"And leave off going to the public-house and lead a straight, clean life?"
"Yes, I would, if only He'd make me downright sure He wiped off all old scores agen me. Will you ask Him to?"
"Yes, I will."
"But I mean here—now!"
To pray in public! She had never done such a thing in her life! Again came the feeling of fear, but again it was conquered. Kneeling down by the side of the bed, with the man's hand in hers, and the man's wife kneeling by her side, she slowly, in short sentences, asked for just what the man needed, and under his breath he repeated every word she said. If the man had never heard of Jesus, and what Jesus had done for him, he learnt it from that prayer, and grasped the truth for himself.
"Now," said she, as she rose from her knees, "I believe you are going to get better."
All the way home her thoughts dwelt on the fact that she had publicly testified to the goodness of God. "After that," she said to herself, "I must not grieve any more after my darling. It must have been right for her to go, since God is good. To doubt that will make me a liar, and my life, too, must show I do not doubt it; but, oh, that I might catch a glimpse of her just for a minute!"
It was a trembling Phebe who left home—a radiant Phebe returned. Nanna could not understand the change, but when she heard the story she exclaimed: "There now, that's always the way! If ever you want help, go and help somebody else. I do declare it was the Lord Himself who got you to commit yourself in that way. He just cornered you for your own deliverance."
It was a hard, strenuous life that Phebe Waring led day by day. An hour was spent in the business every morning before breakfast, and till the last shutter was up at night she was still at her post. But never a day passed without some portion of it being entirely given up to sunny-haired little Jack. There was no piece of work done in which she did not lend a hand, and not only was there in every department every evidence of fair and honest dealing, but the utmost economy was also studied, down to the tying of string and the folding up of paper. Economy is not the sign of a small mind, but waste the sign of a mind with empty corners.
As the new year approached Reynolds asked if there was to be any stocktaking, and, if so, on what lines it should be done? The truth was Phebe had not thought of this, but did not think it necessary to say so. After due deliberation the whole affair was arranged, and when she cast up her accounts, to her great astonishment she found there had been considerable advance made—and this in spite of the extra help employed, the purchase of a horse and cart, and several improvements which had been made in the premises. "Is not that splendid!" she said to Nanna, as all the figures were explained. "I shall give a good bonus to Reynolds, for he deserves it; and Jones must have something, too. If I go on at this rate I shall some day be a rich woman! Think of that! God is indeed good!"
"Ah, dearie, it's easy to say 'God is good!' when the balance is on the right side, but what must please Him best is when we can say it just as trustfully when the purse is empty."
The truth was, Nanna was just a wee bit afraid lest her darling should not stand the test of wealth. She remembered an old story about a play which used to be enacted at country fairs in the days when the Quakers were so bitterly persecuted. Among thedramatis personæcame the evil one, who, in the course of a speech, made these remarks: "Let these Quakers alone; it's no good hunting them down. This is my plan: God is sure to prosper them in basket and in store, because they serve Him faithfully; then when they are rich, that will be my time. I shall be sure to get them then."
"God keep her from the snare of riches!" was the old woman's fervent prayer.
Neighbour Bessie had got a new thought!
Not that this was an unusual occurrence, her brain being pretty prolific, but this was of special importance and gave her special delight.
She was a member of a certain young woman's Bible class which happened just then to be without a teacher. The inspiring thought was, "Why should not Mrs. Waring become the teacher?" Hurrah! And sheshouldbecome the teacher, too, if Bessie could by any possible manœuvres bring it about.
That her own personal invitation was not sufficient she knew well enough, and was quite sure Mrs. Waring would never offer her services, though "coaxed like anything." "I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed to herself. "I'll get up a petition. See if I don't;" and she did, for when once Bessie willed she did, and there was "an end on't," as the Lancashire women say.
She drew up the heading herself, one sentence being, "And we shall ever be grateful," which she thought would be especially "fetching." "None of your 'Kathleen Mavourneen' style about that: 'may be for years or may be for ever.'" Truth to tell, there was never much of the "Kathleen Mavourneen style" about any of Bessie's doings, her character being cast in too decided a mould for that.
The following Sunday twelve out of twenty members were present, and all willingly signed the petition, somewhat tickled with the fun of it and Bessie's tragic manner. The other eight she visited at their homes, and thus the full number of signatures was obtained.
Then came the formidable task of presenting the petition. "When a subject presents a petition to the Queen"—that was how she began her speech on the very first opportunity—"I suppose the proper thing is to drop down on the knees something like this," straightway kneeling down in front of Phebe.
"Are you thinking of interviewing the Queen yourself, then? Is that your next adventure?"
"I am already interviewing the queen of my heart, and would beseech her gracious majesty to carefully read this petition," spreading the paper out on Phebe's knee.
"What nonsense are you up to now, Bessie?" asked Nanna, coming into the room just at that minute.
"No nonsense at all, but real serious business, such as you would delight in yourself. Come and help me to persuade Mrs. Waring to say 'Yes.'"
"But ought she to say 'Yes'?"
"I am sure you will say so when you know all about it."
Phebe at once, with a smile, handed Nanna the paper, and Nanna, with spectacles on nose, began to read with a face as solemn as the countenances of two judges photographed on to one negative. But sunshine soon conquered solemnity.
"Well done, Bessie! It does you credit," was the instantaneous verdict. "I can see it's you that's been at the top and bottom of it all. Of course you'll say 'Yes'?" turning to Phebe.
"It's very good of the girls, and it is just what I should like to do; but there is one thing they have forgotten to do."
"What is that?" quickly questioned Bessie.
"You have never asked the permission of the superintendent."
"Never thought of that," exclaimed Bessie; "but there will be no difficulty in that quarter. Why should there be? Then you do really say 'Yes'?"
"I will certainly try what I can do, but understand, the invitation must also come from the superintendent."
"You are a dear," and impulsive Bessie flung her arms round her neck and kissed her. "Do you know I feel so good and virtuous I don't think I shall sleep to-night."
Certainly Phebe did not go to sleep quickly that night, the idea of partly mothering twenty girls quite taking possession of her. If only she could get them to rise up to the full dignity of Christian womanhood what a splendid piece of work that would be! And there and then she began shaping her introductory talk to them. She looked upon Bessie's scheme as another means sent by God to fill the void left in her heart and life.
The following Sunday afternoon she quite expected that Bessie would come in to tea, bringing with her the more formal invitation. The meal was even kept waiting, but no Bessie came.
"She will come in after tea," said Phebe—still no Bessie.
