The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Little MissisThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Little MissisAuthor: Charlotte SkinnerRelease date: February 24, 2011 [eBook #35383]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE MISSIS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Little MissisAuthor: Charlotte SkinnerRelease date: February 24, 2011 [eBook #35383]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: The Little Missis
Author: Charlotte Skinner
Author: Charlotte Skinner
Release date: February 24, 2011 [eBook #35383]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE MISSIS ***
CHAPTER I. HIS PURPOSECHAPTER II. THE HOME-COMINGCHAPTER III. A GARDEN LEVÉECHAPTER IV. A TESTING TIMECHAPTER V. WILL GOD ANSWER?CHAPTER VI. THE DARKNESS DEEPENSCHAPTER VII. THE LAME SHEPHERDCHAPTER VIII. A TWOFOLD PARTNERSHIPCHAPTER IX. A WOMAN'S WHIMSCHAPTER X. A GATHERED FLOWERCHAPTER XI. IS GOD GOOD?CHAPTER XII. THE STONE THROWN IN THE WATERSCHAPTER XIII. LOVE'S HOSPITALCHAPTER XIV. AN UNFORTUNATE ENCOUNTERCHAPTER XV. JOY-MISSIONARIESCHAPTER XVI. THE CALL OF DEBORAHCHAPTER XVII. THE GOING FORTH OF DEBORAHCHAPTER XVIII. HER NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOURCHAPTER XIX. THE NEW CLUB-ROOMCHAPTER XX. A STRANGE KIND OF PREACHINGCHAPTER XXI. PARTNERS!CHAPTER XXII. LIGHT ON THE PATHWAYCHAPTER XXIII. LOYAL LOVECHAPTER XXIV. RECOGNISEDCHAPTER XXV. BESSIE COMES TO THE RESCUECHAPTER XXVI. THE HOME-COMINGCHAPTER XXVII. RALPH STARTS ON ANOTHER JOURNEYCHAPTER XXVIII. OLIVE LEAVES AND LAUREL LEAVESCHAPTER XXIX. CROWNED WITH JOY
"'See how carefully he is helping her out of the cab.'"
"Phebe was in the shop taking a general look round"
"'Bessie, you are to tell me right out what is troubling you'"
"'Let us put this cold-blooded letter on the fire'"
"She caused the cup with its contents to fall into Phebe's lap"
"He was standing on the pavement, looking a sad, solitary figure"
Creak—creak—creak! went the old mangle—one of the box sort, weighted with stones.
"Are you dreadfully busy, Mrs. Colston?" called out a clear, young voice.
"Bless me, is that you, Miss Phebe?" and the mangle was suddenly silent. "No, I'm not dreadfully busy, and in two minutes I was going to make myself some tea; and if you——"
"Oh, won't I, rather! I should just think I will, you dearie; and I'll get it ready, too, while you play your last tune on your old organ."
Creak, creak, went the mangle, clatter went the cups, and in less than ten minutes the two were seated at a little round three-legged table enjoying tea and talk.
"Can't think what's the matter with you to-day, Miss Phebe. Have you got a new dress on, or have you been doing something to your complexion, or what is it?" asked Mrs. Colston, looking very intently across the table.
"I have got my old dress on, and have not even washed my face in dew."
"Well, then, what is it?—Ah, I know! you've fallen in love."
"Yes, I fell in love with you a long time ago," answered her visitor demurely; "but I see you've guessed my secret, you are so clever. The fact is, I have got two secrets to tell you. I wonder which I should bring out first!"
The old mangle woman got up from her arm-chair, and, going to where the girl was sitting, took the fair young face into her hands and kissed the right cheek, saying, as the tears started to her eyes: "There, my dear; that's in place of your mother's kiss, and," kissing the other cheek, "that's for myself."
Resuming her seat there was silence for a minute or two, and then Mrs. Colston, said: "I think I can guess both your secrets. The first is, you have given yourself to Jesus; and the second is, you have promised to marry Stephen Collins."
"Oh, dear, no," exclaimed the girl, rising from her seat. "Why, he has never asked me. Besides—no, I have promised to marry Ralph Waring."
"Ralph Waring!" repeated the old woman, and then there was an awkward silence.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Colston, you do not think I have done wrong, do you?" exclaimed the girl, sinking on her knees in front of her old friend, "say you do not!"
"No, no, dearie; I don't exactly, but it's took me by surprise," and putting both her arms round her neck she kissed her again. "No, dearie, don't think that. Ralph is a very good young man, but I know very well how much Steve loves you."
"It is strange," mused the girl; "Ralph asked me if I loved him more than I did Stephen, and I said of course I did." Then, rising to her feet, she said with a ring of pride in her voice, "You know Ralph is so clever; you should hear him give some of his lectures! He is a great favourite at several men's meetings. His great ambition is to be a Member of Parliament. He is sure to be mayor some day."
"He does a good business, doesn't he?"
