
"Queen's Hotel, Adelaide.
"My Dear Phebe,
"I dare say you have been wondering what part of the globe I have travelled to. This letter will set your mind at rest on that score. I do not suppose I shall stay here long, but any letters you send will be sure to be forwarded to me. I have already found several friends here and have good prospects. No doubt my sudden departure was a shock to you, but I did it out of regard for you, and you must think of it in that way. And you cannot say I did not leave you well provided for. The goodwill of the business and the stock are worth a great deal. You are in a much better position now than before you were married. As soon as ever I am permanently settled we will discuss future plans. Of course I miss you and the children very much, and no doubt you miss me. This is a splendid country, with room to breathe in. I only wish I had come years ago. I mean to make my mark here; no more small pettifogging ways for me. My friends tell me I am just the man to succeed here. It is nice to be appreciated.
"Write soon and tell me how you all are.
"I am,"Your affectionate husband,"Ralph Waring."
"I am,"Your affectionate husband,"Ralph Waring."
It was not long before Phebe noticed that though the letter was in a foreign envelope, it had neither stamp nor postmark of any description.
By what means the letter had reached her seemed too great a mystery for her to attempt to unravel, so the thought of it was put right away, the change in Ralph's affections being quite sufficient for her to cope with just then.
During these dark days Neighbour Bessie was a constant visitor, and she never came without seeking to bring some brightness, though mostly it was in the form of fun. Sometimes it jarred on Phebe when she first came in, but invariably Phebe was found enjoying the fun before Bessie left.
Bessie was in high feather when Phebe told her in neighbourly confidence that an old great-uncle, recently deceased, had left her the freehold of a meadow at Edenholme, a place four miles from Hadley.
"Do you mean to say you are a landed proprietress?"
"Yes, if you care to put it in that grand style."
"Of course I do—style is everything. But really to be serious, I should like to see this estate of yours!"
"Estate! Just one field, with one solitary donkey, perhaps, in it."
"Well, let's make the dear donkey's acquaintance, anyhow. Could we not drive there? Couldn't Darling Jones drive you and me, and let's have half-a-day's holiday? Now, do, there's a dear! I'm sure I'm losing all my complexion because I never get an outing."
"I do wish you wouldn't call that young man by that foolish name. Suppose he should overhear you?"
"That would be perfectly lovely! He'd put his hand on his heart, and say 'Somebody loves me!'" and Bessie put herself in the supposed tragic attitude.
"You are a dreadful girl. Now, just for a punishment Reynolds shall drive us."
"Then you consent to go?" and Bessie's eagerness confirmed Phebe in her suspicion that it was simply a ruse to get her out.
However, the drive was taken and enjoyed. Instead of the donkey being found in the meadow, there was a blind child groping about on hands and knees for flowers and grasses. "Just look there!" exclaimed Bessie, quite philosophically; "and yet with two eyes of quite the proper sort and power, most of us miss heaps of flowers we might gather."
The meadow was close by a small railway station soon to become an important junction, a new line being under construction which would run into it from quite an opposite direction.
Reynolds drove them to the other side of the line, where some hundreds of men were at work on a long tunnel. The curious little wooden houses in which some of the men lived were inspected, and Phebe had quite a long chat with one of the "gangers."
On their return home Bessie informed Mrs. Colston that the "estate" had some "park-like stretches," and was quite "a suitable site for a summer holiday with the help of a tent." "But it is a shame," she went on, "that it is not on the other side of the railway. Why, if that meadow had only been near that tunnel the railway folks would have given ever so much for it. Don't you think it is too bad?"
"No, I don't."
"You don't! Wouldn't you like Mrs. Waring to make an honest bit of money?"
"Of course I should. But if it would have been better for the meadow to have been where you wished it, it would have been there, no doubt about that."
"Do you think, then, that whatever is, is best? But I don't see how you can. I didn't have any breakfast this morning. Mother said I was in one of my tantrums. Suppose I was; but I can tell you it wasn't the best thing for me."
"Perhaps it just was; but I cannot say positively about your affairs, because I don't know that you come under the same list as mistress does."
"What list is that?"
"The list of Christians. You know 'whatever isisbest' for them. Perhaps it doesn't seem so at the first, but God makes it so sooner or later."
"He doesn't do so, then, for everybody?"
"No, I don't think so; I can't see how they can expect Him to."