"She will be here at supper-time, sure enough," said Mrs. Colston. Supper-time came, but no Bessie.
"She must be unwell, surely," thought Phebe; but Bessie's high voice overheard on Monday morning proved that to be quite a mistake.
All Monday passed, but no Bessie came. On Tuesday morning Mrs. Colston sent her a message: "Why do you not come in? Have you forgotten what we are expecting?" To Phebe she said: "No doubt the superintendent was not present on Sunday, but at least she ought to have come in and told us so. I don't hold with girls being so thoughtless."
Bessie's answer was: "I'll come in this evening."
Poor Bessie! When she did come—and she made it as late as ever she could—she looked as if she had just made the acquaintance of the ducking-stool.
"I know you wanted to hear what that superintendent said, and that's just why I didn't want to come in," she blurted out.
"Poor old Bessie!" said Phebe, quite pained to see the change in her, "but don't fret about it, whatever it was."
"But I can't help it! It is a downright big shame."
"What dreadful thing did he say?"
"He's going to take the class himself, but I can't stay any longer, mother will want me."
"Bessie," said Phebe, laying her hand firmly on her arm, "there is something else troubling you."
"The girls don't want a man to teach them—but I really must be going."
"Bessie," Phebe forced her into a chair, and stood over her, "you are to tell me right out what is troubling you. Surely there are to be no secrets between us! Tell me just what the superintendent said."
"That he should take it himself"—putting her hands over her face to hide the tears.
"What else?"
"That you were not suitable."
"And what else? Why was I not suitable?"
But Bessie could not answer for crying.
"Tell me this"—and Phebe's voice was very strained—"was it because my husband had left me?"
Bessie looked up at her with her tear-stained face; words would not come, but a little nod told all that was needed.
The blow Phebe had feared so long had come. It was a fact, then, that her good name was tarnished. She went over to the fire, standing with her back to Bessie, to try to calm herself, to pray for strength to bear such a cruel blow. The sound of Bessie's sobbing was very painful to hear, but at last the girl roused herself, and coming and standing by Phebe she whispered, "I would have given anything to have kept it from you. You do believe me, don't you?"
"Of course I do. Do not fret, dear; all will come right"—her breath was caught—"in time."
"To think that I should have brought this on you."
"But you did not—it is better for me to know how—people regard me. Now, go home, dear, and do what you have to do. I shall be feeling all right in the morning."
It was a comfort when Phebe reached her own room to be alone, save for the sleeping child—and the unseen angels.
And Bessie, too, was glad to be alone. She was thankful the whole affair had come out, having felt assured it was bound to do so, but her whole being was filled with indignation at the thought of the indignity her friend had been made to suffer. "If only I had never asked her till it was all settled it wouldn't have been so bad! What can I tell the girls?Ishan't let out all the reason, buthewill, I dare say. Wish I could be upsides down with him, that I do! What a mess I do make of everything, to be sure. If mother knew she'd say it was just like me. I feel perfectly wretched. I wonder how I could pay that man out for his meanness!"
And then another bright idea struck Neighbour Bessie, and by the time she had worked her plan out she was fast asleep.
The next day, during the minutes she could snatch from work, twenty dainty little notes were written, addressed to the twenty girls who had signed the petition. Each was supposed to be a private note, inviting the receiver to accompany Bessie next Sunday afternoon to some special meeting going on in the town, and to meet her at 2.45 by the market-pump.
Not being very flush with pocket-money—she never was—the notes could not be posted, but during the next three evenings were all delivered by hand. Twelve favourable replies were received, some of the girls expressing appreciation of this marked token of Bessie's favour, Bessie being really a very popular member; four declined on the plea of colds or previous engagements; and four were blanks, but Bessie found out, in some way or other, that these were away from home.
"That's just splendid," she said to herself, surveying the pile of assorted notepaper, "perfect."
"I say, Bess, are you going to give a party?" asked her brother, happening to catch sight of the notes.
"Yes."
"When?"
"I'll tell you when it's all over."
At 2.45 on Sunday afternoon twelve girls met round the market-pump, each greatly surprised to see all the others.
"I came here to meet Bessie Marchant," said one.
"And so did I," said another.
"And so did I," said they all; and then they all laughed, for they were a good-natured set of girls.
"We'll make her answer for this when she turns up," said some of them.
"What do you mean by this, Miss Bessie Marchant?" three or four called out all at once when at last she made her appearance puffing and blowing through hurrying.
"Dreadfully sorry, girls, to be so late; really couldn't help it. Mean?" looking ever so solemnly sweet, "mean? You were all such dears I couldn't leave one of you out," and taking hold of the two girls she had the least confidence in marched off, all the others following.
She told the whole story the same evening to Nanna, alone. "You would have died of laughing if you'd seen the faces of those girls as they cuddled round that pump, that you would. Some were hanging on to the handle, they felt that took back like. But I got them all to the meeting."
"But what did you do it for?"
"That's just what they wanted to know, and not one guessed. I told them after they came out, though."
"Well, what was your reason?"
"To pay that man out, of course. He pretended he wanted the class for himself, and I thought at least for one Sunday he shouldn't have that pleasure. It was splendid fun just to picture how he would look when he went into the room and found no one there. It did tickle the girls, I can tell you."
"But you don't mean to say you told them all that!"
"Of course I did. I was obliged to tell them how he had refused Mrs. Waring's offer, and so I explained to them how just for once I had paid him out."
"And don't you suppose they will go and tell him what you have said?"
"Some will, no doubt; but others are as cross as I am about it."
"Oh, Bessie, Bessie, when will you learn wisdom!" exclaimed Mrs. Colston, in a very troubled voice.
"What have I done wrong now, I should like to know? You don't mean to say you're cross with me?"
"You have made that man more than ever the mistress's enemy. You have thrown a stone into the waters; you can never tell where its ripples will reach to. He may be a Christian. I don't know, but after the trick you have paid him he will dislike and mistrust Mrs. Waring more than ever. You may have done your dear friend a great unkindness, for if he's got any unsubdued malice in him he'll show it some day towards her; you'll see."
"Mrs. Colston!" exclaimed Bessie, "you fairly take away my breath. I declare life is too much for me!"
"It's too much for any of us—alone. With all your fun and nonsense you need a lot of prayer, that the Lord would keep you from doing anything that's against the Golden Rule."
"I don't know what'll become of me, I'm sure. It's always my luck to do the wrong thing. There, I wish I were dead, that I do! But don't you go and tell Mrs. Waring what I've done, will you?"
"No, I'll not tell her. Trust me for that."