"Just fancy, now, you thinking about that; I see, after all, you have an eye to money. I never thought it of you," and then Miss Phebe laughed quite naturally, and the little cloud which seemed to have risen between them cleared away and the sun shone again.
"Why shouldn't I? We can't live without it—but bless me, your cup is empty: what can I be thinking of?"
Phebe commenced drinking her second cup, never noticing that her companion had not touched the first one yet. "Now tell me all about the other secret: that's more interesting to me, you know, for it's so long since I fell in love I forget what it's like."
"But it is a long time since you first loved Jesus, and you don't forget what that is like."
"Ah! that's different, you see. He never changes; men and women do. But never you mind about my love affairs: tell me yours."
Phebe rose and went and stood in front of the window, looking into the little bricked yard through which she had entered the house. There were some scarlet geraniums in the window doing duty in place of a curtain, and her cheeks seemed to have caught the hue of the blossoms.
"You know for a long time I have wanted to be a Christian."
"Yes;" and Mrs. Colston poked the fire during the pause. It was strange for Miss Phebe to continue the conversation while her back was towards her friend; many people can speak openly about earthly love matters, but are shy when the Great Lover is concerned.
"All at once I seemed to understand wishing was not sufficient, that a definite act was needed. So the night before last I got out of bed and knelt down by my old easy-chair, and told Jesus I gave myself entirely to Him, that He should be my dear Master, and that I would be willing to do all He wished."
How well the old friend could see the scene! She knew the room so well. The old chair was covered with brown leather, and it was the chair the girl's mother had died in. By its side stood a little writing-table, and on the wall above were portraits—mostly cut from newspapers and magazines—of some eminent men and women whom the girl regarded as heroes and heroines. An old apple-tree grew close by the window, and in the summer-time little could be seen of the outside world but its green leaves and greener fruit. When the wind blew the boughs tapped, tapped at the window-panes, but Phebe would not have them cut. "I like to think," said she, "they are messengers come to tell me the old tree's secrets."
"Since then," the girl continued, "I have been so happy; and is it not funny," turning now towards the fire, "that the very next day Ralph should ask me to be his wife? So I have given myself away twice since I last saw you."
"I wonder if there is anything left of you for me?" Mrs. Colston asked, with a twinkling smile.
"Yes; I'm still yours. I could never forget how you loved me when I was a little crying mite. You gave me two kisses; I'll give you two—one for being good to me when I was a troublesome juvenile, and one for being good to me now I am a proper grown-up. But I have not finished my story, and if you interrupt me again I shall turn the mangle instead of talking to you. I think I told you a long time ago how much I wanted to write a book—indeed, I have tried, and sent little chapters of it to editors in London, but they have always been returned with thanks. Now you see Jesus has opened up my way to serve Him. I am going to help Ralph with his lectures and speeches—he says I shall—and I shall go with him to all his engagements. He says those who ask him must ask me, too; and, after all, to live a life for Jesus is better than writing a book for Him."
"Comes to about the same thing, I should think."
"I am sure you will be happy now I am a Christian"—this with a coaxing voice.
"But you are a very young Christian."
"A young Christian! Whatever do you mean?"
"My dear child, you have only just started. Why, even the daisies don't come up all at once: flowers and fruits that do, don't come to much."
"If that is what you mean," Phebe replied, with a sigh of relief, "I don't mind."
"Why, you think of my work," the old woman continued; "I often do. The clothes are not finished when the dirt's out, and you are not a finished Christian as soon as your sin's forgiven. The clothes have to be bleached and dried, and then there comes the getting out of the creases, and so I mangle them and mangle them."
"But look here," said Phebe, laughing, "you don't mean to say I have got to be mangled?"
"You need not laugh, my dear, for I am quite sure if Jesus was to speak just now He'd use my old mangle for a text. I know He would; and why shouldn't He, just as well as using the woman's candle and yeast, and the man's fishing-net and pruning-knife."
"I should not like to think I had to be mangled."
"It's more than mangling, Miss Phebe, for if we want to put a nice polish on the clothes we use a hot iron to them. You are used to the thought of being like gold in the fire, and a lump of clay in the potter's hand: why not think of yourself as under my roller? I often and often think, as I smoothes out the marks, and stretches the corners, and turns, and turns, that is just how Jesus is doing with me."
"H'm," mused Phebe, "I suppose it's another way of describing tribulation. But do you suppose everybody has tribulation?"
"I do; there isn't a plant in my little garden I haven't used the scissors to."
"Ah, well, I suppose we must submit."
"Yes, dearie; and we must look beyond to the afterwards. When we see what the Lord has made us we shall thank Him. Why, the things that I carefully pack in the baskets are hardly like the same things I take out, they look that nice."
"Do you think I shall have much tribulation, dear Mrs. Colston?" asked Phebe anxiously, placing her hand on her old friend's shoulder.
"I don't know for certain; the Lord only can tell that. But," looking up lovingly into the face of her favourite, "don't you worry, He'll help you right through, sure enough."