"It's a bad look-out for me, then, Mrs. Colston," and the girl looked her frankly in the face. "I often wish I were a Christian; but there, I never shall be."
"Why not, Bessie, dear? Tell me what is your difficulty."
"I can't give up my nonsense and fun; it's no good, I couldn't be serious like Mrs. Waring is for anything. And then," dropping her voice, "mother would never believe I was trying to be good, no, not if I tried like an archangel."
"What your mother believes, or doesn't believe, shouldn't come into the question, dear. It's the Lord's opinion of us we've got to trouble about. But you make a great mistake if you think you've got to give up fun, so long as it's innocent fun. Why, I believe God is often disappointed in His children because they're such a long-faced, sour lot; I do indeed."
But just then Mrs. Marchant sent in a message that Bessie was wanted at once.
That same evening Phebe was called into the grocery department to see a woman who particularly wished to speak to her. She was a very forlorn-looking being, and seeing the marks of tears upon her face Phebe invited her into the parlour, placing a chair for her by the fire, for the evening was chilly.
"I've come to ask you, Mrs. Waring, if you will come and see my husband. I do believe he is dying."
"But why do you want me to see him?" Phebe was feeling very bewildered. "Why not get a doctor? I'm not even a nurse."
"Oh, it's not that. I've got a doctor for him; he wants to talk to you. It's him that sent me to ask you."
"But why does he want to see me?"
"I asked him if I should get anybody to come and pray to him, and he said as how he didn't want no parsons a-bothering of him, but he would like Mrs. Waring to come, for," in quite a whisper, "he's mortal afeared of dying."
"He wants me to come in place of a minister?" said Phebe with a gasp. "How does he know me? How did he come to ask for me?"
"Why, you know he used to go a good deal to 'The Rose in June,' and they was a-talking about you there one night—he told me so when he came home—as how you shut your shops early on Saturday 'cause you were particular about Sunday. One of your shopfolks said so to somebody. And my Jim said as how you must be one of the right sort, for your religion cost you summat. That's how it is. He's talked about it a lot of times; and one night some of the men that goes to 'The Rose in June' came to have a look at you."
Phebe smiled. "I should like to help your husband all I could," she said, "but I am quite unfit to talk to a dying man. Why not let me send for one of our good ministers? Or, I will ask my friend if she will go."
"I'm sure he won't see anybody else," the woman exclaimed, but Phebe was out of hearing. Presently she returned, saying in a very quiet voice that she would accompany her home at once. Nanna had firmly refused to go, saying it was a distinct call from God to Phebe herself, and that it would be wicked to disobey.
So in great fear and trembling Phebe went.
The man was lying on a wretched bed, evidently very weak, but with no signs of death about him. After inquiring as to how he felt Phebe started straightway by telling him how unfit she was to help anybody, being only a learner herself, and her very simple straightforwardness drew the sick man all the more to her.
"But, look here, missis," he said, turning on his elbow eagerly towards her. "You can help me all I want, and I'd rather have you than one of them preaching chaps as is paid to do it. What I wants to know is this: Do you think as how God is good and only does good things?"
Phebe paused for a moment, and while she hesitated the man was keenly watching her, with great hungry-looking eyes.
"I want my answer to be perfectly true," she replied, "that is why I waited."
"I know it'll be true," said the man.
Is God good? What about the taking away of her child! Could she say to this hungry, seeking soul He was not good? A thousand times,No—that she could never do. "I have been in great trouble lately—for more than a year the way has been very dark"—there was a choke in her voice.
"I guessed so," said the man softly.
"But Godisgood," her voice was clear and firm again. "Yes, He is good; I have found Him so over and over again. We judge Him too quickly so often, and so often blame Him for what comes through the sins of other."
"There's so many queer things in the world," said the man, "that it seemed to me there couldn't be a good God."
"It's the men and women who are queer."
"But, look here, if He's really good, will He take pity on a poor chap like me, who's been such a wicked 'un, and only comes to Him when he's not got nobody else to go to?" There was a depth of yearning in the voice.
"Before I answer that question I should like you to answer me one, because I cannot know your heart as God does. Suppose, now, God was to give you back health, how would you treat God then?"
"Ah, now, missis, I must take time to think, as you did." Then, after a pause: "I'd stand by Him, blest if I wouldn't!"