There often came back to Phebe's mind the prayer she offered just after her engagement, "Dear Lord, make me a true Christian, and help me to be perfectly willing to let Thee do it in whatever way Thou thinkest will be best for me." It was one of the few-remembered prayers; they are but few in anybody's experience. Our prayers are too often to us but as yesterday's faded rose-petals.
She was not quite so sure to-day she could pray that prayer truthfully as when it was first framed. But there was this comfort, she had no desire to take herself from beneath the moulding Hands.
Nanna was inwardly very indignant at the treatment Phebe had received, not that her teaching and her own private experiences did not agree, but she was one of those women who have to do a certain amount of boiling over and exploding before a calm level is obtained. She was, however, mostly wise enough to let this exciting process be carried on in private. She was a perfect tower of strength to Phebe; indeed, it would be impossible to reckon up all Phebe owed to her, and Phebe was quite aware of this, often saying that Nanna was the clever one who made the plans, while she was only the humble one who carried them out.
"Look here, dearie," Nanna said, when she could trust herself to speak with calmness, "I say, and say it with all deliberateness, it was wicked to shut that door on you like that. If that man thought you were unfit to mix with those girls he should have first been quite sure of the grounds he was acting on. But, never you mind; mark this, and mark it well, man never shuts one door, but God opens another, and a bigger one, too. Men shut the door of the Ephesus Church against John, but look what a mighty big one God opened for him into Heaven! And it's the same to-day. So, you be on the look-out—I mean to—and see who sees it first. I told Bessie this, and she says she'll buy a spy-glass for one eye and a telescope for the other. I wonder if that girl will ever sober down!"
"She will make a fine woman some day."
"There's the making of a fine woman in her, and she's certainly on the mend."
Bessie overheard Phebe one day referring to Mrs. Colston's leadership, whereupon that young lady remarked she ought to be called "teacher," and all the others in the house "disciples."
It was at the tea-table. David Jones quietly observed, "You never hear of women disciples."
"Yes, you do," snapped Bessie; "if you had ever read Grecian history, you would never have made that remark. Besides, women deserved the name of 'disciple' more than those men did who followed Jesus; they saw to His wants, if they did nothing more; it only mentions once that the men ever did so, and then it took the whole twelve of them to go and buy a meal, leaving the tired Jesus all alone, not even one there to get a drink for Him."
"Better take care, Jones," said Reynolds, "you'll be sure to get the worst of it."
"Yes, of course you will," said Mrs. Colston; "there are too many nasty little things said now-a-days about women. The other day I heard some one say he wished Satan had gone for Job's wife, but he knew better. I felt like calling out."
"But then she was really a bad one," said Jones.
"Indeed, she was not. That's just it; so often wrong judgments are passed on women." (Nanna had wanted to bring out this little speech for some time, and quite blessed Bessie for the opportunity she had made.) "That poor woman bore without a word being recorded against her, the loss of children and property, and it was only when she saw her husband stricken that she rebelled, and then she didn't say half the bad things as Job did a bit further on. Yet Job's held up for admiration, and the poor wife for execration. I tell you it's not fair."
"I should think not, indeed," chimed in Bessie.
"Now, is it?" asked Mrs. Colston, turning to the young men. They both agreed it was not. "Then do be careful," she continued, "both of you, whenever you are tempted to say sneering things about women." Phebe had left the table at the commencement of the conversation, which made it still more easy for Nanna to send home her message. There was one splendid thing about her: however cutting her rebukes might be, she always gave them in a bright, nice manner; as Bessie said, she always used the biggest spoon she could get—inferring that the pill was nearly lost in the amount of jam she used.
Both the young fellows knew her words had a special significance; they were not at all offended, but rather, on the contrary, a fresh feeling of chivalry was stirred in their hearts towards their young mistress, "The Little Missis," as she was so often called. David Jones was even beginning to think there was a halo round everybody's head in that establishment, except his own, and a double halo round Bessie's, in spite of her snaps. If he had known all that took place in that little homestead he would have had a still more brilliant vision of glory—if even he had known the significance of the silver stars, one of which was found in a conspicuous place in every room, he would have felt like taking off his boots, for he was both impressionable and by nature devout. But not even Nanna knew till long afterwards what those stars meant, though she had a pretty shrewd guess about them.
As can be easily imagined, Phebe's life was a lonely one. The fact of her husband cutting himself off from her in such an abrupt fashion was quite enough to bring about this loneliness. There was not even companionship through the pen; she had answered both Ralph's letters, and still continued to write, giving him all particulars of the business, trying to put as much love into the letters as she could truly find echo in her heart, but no further replies came. All was a blank. And then there was the further loneliness all souls find the nearer they get to God. True, she had her sister, and Nanna, and sunny Jack, and Bessie; but these only touched the outer part of her being. We stand as units before God, and the more we understand our relationship to God the more we realise the soul's loneliness from the human side—a loneliness which draws us nearer and nearer to God.
Phebe often wished she could constantly remember the presence of God with her, but sometimes for a whole day she would forget Him, and she knew that was the reason why so often she failed, and the peace was broken. Prayer came very naturally to her when anything was wanted, but she felt that was not sufficient.
"What do people do who have bad memories?" she asked herself. Then came thoughts of strings round fingers and knots in handkerchiefs, but these seemed childish. One day the words, "When they saw His star," were very much with her, and the thought came, "I wish I could always see His star!" and this was followed by what she thought a bright idea. She would make a number of silver stars and place one in each room, shops and sale-room included, where she could not fail to see them; no one but herself need know their meaning, and they would continually remind her of His presence until she had trained herself to do without their help.
The plan was carried out. There was nothing in it anybody could object to; there was nothing of the fetish, nor crucifix, nor altar about it. Many an eye was raised up to those stars; the children were especially fascinated by them, and the shop was even spoken of by some as "The shop of the silver star," but none guessed their meaning. Reynolds was quite in the dark; though he often watched his mistress fix her eyes on them, he never came near the secret. Most people thought they were only in the nature of decoration. How often we draw near to holy places without even a thrill or look of wonder!
And the stars helped her greatly. I do not say she never forgot, but every little help we can secure along life's way to bind us to the Divine we should make the most of and rejoice over.
Even sharp-eyed, sharp-witted Bessie, who was now a real member of the circle, did not guess their meaning. Perhaps this was because she was so full of her own good-fortune that she was not keen on anything else just then, and when her first joy had cooled somewhat, the sight of the stars had become too familiar to excite comment.