When Miss Phebe had taken her departure and the mangle had started again its painful song, the old woman said to herself: "Strikes me she will have a good deal; but it will be because the Lord wants her to be extra polished. She's real damask, she is; worth taking a good deal of trouble with. Some folks are only like dusters, and if the Lord was like me He'd not take much trouble with them. But, bless me, it's a good thing the Lord is not like me, it 'ud be a poor look-out for some folks if He was."
As Miss Phebe walked home she said to herself: "I thought it was all settled, but it would seem I have only just commenced." That night she again knelt by the old arm-chair. It had always seemed she could pray best there, for it recalled the time when she had knelt at her mother's knees, and had first learnt to talk to Jesus. "Dear Lord," she prayed, "make me a true Christian; and help me to be perfectly willing to let Thee do it in whatever way you think will be best for me."
A mile away, in a farmhouse on a height over-looking the little town of Hadley, another earnest soul knelt in prayer: "Lord, help me to put her out of my thoughts. If this is allowed by Thee as discipline, make me willing to bear it. Lord, help me, but Thou knowest how much I loved her!" and a sob, which would have broken his mother's heart if she had heard it, escaped from Stephen Collins as he looked forward into the future.
At the foot of the same hill, in the back parlour of a thriving shop, a young fellow was counting his day's takings, and when he had finished, he drew his chair up to the fire to think things over. "Steve Collins thought he was sure of her, I know he did; but I got the start of him for once. I wonder if Phebe's father is really well off! I have got on very well so far, but it is slow work in this sleepy place."
The gardener pegs some of his plants down to the ground: some he places by a south wall, some in open spaces where the north wind has free access. He has a purpose with each, and whatever he does is for their "making."
"I say, mother, they've come!"
"Well, let them. What do I care?"
"Oh, but just come and look a minute. See how carefully he is helping her out of the cab. She's a sight too good for him. There! I've got a brilliant idea. I'll go and give them a tune. She shall enter her bridal home to the strains of music," and away downstairs Miss Bessie Marchant rushed. She was the daughter of Mr. Marchant, chemist, Ralph Waring's neighbour.
"What is that girl playing?" exclaimed Mrs. Marchant a few minutes afterwards, as she was preparing supper in the kitchen.
Phill Marchant was sitting at the table working out a sum on his slate. "Why, it's the 'Dead March.' Is her kitten dead?"
"That girl will be the death of me. Bessie, do you hear, stop that noise, will you? Haven't you one spark of human kindness left?"
"No, mother," still going on playing, "I gave all the sparks to Phill."
"Stop playing, will you? or I'll box your ears! It's perfectly cruel. The poor thing will have enough to put up with, without you worrying her with that bad omen."
Bessie suddenly stopped, not because she was afraid of her ears being boxed, but deep down in her heart, where a good big piece of human kindness was thriving splendidly, in spite of her mother's fears, questionings had arisen lest she might not be defeating her own object.
"I don't want to worry her; you know that. It is a funny world to live in if you cannot play the 'Dead March' when you like!"
"You just march off and water the plants in the greenhouse, and don't interfere with what isn't your business."
"All right, but I'll——" What exactly Miss Bessie was going still further to do, her mother did not catch, and it was not Miss Bessie's intention that she should.
It was a drizzling wet night when Phebe Waring arrived at her new home. According to strict economical household arrangements, there was no bright fire in the back parlour to make the room look cosy, because it was near the end of June. The floor was covered with oil-cloth, no rug anywhere, and a table, small sideboard, and six small chairs with American leather cushions made up the whole of the furniture.
"Not very homelike," Phebe thought, "but there, how could I expect bachelor's quarters to look anything different?"
For supper the little maid had placed on the table a large white jug of lemon water, a piece of cheese, and some bread and butter.
"There's a hamper for you, ma'am, from your father's: came about an hour ago."
Quickly taking off her hat and jacket Phebe opened the hamper, and when she looked inside the tears came into her eyes; it was the first glimpse of anything homelike she had seen for a fortnight.
A bunch of wallflowers came first, then a large pat of butter, a home-made cake, a roasted chicken, a piece of ham, and a large box of little gooseberry pies. "Dear old Sis, how thoughtful of her!" Soon the table was spread with the feast the loving sister in the old home had prepared, and to make the room look still further homelike Phebe got Janie, the maid, to light a fire in the empty, rusty grate.
"It was quite fortunate I did not order anything further into the house," said Ralph.
In the morning the room looked as cheerless as it did the night before, and Phebe's heart seemed to shrink as she noticed that the window looked into a yard, surrounded with high walls, and that nothing was growing in it but grass and dandelions. How different from the outlook over the well-kept garden at home! "But I'll soon make it look different," said the hopeful Phebe to herself.
The only bright spot in the room was a bunch of beautiful pansies lying on the table; the wallflowers had been taken upstairs. As Phebe picked them up she noticed a slip of paper pushed beneath the string with which they were tied, and on it was written:
"From Neighbour Bessie. I do hope you will be my friend."