For a long time Mrs. Colston and Phebe had been of the opinion that Bessie would never make much progress while under her mother's roof. Both mother and daughter loved each other (there was no doubt about that), but they did not rest each other. Mrs. Marchant was a fretful woman; family cares had shattered her nerves; Bessie was all alive—"life in every limb" was intensely true about her three times over—and so they constantly irritated each other.
As Bessie was washing up the tea-things one day, feeling very down-hearted, even dropping a tear now and again, she thought she would banish her gloom with a little song, and so piped up on her loudest key:
"I'm sweeping through the gates;"
"I'm sweeping through the gates;"
not remembering more than one verse, the chorus was repeated several times.
"Sakes alive!" screamed out the mother from the kitchen, "do stop that. Do, for goodness' sake, finish your sweeping, girl, and get through the gates and stop there!"
"I only wish I could," replied Bessie, but not loud enough for the mother to hear.
Soon after that she noticed her brother's jacket had slipped off a chair in the kitchen, where he had thrown it, and while she was sitting mending some stockings, she saw something moving on it. For a minute or two she kept a most careful watch, then cautiously picked the coat up and hung it at the back of the door. When her brother came to put it on she gave a nervous little wriggle on her chair, but said nothing.
At supper-time there was quite an explosion, the brother declaring she had put a black-beetle in his pocket, in spite of knowing how much he dreaded them; he had drawn it out with his handkerchief at a choir-practice, right in front of all the boys.
"I never did!" protested Bessie.
"You had something to do with it, I'm sure; else why did you so carefully hang my jacket up, without a word of fault-finding?"
"I saw it walk into your pocket; that's a very different thing from putting it in," the girl frankly explained.
Instead of the mother seeing any fun in the situation, and quietly pointing out where fun ends and unkindness begins, and forgetting the many practical jokes Bessie herself had good-naturedly endured at the hands of her brother, she literally stormed at Bessie, declaring she should leave home at once and be put to some business.
Phebe hearing of all this, offered to take Bessie, to which the mother readily agreed. So it was a very short journey indeed Bessie took from home.
Deep down in her heart the girl was very grieved at the way she had left home, but outwardly kept her usual brightness, and was indeed truly delighted at now really being "one of the company."
"If ever I get rich," she exclaimed, "and have a coat-of-arms, I shall have a black-beetle on my quarterings, for it was a black-beetle which carried me here; a fine old ebony coachman! Oh, Mrs. Waring," and a sad note came into the girl's voice just then, "life often seems to me such a tangle and jingle!"
"Does it, dear? It has often seemed the same to me." Just then she caught sight of the star—she must not lose an opportunity—"but we must do our best to turn it into a song. We'll try together, won't we?"
A squeeze of the hand was all the answer Bessie was able to give.
It is strange that though we stand as units before God, the soul's progress can only be definitely marked by its relationship to others. By the way Phebe treated those who came under her influence was one test of her advance.
The only objection Nanna raised to this addition to the family was the fear lest Bessie and Jones should be thrown too much together.
"You must have noticed how she has ceased calling him 'Darling.'"
"They are less likely to come together if they are constantly in each other's society than if they only saw each other occasionally," was all Phebe said.
"I really think," remarked Nanna, "this house ought to be called a hospital for sick souls. First of all, you take this lonely soul in——"
"Why, it was you who took me in," interrupted Phebe.
"All lonely and forlorn," calmly continued Nanna, unheeding the interruption; "then Jones comes along, sore wounded in the battle, and now there's this poor young thing taken in with a broken wing. It's really nothing short of a hospital."
"Well, then," replied Phebe, "we'll call it Love's Hospital."
Jim Coates, the sick man whom Phebe Waring was called to visit, did not die; on the contrary, from the hour of her first visit he began to mend. Very often of an afternoon, when business was slack, she would go and have a talk with him, and nothing pleased him better than for her, instead of reading the Bible to him, to tell the stories out in her own words and with her own comments. No child ever drank in fairy stories more eagerly, and Phebe even discussed some infidel notions he had got hold of, overcoming many of his difficulties. If she had been told two months before that she could even attempt such things the firm answer would have been "Impossible!"
After Jim had regained strength to a certain measure, came the difficult question of getting work for him. Phebe at once thought of the ganger at the railway-works, and drove over to enlist his sympathies on behalf of Jim, frankly telling him all the story. The man listened respectfully, and then said, "Yes, I'll put him on; but he'd better keep his mouth shut as to how he got here, or the men will give him a lively time, I bet. And if he keeps true blue among this crew, then he's a Briton, I can tell yer, for they're the rummiest lot I've ever had. I go to chapel myself with the missis, but I don't let on to them I do."
"Do you think then, it is impossible to be a Christian and work with these men?" asked Phebe anxiously.
"I don't say as much as that," answered the man, nervously grinding his heel into the soil as he spoke, "only you have to keep your religion to yourself."
"Do you think that is possible?"
The talk was getting a little too personal, and the ganger, with an extra red face and a muttered "Don't know," turned away.
Jim Coates was delighted when Phebe took him the news. The distance from the town was no obstacle, he being the happy possessor of a "bone-shaker" bicycle.
"But," said Mrs. Waring, in a serious tone, "the ganger says you must keep your religion to yourself. Are you going to do that?"
"Not I; why should I?"
"Because they will give you a lively time."
"Well, let them; I'm not made of sugar."
"That's splendidly said; and you'll show your colours from the very first, won't you?"
"I should be a sneak if I didn't."
That same day at the tea-table Phebe gave an account of her day's mission. Meal-times were always made as interesting as possible. Nanna remarked that she wondered what the men camped out there did with themselves on Sundays.
Bessie suggested it would be a splendid thing if Mrs. Waring went over there on Sunday afternoons and talked to the men, adding, "I am sure she could do it splendidly, and they'd listen to her like anything; but there, that will never come to pass, because the Bible says women mustn't do that sort of thing."
Nanna was on the war-path instantly. "In what part of the Bible do you find that, I should like to know? That's nothing but the teaching of the evil one, just to hinder the Lord's work. I'd think twice, if I were you, before I'd do that sort of dirty work."
"It says women are not to speak in church; I'm sure it does," stammered Bessie, getting red and feeling uncomfortable.
"It says they are not to chatter in the church, and nothing more; and that's what they still do in the east, so they say, both men and women. You forget that the Bible gives particulars as to how women should dress when they pray or prophesy, that Jesus Himself told women to spread the news about Him, that God told Joel his daughters should prophesy, that Phillip's daughters were prophets and Deaconess Phebe a foreign missionary! You forget all that; but there, you are no worse than lots of other women. Women run women down just as much as men do. Often and often when women might have done a good piece of work for God they got behind that bit of bad translation, and, like dying ducks, gurgle something about it 'not being modest.' It's a good deal more immodest to aid Satan in his work! I've no patience with the majority of women, and I do hope, Bessie, you won't become one of the brainless sort that think a good deal more about the fit of a skirt and the cut of a sleeve than they do about God's Kingdom!"
Poor Bessie did not know what to answer. Fortunately the group broke up just then, and she followed Phebe out into Sunshine Patch, where little Jack was rolling in the grass, and where there was quite a show of spring's yellow and violet tints.
"Life doesn't seem to get any easier," said Bessie, as they seated themselves in the little arbour; "seems impossible to know sometimes what is exactly right to do. But Mrs. Colston never seems at a loss, everything seems pretty straightforward to her."
Phebe had been wondering how much of Nanna's speech had been intended for her own benefit. "You see," she answered, "Nanna is so much older than we are; her longer experience enables her to see more quickly through things, and on so many points she has fought her way to clear conclusions. We must not get discouraged. If we are willing to be trained by God all will come right in the end."
"Yes; but I want things to come right now, and I want to be always able to know at once what is right."
"I am afraid we all do, Bessie, dear; but we have to learn to curb our impatience. If we more constantly remembered that this life is only a training-time we should become more patient, and I find if I give myself time for a few moments of prayerful waiting I am taught which is the right thing to do."
"Ah, you're sweet and patient, that's it, and I am not."
"If it was a question of sweetness, dear heart, I think you'd gain the prize. I think it is more a question of being perfectly willing to let God train us."
"And do you think Mrs. Colston is right about women doing things just like men?"
"I think she is, though I never heard it put so forcibly before. You know it says we are 'all one in Christ Jesus.'"
"I love to hear you talk, and I love to hear Mrs. Colston, too. I do believe I shall be real good some day; but I must rush in now, or Reynolds will be up a tree and it will take me a whole day to get him down again," and off the impulsive Bessie ran.
If Bessie found it difficult to know what was the right thing to do Jim Coates did not. Right from the very first he had a plan ready, and carried it successfully through. The first thing he did was to write out the following notice with a pencil on a piece of tea-paper, and during the first dinner-hour he tacked it on to the end of one of the sheds.
"This is to give notice that Jim Coates, who is a Christian, has come here to work, and he thinks it would be so much easier for him to keep straight if he had a mate going the same way as he's trying to go. If there is another Christian in any of the gangs do find me out and give me a word. You'll know me by a piece of red ribbon in my waistcoat-buttonhole."Jim Coates."
"This is to give notice that Jim Coates, who is a Christian, has come here to work, and he thinks it would be so much easier for him to keep straight if he had a mate going the same way as he's trying to go. If there is another Christian in any of the gangs do find me out and give me a word. You'll know me by a piece of red ribbon in my waistcoat-buttonhole.
"Jim Coates."
At first it passed unnoticed, but the second day a man tore it down to read it more readily. After he had spelt the words out he called out in a loud voice: "I say, chaps, here's a lark! Do you just listen: it's as good as a play," and then in quite an affected tone of voice he read out poor Jim's brave notice.
"There he is!" exclaimed quite a score of voices, while as many derisive fingers were pointed in his direction, "there's the red ribbon," and then they gathered round their victim, and began giving him a warm time. One took away his ribbon, another tried to dry up imaginary tears from his face, and, last of all, they decided to carry him away to some pond and give him a ducking. Jim prayed as he never prayed before. It was so hard to keep down "swear words," but just as these rough fellows were about to carry their threat into execution the ganger, whose acquaintance Phebe had made, came along.
"What are you up to, lads?" seeing Jim on the ground in their midst. "None of your larks, I tell you, or it'll be the worse for some of you."
The words acted like magic. With a few sulky expressions, and a sly kick or two, they all moved on. The man who had taken the notice down tacked it up again—not through any spirit of restitution, but in the hope it would bring Jim further trouble.
"Better keep yourself to yourself," was the ganger's advice, "or they'll make this too hot for you."
The news of the "red ribbon man" and "the advertisement for a mate" spread all through the company, and men even came to have a look at Jim as a kind of curiosity.
Two days passed, but no mate turned up, though he had put up a second notice in another place. The ganger's advice did not deter or frighten him in the least. But on the third day, just as he was mounting his machine, a very big, lanky fellow came up behind him and said: "I'm the fellow you're looking for, if you've found no one better."
Jim grasped him heartily by the hand: "Bless God; I am so glad you've come. Now there are two of us we may find some more, and we might start a little prayer in the dinner-hour—a friend of mine (Mrs. Waring) says the railway-men do that in some places."
"But I'm a poor sort of a Christian," said the man; "bless you, I couldn't pray in a meeting; and as for doing what you've done, I should never have had the courage in a whole blue moon. Why, I've stared at that paper two whole blessed days before I was man enough to come up to speak to you. I was afraid the fellows would see me."
"What's your name?" asked Jim.
"Dick—Dick Witherson."
"Well, Dick, don't you go worrying 'cause you didn't speak to me sooner. I'm only too thankful you've come now. And you know the bravest disciple of all was the one that was at first the biggest coward, so don't you lose heart. Where shall we meet to-morrow in the dinner-hour?" The place was agreed on, and then they parted.
The very next day a third mate was found, and this gave wonderful courage to Dick, almost transforming him into another sort of man.
The following day was Saturday. Work was knocked off at twelve; so there was no time for meeting together again till Monday.
Early that Saturday afternoon Mrs. Coates, breathless and agitated, came into Mrs. Waring's shop and, seeing Phebe behind the counter, went up to her at once, exclaiming, "Oh, Mrs. Waring, can you help me! Jim's never come home; he's quite an hour late. I know they often have to wait a good while to be paid, but that's not all. A lad as plays with my Freddie says he saw him go into 'The Rose in June' about half-an-hour ago. O God, help me; it's all over with him if he's gone in there!"
"It cannot be true."
"The lad says he was sure it was him. Oh, Mrs. Waring, would you mind going in to see if he's there, and try to get him to come home? I daren't go in by myself; he'd give me such a time afterwards if I did."
"Do you want me to go into the public-house?"
"Yes, if you would; we might get him out then before he had spent all his money and was quite drunk. Do you mind? I know it is asking a great deal."
Phebe paused for a moment; but when she looked up at the star she at once answered: "Yes, I will come with you."