"Ah, that must be Mrs. Marchant's daughter, next door," thought Phebe, "I have heard Ralph speak of her. Of course we shall be friends. What beautiful flowers! Pansies—see, they mean 'heart's ease.' Did Bessie think—but of course she did not. She would not know their meaning."
During breakfast Ralph put into her hand a black-edged envelope, saying, "See what I have had sent me. A funny sort of congratulation!"
Inside the envelope was a card, bordered with ink lines, and in the centre, in letters to imitate printing, were the words:
"Somebody thinks I'm going to be a poor martyr," said Ralph, putting on a very solemn look. Phebe also looked solemn, but her solemnity seemed real.
"I don't know about that," she replied, "it seems to me it is my liberty which is referred to. If your liberty is interred in your house it is still yours."
"Oh, dear, no; everybody knows women always have their own way—they never lose their liberty," and a slight tone of anger was in the voice, which made Phebe look up in surprise. "But there, it is only somebody's stupid joke; not worth thinking about," and he tore the card into shreds, feeling a trifle sorry he had spoken in the way he had done.
Breakfast over, Ralph said: "And now, dearest, I should like a little business talk with you, if you can spare the time. You know we have had so much lovemaking to do we have had no opportunity of talking together about our business."
"'Our business,'" thought Phebe, "that sounds nice."
"The fact is," said Ralph, when the breakfast table had been cleared and they were alone, "I want to enlarge the business. I want to throw this room into the shop, take the house next door, which is to let, and start a grocery trade, too. Then my idea is to have a horse and cart and go into the villages for orders—many of them are growing considerably, and I think I could work up a splendid connection. Later on I should try to sell the whole affair, and start somewhere different from this sleepy place."
"Somewhere different! I should never like to leave Hadley."
"Of course not, women are never ambitious."
"But I am very ambitious, and should like you to have a large business. How could you possibly leave all your public work here? and I could never leave Hadley while my poor old sick father lives."
"We'll not worry about that," said Ralph, fearing he had gone too far. "We need not discuss that for years. I am glad to hear you say you would like me to have a big business; but how, without more capital, am I going to manage it?"
"That certainly is a very difficult question."
There was silence for a minute, and then Ralph, evidently disappointed she had not said more, asked: "Can you not suggest anything?"
"No, I cannot; but if it is God's will He will show you how it can be done."
"God won't do for us what we can do for ourselves," he answered a little impatiently. "I hardly like mentioning it, but haven't you some money in the bank?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Three hundred pounds. It was my mother's money; and the interest has helped to buy my clothes, because father could not afford to give us much pocket-money."
"Couldn't I have that money? Of course, I shall give you pocket-money enough."
"You can have some of it, most certainly."
"Not all?"
"Wouldn't half do?"
Ralph got up from his chair, went to the window, and then said slowly, "Yes, that will do."
"We will go and draw it out next week," said Phebe, "if you like."
"Yes; and of course you had better change the name, had you not? And it will seem more businesslike if you draw the whole of it and then put the half of it back in my name. It will be yours all the same."
"I don't mind," said Phebe, "if that will please you."
"Please me! I'm not a child." Fortunately, just then he was called into the shop.
"Am I selfish?" questioned Phebe anxiously to herself. "Have I done wrong? Ought I to let him have the whole? But I am sure father would be cross if I did."
All that day there was sunshine without, but very little within. Phebe worked hard to make the house more homelike; some rugs were laid on the parlour floor, two arm-chairs established each side the table, ferns arranged in the grate, vases of flowers put on the chimney-piece, pictures hung up, curtains placed at the window—and yet it seemed dreary. But how can there be sunshine in a room when there's a shadow on the spirit?
After tea Ralph said: "I am going to Sunbury to a meeting this evening."
"Oh, I am glad; I shall enjoy that."
"But, dearest, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have promised to walk with old Mr. Cope, and it is too far for you. Besides, if you don't mind, I should like you to attend to the shop a little, just to check bills and take cash, for I am a young man short to-day. Will you?"
"Oh, yes," replied Phebe gaily, trying hard to let the feeling of pride that Ralph thought her capable of doing this conquer the feeling of disappointment. "I shall be delighted to do it for your sake." And after that sweet little speech Ralph kissed her.
The young man who was left in charge of the shop, being of a rather fiery disposition, and having resented somewhat Phebe's advent into the establishment, thought he would take this opportunity of having a little revenge.
"Do you like business, Mrs. Waring?" he asked, when they were alone.
"I hardly know, having had no experience."
"Well, I suppose it is with you as with me, it is all the same whether we like it or not—we have got to do it."
"I don't think the cases are quite parallel," she said, with a smile.
"Oh, I thought they were, for when the governor gave Dick Forbes notice—he left to-day, you know—he said he should not require his services any longer, for when you came you would see after the business when he was away. It must be nice to have a wife to look after things while you are away enjoying yourself."
"Your master is away doing God's business," she replied with dignity, and straightway walked into the parlour.
The dignity all vanished when she laid her head on her hands on the table and had a little cry to herself. Things were all so different from what she had expected, and such a loneliness seemed to have crept into her heart! When she lifted up her tearful face she saw the bunch of pansies quite close to her, and their faces seemed to look into hers and whisper, "Heart's ease!" "What a comfort!" she whispered to herself. "'Heart's ease,' yes, I know where to get it from. I know I feel disappointed, but ought I not to ask: Is Ralph disappointed in me? and is Jesus disappointed in me?"
"What a mean hound I've been!" thought the young shopman, as he caught sight afterwards of her swollen eyes. "It would have served me right if she had boxed my ears. She'll have enough to put up with without me adding to it." And that same night he walked two miles to beg a bunch of roses for her, saying as he gave them to her: "Please forgive me for having been rude to you."
When a king had chosen the design for the gold work of his signet and selected the stone, carefully studying its hue and markings, then came themakingof the signet: the gold was put in the fire, and the gem under the lapidary's hammer.
In a little over a year great alterations had been made in Ralph Waring's establishment. The shop next door had been duly taken, the partition wall broken down, and the grocery business started. The only part of Ralph's plan which had not come about was the throwing in of the back parlour into the business portion. "No," said Phebe firmly, "in this department I mean to come first. I am not going to vote for everything being sacrificed to the business; to have a dining-room upstairs means a great deal of extra work. I must also have the parlour of the other shop to convert into a decent kitchen. How can we expect Janie to be bright and happy with nothing better than a scullery to sit in? I mean my kitchen to be as bright and cheery as any room in the house."
"I wonder who's master here!" said Ralph, with a snap.
"We are partners—at least, that is what you have said, and you rule in one department and I in the other. I have no objection to you having one of the front rooms upstairs for a show-room." Ralph had never thought of that, and as it sounded rather "big," it pleased him, and so the dispute ended.
But if changes had been effected in the front premises, a greater change had come about in the back garden, which at first had only looked like a walled-in yard. Where the dandelions had grown was a trim little lawn, with a flower-stand in the centre nearly covered with pink ivy geraniums; there was no space for any elaboration of design, so a narrow bed of flowers round the lawn touched the surrounding walls, which were already nearly covered with shoots of ivy, climbing roses, and that industrious plant, Virginia creeper. In one corner a little arbour had been erected, and, till the climbing plants had completed the covering, a gay red-striped awning had been fixed up, adding still more colour to the scene.
Here one sunny August day Neighbour Bessie found her friend, Mrs. Waring, nursing her baby.
"Well, you do make a pretty picture! Talk of gold pictures in silver frames, you are a picture of love in a frame of flowers."
"Now, no more flattery, neighbour, for a week, or I'll send you to Coventry."
Bessie at once sat down on the grass at Phebe's feet. She was never so happy as when resting on "Nature's bottom shelf." Her mother said this was a sign of laziness; Bessie said it was a sign of economy, because she did not wear out the chair-cushions, and also the sign of a cautious nature, because there was no fear of falling.
"You haven't kissed the baby."
"I don't much care if I do or not, so long as I can kiss you." After the process was over, she added, "If it had been a boy, I just wouldn't have kissed it, so I tell you." Knowing this was a very saucy little speech to make, she did not give Phebe a chance to reply, but hurried on, "It's fairly wonderful the change you have made in this place, and fancy you doing it all yourself! I used to call it 'Dandelion Farm.'"
"What do you call it now?"
"I haven't thought; let me see," leaning her head on her hands and puckering up her brow as though to press the thought in, "it's just like a patch of sunlight; yes, that would do, something out of the usual—Sunshine Patch."
"Yes, that will do," said Phebe, laughing, "but it reminds me how much I disliked the place when first I had a peep of it; these walls fairly made me shudder, and now I wouldn't have them one brick lower, because they give privacy; and see how refreshing they will be to look at when covered with greenery; and look at that lovely laburnum of our neighbour's drooping over the wall; and in the spring that high lilac-tree was a perfect picture. This little patch, as you call it, Bessie, dear, has taught me a lesson I hope I shall remember all my life."
"Whatever is that, teacher?" Bessie asked, looking up with mock wonder.
"But I am serious, Bessie; it is that most of our dark patches we could turn into sunshine patches if only we had the will."
"Do you know," said Bessie, with a real sigh, "my mother is my dark patch, and she walls me round like anything. I wonder if I could plant ivy slips round her!"
"You are a naughty girl," said Phebe, trying hard not to laugh, "I think she has more need to plant them round you."
"Phebe, where are you?" Ralph called out.
"Oh," said Bessie, suddenly springing up, "I'll go at once and consult the gardening book," but Phebe knew this was only a pretence to avoid having to talk to Ralph.
"It is fine to be you," said her husband, "to be able to sit in this retreat doing nothing this broiling hot day. How cool you look! but there, everything goes peacefully with you, while everything goes cross with me."