It was a very busy time, she could ill be spared, but what was all that compared with the rescue of a soul!
A few minutes afterwards these two women had passed through the swing-doors of "The Rose in June"—the first time Phebe had ever entered a public-house.
No sooner had the doors swung to behind them than they were face to face with Jim! To say that a straw would have knocked the man down is but a faint description of his utter astonishment.
"What—what—is the matter!" he gasped. There was not the slightest smell of drink about him.
"Oh, come outside! Come outside, do!" exclaimed Mrs. Coates, bursting into tears.
It did not take the three long to get the other side of the doors, and then, standing on the doorstep, Mrs. Waring began to explain: "You must forgive us; we were afraid——"
"I understand it all, Mrs. Waring," broke in Jim. "Don't you make any trouble of it. You thought I'd come in to have a drink; but I hadn't. I only came in after some of my mates to keep them straight, if I could."
"But, ought you to put yourself in the way of temptation?"
"Bless you, the drink's no snare to me now. I hate even the smell of it. I thought——" and then he faltered.
"I am so sorry," said Phebe Waring, putting her hand on Jim's arm.
Just then who should go by but Stephen Collins and Bessie's superintendent. The former raised his hat and gave Phebe a smile; but the latter passed on without any recognition, except for an extra look of grimness on his face.
"No, you're not to say you're sorry," said Jim, magnanimously. "It was only natural you should think it queer. As for my old woman here, no wonder she was nervous, after all she's suffered. And I thank you with all my heart, Mrs. Waring, for coming here, for it shows that if I had indeed gone crooked you wouldn't have given a fellow up."
"A very strange place for a woman who wishes to be thought respectable to be found in!" said the superintendent to Stephen. "Those three had just come out of that public-house."
"Just the very place Jesus would have been found in," answered Stephen drily.
No flower ever comes up to perfection through one single influence; many powers and companionships, great and tiny, unite to complete its beauty. The winds rock it, the rains wash it, the breezes fan it, the dew kisses it, the sun smiles on it, the clouds give rest to it, the soil feeds it, neighbouring shrubs shelter it, its leaves protect it, the insects enrich it—and over all is the Great Gardener.
Thus groweth to perfect grace a little earthly flower.
Flowers of the Kingdom grow in like manner.
If Bessie was not a success amid dishes and brooms she certainly was behind the counter; many a customer came again and again, attracted by the bright, sunny assistant, and would even patiently wait till she was disengaged rather than be served by any one else.
In the home circle she was a constant source of pure merriment and joy; very seldom, indeed, was there anything like a cloud upon her spirits as there used so often to be, and this was largely owing to the fact that she was appreciated, that there was now-a-days no fear of being snubbed and scolded. Nanna certainly occasionally "sat upon her," but then it was always done with a smile, and Bessie knew right well every word of "the dear lecture" was uttered because Nanna wished her to be "a right sort of a woman." And then there was the daily inspiration of being with Mrs. Waring, who never lectured; sometimes she would give a look, but that was all, and then there was always love in the look. The girl often wondered why there could not have been the same state of matters at home, and never hesitated to take the most of the blame to herself. She went in home every other day, always with the same determination to be on her good behaviour, but never met with anything like success. It was a long time before she found out the reason of this—it was because the atmosphere of the homes was different. Some flowers can only bloom under certain conditions. One home was Bethany, the other was Gadara.
All the fun and merriment Bessie went in for was not purely spontaneous; knowing the weight of trouble her friend had to carry, she, on set purpose, planned to bring the sparkle to Phebe's eye and the laugh to her lips. Her keen sense of the ludicrous and her ready wit always made her efforts appear natural. One day an old man—an old bachelor—came into the shop, and complained that so many people owed him money, mentioning one, a widow woman, but he added, "I shall stand it no longer, I shall 'court' her." Of course, he meant the county court. When Bessie retailed this at dinner, she described his look of blank wonder when she offered to be bridesmaid! "And do you know, that poor old dear never grasped what I meant, and I do believe he went away thinking I had made him an offer of marriage. I do indeed. I must not do any more adumbrations again."
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Colston, nearly choking.
"I thought you'd think that was a good sort of a word. I only got hold of it to-day, and I had to turn the dictionary up myself to know what it means. It means 'to shadow forth.' I must not speak in shadow henceforth, but in plain English. Yes, I like that word. I mean to make up a list of nice-sounding words to bring out on special occasions."
"Mind they fit in properly," said Reynolds.
"I shan't trouble much about that," said the irrepressible Bessie, "a misfit often gives piquancy to a sentence. Only yesterday old Mrs. Bennett told me that the doctor had told her as how 'her calculation was that slow she was in a very bad state indeed.' I didn't tell the poor old dear she meant circulation, because I thought it would hurt her feelings. But I just thought that word delicious, and told her she'd have to hurry up with her figures."
Had any one asked Bessie just then if she was a Christian, her answer might have been a "No," but that she was not far from the Kingdom is certain from the fact that she was constantly trying to frame her life to "high issues." "If I can do nothing else to please Jesus," she said to herself, "I can try to let folks have a bright time." If Bessie gained inspiration from Mrs. Waring, it is equally true Phebe gained the same from her. It was largely owing to Bessie's brightness that hope was still strong within her, that she went often to her work with a true zest, and that the sunny aspect of things took first place with her.
Bessie had a gift which singers, orators and philosophers might envy, but it was Phebe who had first given the girl the idea that she could use it to the glory of God. One old woman, whose blood was thin and cold, declared that to be with Bessie for a quarter of an hour was "like sitting in a sunny garden a-smelling of roses." Phebe's enjoyment was something similar, but she had herself placed the seat and planted the roses, though it never struck her like that.
Very often Phebe chided herself for being what she thought too gleesome in her ways, and one night after supper she had a talk with Nanna about it, when all the others had retired to bed. "Do you think I am getting too frivolous, Nanna? I often find myself laughing and even joking, and then I think how unbecoming it is for a matron like me, with all the responsibilities of a business resting upon me, and"—a sigh and a pause—"with such a shadow on my life, to be acting like that."
"How do you think you ought to act, then, dearie?" lovingly stroking Phebe's hair. They were sitting in the old fashion, close by the fire, Phebe on a low stool, leaning on Nanna's knee.
"Why, with something of a calm, quiet dignity," looking up with a smile.
"Do you think that quite fits in with the idea of rejoicing ever more?"
"Hardly."
"Or with, that 'your joy may be full'?"
"No. But, Nanna, dear, I don't want you to ask me questions. I want to know what you think yourself. And I want you to remember that mine is a sort of special case, that might not come under general rules."