"Can I put anything right for you?"
"Of course you can't. I've been thinking," sitting down by her side, "what a stupid I am to put myself to so much trouble for people. You know I went last night to Hawtree Hall; I've been going there now for three years, and I haven't one customer in the place."
"But, Ralph, dear, you have a higher aim surely than to get customers."
"Of course I have; dear me, how you do misunderstand me! But surely decent, common gratitude would lead some of the people to deal with me, if they had any. They don't pay for my services!"
"Of course not."
"And why, pray, 'of course not'? The more I get, the more good I can do. Do you think I want money for any special, selfish gratification? God has called me to make money as well as to make speeches, and I can serve Him equally well in both ways."
"Certainly, but I think we all have to watch lest we cloak our ambitions with the appearance of doing God's service, and so deceive ourselves."
"A very nice way of calling me a hypocrite."
"Oh, Ralph, Ralph, it is nothing of the sort! I have often had to watch against that sort of thing."
"Well, don't measure my corn with your bushel, that's all. We'll change the subject. I see you opened that letter of Deason's, asking for that money. I am not going to pay him yet. I want that money for buying a 'new line' with. I am going to try another experiment this winter."
"But, Ralph, that man needs his money, he is poor."
"You can leave all those matters to me. You talk like a—but there, what do women know about business?" And he got up and walked towards the house, but before entering turned round and said, "I shall not be home till late; when it gets cooler perhaps you will be able to make me out a few bills."
She felt inclined to answer, "I don't know enough about business to do that," but wisely kept silence. She had been taking lessons of late in the right use of the lips, and was getting them pretty well under control.
When the cool of the evening came she was again sitting in Sunshine Patch, from whence she got just a little peep of the sunset sky. The baby was asleep; Janie was reading; Phebe had already spent two hours in bill-making and thought she might now conscientiously take the luxury of sitting and doing nothing, except having a good think. All day long there had been in her mind old Mrs. Colston's words about the process a Christian has to go through. "I think," she sighed, "instead of the creases getting out of my character, more creases get in. See how I seem to aggravate Ralph. Then to think of Bessie; I thought I might do real missionary work with her, and she's just as naughty as ever, and Janie is just as dull," and the tears began to come.
"Please, ma'am, here's Mrs. Colston." It was Janie's voice, and Mrs. Colston herself immediately appeared. The old lady at once noticed the tear marks, and exclaimed, "I can see you are quite tired out; you must come in and lie down on the couch, and Janie shall get you something—no, I'll get it myself," and after half carrying Phebe indoors, she bustled away to the kitchen.
"Now, Janie, get some milk, a saucepan, and an egg." While she was watching the milk lest it should boil over, she went on talking. "Look here, Janie, you are to look well after your mistress, or she'll slip through your fingers."
"You don't mean to say she's going to die!" exclaimed Janie, in horror. "Oh, dear, what should I do! You don't know how different this place has been since she's been here, and you don't know what she's done for me."
"No, I don't, but I can guess. You mustn't speak so loud or she will hear, and mind you don't go and tell her what I've said. Just shake yourself together a bit, my girl, and look well after her; be sure and feed her well, and see that she rests."
Mrs. Colston having seen to her favourite's bodily wants, sat down to have a talk. "I suppose you've tired yourself with writing lectures and speeches."
"'Lectures and speeches'!" exclaimed Phebe, trying to laugh, "whatever made you think I'd been doing that?"
"You told me yourself you were going to help Ralph write his lectures and speeches."
"Oh no, I do nothing of that sort," and try as she might the tone of disappointment would not be kept down, and the old friend caught it and guessed something of its meaning.
"You've never told me baby's name yet."
"She has two names."
"That's right; that's one for each of you."
"My name, I mean the one I chose for her, is Mary. I did not want to call her Phebe, because I don't see why married women should lose their Christian name, and they always do if they have a daughter called after them. I think no name can be so beautiful as Mary, because it was the name of the mother of Jesus. Ralph chose the other name; he said, simply Mary Waring would sound mean."
"Perhaps so; Phebe Mary go well together, and it was only natural he would like her named after you."
"It is not Phebe. Baby's name is Victoria Mary."
Mrs. Colston had long ago commenced the training of her lips, and for a moment did not speak.
"And may the little dear always have the victory. That's my wish for her."
"And you don't think it sounds ridiculous then?" asked Phebe, raising herself up on her elbow, "I mean for a draper's daughter?"
"Certainly not; why shouldn't a draper's daughter have as good a name as anybody else? I hope she will grow up a real queenie."
"I was thinking, dear Mrs. Colston, as you came into the garden, that the process of Christian-making is slow work with me. Indeed, sometimes I am afraid it has stopped altogether."
"Not it, my dear; not a wee bit of it," stroking her hair. "If you had said, 'I'm getting on fine—shall soon be a saint,' I should have said it was pretty nigh all up with you. But, bless you, my dear, you've got that feeling just now because the Lord's been dealing with you. I watched old Robert in the spring cutting his vine; my, there was a slaughtering! I fancy the poor old vine thought it was almost done for, but you should just see it now!"
As Mrs. Colston stepped out of the shop door that evening she nearly fell into the arms of Neighbour Bessie, as Phebe loved to call her. "How is Mrs. Waring?" Bessie asked anxiously. "Do you think she is all right?"
"Yes, she'll get on with care."
"Oh, she is a dumpling!" said the girl, with all her impulsive enthusiasm.
"Well then, take care and keep her warm, for cold dumplings aren't up to much! She needs a lot of warmth—love, that's what I mean."
"I'll see she has that," exclaimed Bessie, "if my sort is any good."
"All real love is good, my dear, you may be sure of that."
That night as the old mangle started its tune again, these were the words that went along with it. "There, bless me, how that dear Miss Phebe of mine has won those two girls! Why, she'll win them for Jesus yet. I know she will! Yes, I dare say she thinks she's done nothing. How little we can judge of our own work, or, come to that, of anybody else's, either. It's only our dear heavenly Father, who gets such a high view of things, seeing all over and into all the corners, that can really know how we're getting along."
Two years went by, each day filled for Phebe, except the Sundays, with housework, care of the child, and looking after the business. From Monday till Saturday she hardly ever crossed the outer doorstep. "It will not be always like this," she said to her sister, who remonstrated with her. "When Ralph has got the business well established he will be able to afford more help."
She often smiled somewhat bitterly to herself over the old dream of helping Ralph in his high endeavours to influence the souls of his fellows, and how she was to accompany him when he went forth to deliver his messages. "Never mind," she would say to herself. "I sell the people tea instead." She often called to mind the memorial-card of "Sweet Liberty," and saw how clearly it had proved prophetic of something she had truly lost. Long ago she guessed who the sender was, for she had found out what a keen reader of character Neighbour Bessie was, and what keen intuitive powers she possessed. Phebe never referred to the card, but she once said to Bessie, "I think you ought to be called 'Prophet Bessie.'"
"If you spell that word 'p-r-o-f-i-t,'" replied Bessie, "mother would say you were out of your reckoning entirely. She would say it would be nearer the truth to call me 'Dead-loss Bessie.'"
"Nay, nay, that would never do, but 'dear-loved Bessie' might." The girl looked at her with hungry eyes, but did not answer.
To be so shut in, so entirely engrossed with affairs purely selfish, would to an ordinary woman have been both narrowing and depressing. "An old woman once lived in the Isle of Wight who had never seen the sea, and there are women living in Swiss valleys who have never watched a sunset. How little such women can know of what the world is like! How narrow their sympathies, and how small their ideas! I am something like them," thought Phebe, "but I'll do my best to get a wider outlook, somehow." So by her chair in a corner of the shop parlour you might always find some paper, magazine, or book she was interested in. During the early months of their marriage Ralph had read aloud to her in the evenings, or she to him, but lately he was far too much engrossed in other things.
No one guessed the bitter sorrow Phebe suffered in thus burying her dreams. Alas, for the graves that are not found where willows grow within cemetery gates! for the flowerless graves we often weep over in our daily life! Yet deep in Phebe's heart was the hope that from this grave would blossom, some sunny morn, a husband's love such as she had dreamt of in her girlhood dreams. It seemed as if Ralph's love was sleeping, but surely some day it would waken. Oh, that God would teach her how to waken it!
By this time Victoria Mary had a companion in the person of a little brother. "I should like him to be called Ralph," said Phebe.
"I don't care for children to be made gravestones of," replied her husband. "You certainly shall choose one name and I the other, and you can choose anything you like but Ralph."
The young arrival a few days later was described on his birth-certificate as "John Washington."
These two young folks were ever afterwards known as "Queenie" and "Jack." What a lot of bother it would save if parents named their children what they intend afterwards to call them!
"Phebe," said Ralph one evening, "just put your book down and talk to me."
"That will be nice," said Phebe, with a choke in her voice, brought there by a sudden hope.
"Wouldn't you like to travel?"
"I should rather think I would."
"Well then, don't you think the time has come when we might sell this business and start somewhere else? I should dearly like to go to Australia. Will you consent?"
"If you will only wait till father is taken home, I will willingly go wherever you choose."
"But why should we wait till then? The Bible says 'a man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife.'"
"Yes," said Phebe, trying to laugh, "but it does not say a woman shall leave her father and cleave unto her husband." Then, more seriously, "Do you think it is right for marriage to break every family tie? Don't you think a child has duties to its parents, however old it may become? Think how lovingly Jesus thought of His mother, providing as far as possible against her feeling lonely."
"If you are going to preach, I'm done."
"I am not preaching, but I do always like to see if there is anything in the life of Jesus that fits in with my life, so that it will guide me."
"Well, I cannot 'fit in' with this humdrum life much longer, so I tell you that plainly, and I don't mean to, either. If God calls you to stay here, God calls me to go elsewhere; so how can you reconcile those two things?"