"Excuse me, I don't think yours is a special case; there's many women with sorer troubles than yours. Besides, if no one was joyful except those who had no burdens, I wonder who'd be joyful! Not many, if any, for burdens come to everybody."
Phebe was silent, for we all, somehow or other, cling to the idea our burden is a specially heavy one.
Then Nanna went on: "You want me to say what I think. Well, you must not scold if you don't like what I am going to say, seeing you would have it; but I've been thinking instead of you being too frisky, you're not joyful enough. You've got five young folks immediately under your control, not to speak of others, and for their sakes—if no other reason—you've got to be joyful. And then there's another reason—you profess to be a Christian, and they're shams and nothing else who don't go in for delight-work—delighting themselves in God. The idea that your trouble should be a sort of black veil to you is ridiculous. If you let your trouble shadow your life it's as good as saying God is not able to take care of you, and if you let it hinder you in your life it gives the victory to Satan, and seems to say trouble has more power over you than God's peace. No, our dear Heavenly Father knows what it is to be merry, and He expects His children to be merry too. So mind you are."
"You dear, sunny preacher," said Phebe, reaching up and kissing her.
"Ah, I do wish folks would go in for more joy. I do believe we could do with joy-missions and joy-missionaries."
"You are one already."
Again there was silence, and then Phebe said: "Of course, it's not as though I had no hope at all. Ralph may come back; sometimes I think that loneliness will waken up his love again, for they say love never dies."
"No love dies," replied Nanna, "but it changes. There are a good many sorts of love. But even, dearie, if that hope never comes about, you've got God and Jack to hope in. Now, I may ask a question, mayn't I?"
"You know you may, you old darling Nanna."
"Are you going in for that 'calm, quiet dignity' affair, or are you going to be the Lord's happy-hearted Phebe?"
"The latter, God helping me," in a quiet whisper.
The next evening there was another conference, but this time it was a conference of three, Jim Coates having come to report progress.
There was now a little band of four Christians among the navvies. They had held two meetings, at which a chapter had been read, and two had prayed. Their mates had not yet learnt the secret of these gatherings; lively times were expected when they did.
Then Jim went on to say how he and Dick had visited the camp on Sunday and found a dreadful state of matters. "Talk o' heathen folks, they're not in it, not a bit of it, and never anybody comes along to say a word to 'em; not even to give 'em a tract. And you should hear 'em talk about religious folks, it 'ud fair make your hair stand on end, that it would. I've been thinking, Mrs. Waring——" and then poor Jim came to a standstill, and sat nervously twirling his hat in his hands. "I've been thinking," he started again, and again there came a pause.
"You needn't be afraid of us, Mr. Coates," said Nanna, "we're only two poor lone women that a mouse would scare out of our wits."
"I don't know about that," said Jim, with a laugh. The bit of fun set him quite at his ease. "I've been thinking that if only we could get the use of a shed we might hold a meeting there on Sundays."
"I'm sure my friend the ganger would arrange that all right for you," put in Phebe.
"Yes, I think he would," replied Jim; "it wasn't on that point I wasn't sure, but on something else."
"And what is that?" inquired Phebe, feeling quite curious as to what could be making Jim shy.
"Well, it's this. I've been thinking if only you'd come and talk to the men as you've talked to me, it might be the making of some of 'em."
"That is impossible!" said Phebe, rising up from her chair in her agitation, "impossible."
The star was forgotten.
Nanna was darning some towels. As Phebe uttered the last word, she let the work drop and looked up, then instantly picked it up again and went on, without uttering a word. Phebe instinctively knew Nanna did not agree with her, and just a little feeling of resentment took possession of her. Nanna ought to have sympathised with her, and protected her from such an overwhelming request.
"I'm sorry," said Jim; "p'raps you'll think better of it a little later on. I can't tell you how sorry I am."
"I cannot help it. I am altogether unequal and unfitted for such a work. But that does not say I will not help you in some other way, for I do admire your earnestness so much. I will do my very best to find some one who would undertake it."
"Well, that certainly is the next best thing," said Jim, feeling considerably relieved, and with that understanding they parted.
Nanna still went on with her darning.
"You do not think I have done right, Nanna?"
"No, I do not."
"But it would not be possible for me to do such a thing."
"God has opened a door for you, and you have put out your hand to close it."
"Don't say that. You cannot be sure the door was meant for me; perhaps it is that I am to find some one; that is to be my share of the work."
"Child, I have more faith in you than that, and I do not think that is the way God works."
It struck Phebe just then how unfair she had been to Nanna in her thoughts; instead of feeling aggrieved she ought to have felt flattered that her old friend had such confidence in her abilities. It would not do to make any confession, but she put her arms round Nanna's neck and kissed her as though to atone for the wrong she had done.
"Ah, dearie, you've stood to-night, I'm thinking," Nanna continued, "where Moses stood and where Jeremiah stood, and you've made the same excuses they did."
Just then Phebe caught sight of the star.
Did she hear over again the old command, "On whatsoever errand I shall send thee, thou shalt go"? If she did, she certainly made no answer.
It was a long time that night before Phebe got to sleep. She had even found it difficult to pray; this she tried to attribute to the unrest Nanna had caused her. Over and over again did she return to Jim's request, and each time seemed to find a fresh obstacle; the distance was surely one great obstacle.
She tried her level best to rest on the firm conviction the work was not hers, and then to consider how she was to make good her promise to find some one whowouldfeel called to do it.
Would it be any good to appeal to the church? She shrank from that, remembering her late experience.
What could she do! Did God intend to convince her the call was hers by making it impossible for her to find a substitute?
All at once she remembered a committee had recently been formed in the town consisting of representatives from various bodies, to attend to certain social and religious wants of the district—the very thing needed! The first thing she would do when morning light appeared, would be to write to that committee, and with that restful thought she fell asleep.
The letter was written and posted directly after breakfast, but not a word to Nanna did she say about it. What a delight it would be when she could all at once announce the fact that this important committee had received her suggestion with grateful thanks and were commencing work at once!
This said committee happened to meet on the following day. Stephen Collins was a member of it. Mr. Bell, Bessie's superintendent, was the honorary secretary.
Phebe's letter was the first to be read when the item "Correspondence" on the agenda was reached.
In a very pompous voice the letter was read aloud. It had taken the writer more than half-an-hour to frame, but it did not take many seconds to read. This is a copy of it:
"Dear Sirs,"My attention has lately been drawn to the sad state of matters among the men working at the railway-works at ——, especially on Sundays. I believe the use of a shed could be obtained if workers could be found to conduct a service there. I need hardly say that for such men it would need to be a bright one, and conducted on as fresh lines as possible. It is four miles from Hadley, not too far for a strong man to walk. If you would take up this work, I am sure it would be fulfilling the object for which you were called together, and would bring honour to God. It seems certainly very discreditable to the Christians of this town that no hand has yet been stretched out to help these men. Will you not retrieve our good name? If I can be of any assistance or give any suggestions, I shall only be too happy to do so."Yours, in Christian service,"Phebe Waring."
"Dear Sirs,
"My attention has lately been drawn to the sad state of matters among the men working at the railway-works at ——, especially on Sundays. I believe the use of a shed could be obtained if workers could be found to conduct a service there. I need hardly say that for such men it would need to be a bright one, and conducted on as fresh lines as possible. It is four miles from Hadley, not too far for a strong man to walk. If you would take up this work, I am sure it would be fulfilling the object for which you were called together, and would bring honour to God. It seems certainly very discreditable to the Christians of this town that no hand has yet been stretched out to help these men. Will you not retrieve our good name? If I can be of any assistance or give any suggestions, I shall only be too happy to do so.
"Yours, in Christian service,"Phebe Waring."
"Yours, in Christian service,"Phebe Waring."
"There are your marching orders, gentlemen, and a captain ready provided for you," said the honorary secretary sarcastically.
"I do not think that letter calls for any such remark," said Stephen Collins. He was rather aghast at Mr. Bell's words, knowing nothing of the stone Bessie had thrown into the waters. Mr. Bell gave him a very fixed stare, causing Stephen Collins' face to grow very red. "I think it is a splendid piece of work she points out, and one that we should in no wise pass by."
"I think we have quite enough work upon our hands already," remarked the chairman.
"Excuse me, sir," said Stephen, "I thought our duty was first to ascertain how much needed to be done, and then to confer how best it is to be accomplished. We are not here to do so much and no more."
"No one said we were," was the testy answer.
"It's a fine state of matters," remarked one member who always acted as echo to the secretary, "if we are to be told our duty by a woman."
"And by such a woman," remarked the secretary.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded Stephen.
"Oh, I forgot she was a special friend of yours; I am very sorry if I offend"—this more blandly—"but I mean this: a woman whose husband was obliged to leave her, even forfeiting thereby a profitable business, and who is seen standing talking at the door of a low public-house, is not the kind of woman to do the Deborah act for us. That's what I mean," bringing his hand forcibly down upon the table. "Indeed, I know it for a fact that she was refused admittance as teacher to a certain Sunday School in the town, where she had offered her services."
"That is a libel upon a good Christian woman," protested Stephen.
"Gentlemen, I think we had better pass on to the next business," said the chairman.
"No, sir," said Stephen, restraining himself with great effort, "I am about to move a resolution, and it is that an answer be sent to Mrs. Waring, thanking her for drawing our attention to this call for service, and assuring her it shall at once be considered how it can be met."
This was seconded by a special friend Stephen happened to have sitting next to him.
"And I beg to move an amendment, Mr. Chairman," said the echo; "it is that a reply be sent to Mrs. Waring to this effect:" and then he read a letter which all knew Mr. Bell had previously written and passed on to him.
"'Dear Madam,"'Your esteemed communication to hand. It is strange, whoever your informant was, that we were not the first to be put in possession of the facts. We are obliged to you for your kind offer, but it is not work at all suitable for women, and indeed the workers would have to be very carefully chosen. At present we have sufficient work in Hadley to occupy us. Perhaps at some future time, when our committee is enlarged, we may be able to take in both Hadley and district. We are, madam, yours faithfully, on behalf of the committee, etc., etc.'"
"'Dear Madam,
"'Your esteemed communication to hand. It is strange, whoever your informant was, that we were not the first to be put in possession of the facts. We are obliged to you for your kind offer, but it is not work at all suitable for women, and indeed the workers would have to be very carefully chosen. At present we have sufficient work in Hadley to occupy us. Perhaps at some future time, when our committee is enlarged, we may be able to take in both Hadley and district. We are, madam, yours faithfully, on behalf of the committee, etc., etc.'"
The amendment was carried with only three dissentients out of fifteen.
One of the members remarked that no doubt the application would have met with a different reception if it had come from some other quarter.
"Mark my words, gentlemen," said Mr. Bell, "Mrs. Waring will commence the work herself. What she wanted was to be able to do so under our auspices."
"And now," said the echo, with a drawl, "she will put it about that she was obliged to do so because those dreadful men were too lazy and indifferent. Trust a woman to make her side right."
Stephen said nothing; he prayed to be quiet, and the prayer was answered. Love urged him to vindicate the honour of this defenceless woman, but wisdom said, "If you love her, you will be silent."
All this part of the committee's business was duly retailed afterwards by Mr. Bell to Mrs. and Miss Bell.
From that time, although Phebe never knew the reason why exactly, she lost four good weekly customers. How many more these influenced could not be reckoned, and in addition to this several people who had been in the habit of saying "Good-day" to her as she met them in the street, now passed her by with the coolest of nods.
The circle in the waters was spreading.
When the committee's letter was received Phebe was more than disappointed; it was like a stab to the heart. For a little while the keen pain was followed by a dazed feeling. It was some time before she recovered sufficiently to fully understand the letter; then two conclusions were arrived at: the first was the committee had no sympathy with woman's work (it was entirely composed of men, although more than half the work they had under consideration had to do with women and children), and the other was that they had the same prejudice against her that Bessie's superintendent had.
Then came three anxious questions. Should she show the letter to Nanna? Having failed to find a substitute, had she now to consider the call a personal one? How far was she justified in allowing men's prejudices to hinder her?
The first was soon answered. It would be a poor return for all Nanna's love to keep this fresh trouble from her; besides, Nanna would be sure to supply answers quickly to the other questions.
"But shall I be ready to accept her answers?" Phebe asked herself. "I'll wait and see; I am sure about nothing that concerns myself just now."
That evening, at their usual time of confidences, and in their usual attitude, Phebe handed the letter to Nanna, giving no word of explanation. Nanna got her glasses, and began at once to read. It took her a minute or so to grasp whom the letter was from, and she turned more than once to the heading of the paper.
"My poor child! You dear Phebe! But never mind; let us put this cold-blooded letter on the fire. Think of it no more, and let us go back to where we were the night Coates came. See, shall I?" holding the letter over the fire.