"But why do you think God calls you elsewhere?"
"I am not going to be cross-examined like a prisoner," he replied, almost fiercely, and walked away. So the conference came to an end.
About two months afterwards Phebe received a note one dinner-time purporting to come from her sister, saying she wanted to see her at once. As the note was not in her sister's handwriting, and was so strangely worded, she was rather puzzled.
"Who has brought the note?" she inquired of the shopman.
"Some boy, but he has gone now."
"It is strange," thought Phebe; "father must be worse, and she had not time to write herself; yet that is not at all like her."
As quickly as possible Phebe hurried away, to find on her arrival her sister had not sent for her. "It must have been a trick of your neighbour, Bessie, to get you out for a change." And Phebe, thinking that idea was quite likely to be correct, made herself comfortable for the afternoon, knowing that Janie would be sure to keep faithful guard over the children.
It was quite dark when she arrived home, for autumn was fast merging into winter. Ralph was out, but that was no uncommon occurrence. The evening was a very busy one, as the afternoon leisure had caused work to accumulate. When ten o'clock came, and the shopmen had both gone up to their bedroom, and Janie was preparing to retire also, Phebe began to think it was strange Ralph was so late. Going out on to the front pavement she gazed anxiously up and down the road. Very few people were about, for it was anything but a pleasant night for a stroll—true the moon was shining, but hurrying dark clouds were constantly passing in front of it, and a sighing wind seemed to prophesy the near approach of bad weather.
At eleven o'clock she went out again: the clouds had grown larger, the intervals of moonlight were briefer. The wind sighed in a more mournful tone than before, and Phebe shivered, but more through apprehension than cold.
At twelve o'clock she was on the watch again. The night was quite dark. "He must have missed the last train," she said to herself. "I will go to bed now."
She must have slept for about two hours when she woke up with a sudden start. "Could there be any connection between that note and her husband's absence?"—that was the haunting question with which her mind was filled. "But how could there be?" she reasoned with herself. Sleep was wooed again, but all in vain. Rising and getting a light, she opened a drawer where Ralph kept some of his clothes. It was empty. Another drawer was opened; it also was empty. Then she looked in the cupboard, where his travelling-bag was kept; it was gone.
She sat down to think: then, with startling suddenness, his words came to her mind, "I cannot fit in to this humdrum life much longer."
For the next hour it seemed as if she was utterly alone. It was impossible even to think. She was fast becoming petrified, her very blood was freezing, when her baby woke up crying—and that cry saved her! She picked the baby up and strained it passionately to her, the hot tears raining on its little head. The child soon nestled to sleep again in its mother's arms; and then, still grasping her little one, she knelt down to pray. "O Jesus, take care of Ralph! O Jesus, take care of me and my little ones!" That was all she could say. After a moment or so of waiting, as though listening for the answer, she prayed again, and then came the sweet feeling of God's arms being round her, and she said, in a whisper to herself, "He will! He will!"
She had been out in a dark wild storm, but had found the hiding-place.
The next morning, while sending off some telegrams to places where she thought she could make inquiries without causing alarm, her sister called at the chemist's next door for some medicine for her father, and seeing Bessie just near the parlour-door, thought she would have it out with her.
"Ah! I have found you out this time, young lady."
"I don't know what you mean."
"What has she been up to now?" asked her mother, who happened to be near.
"Oh, nothing to be cross about," she hurried to explain, fearing lest she should get the girl into trouble. "Indeed, it was a little act of kindness she did."
"I really don't know what you mean," said Bessie. "I know I've been up to no tricks, for I've been as good this last week as they're made. It's almost been the death of me, I've been so—"
"But what about that note you sent my sister yesterday?"
"Never sent her one."
"Never sent her one!"
"No, never wrote her, nor saw her all yesterday."
"Well, that is very strange."
"What note was it?" asked Mrs. Marchant.
"A note saying her sister wanted very much to see her. Of course I did; I always do, so it was not untrue; but I did not send it. We thought Bessie sent it as a kind little plan to get her out a bit."
"No, I know nothing about it."
Just then Janie came in on an errand, and seeing her mistress's sister, came up hurriedly to her, saying, "Please come in; mistress is looking so bad, and master's not been home all night."
"There!" exclaimed Bessie, as Phebe's sister hurried away, "you may depend that handsome man next door sent that note himself."
"Why should you think that? You are so quick to judge people, and think yourself so mighty clever over it," said Mrs. Marchant.
Instead of the usual saucy answer, Bessie was silent. Was she learning the same lesson Phebe had been learning?
Miss Lizzie Lawson soon found that the trouble which had befallen her sister Phebe was one which, at least for a time, could not be talked about.
"What is the matter with you, Phebe?" she asked anxiously, as she caught sight of the weary-looking face.
"I have had a very bad night."
"Where is Ralph?"
"I do not know." Then suddenly throwing her arms round her sister's neck and kissing her, Phebe said, "Lizzie, dear, I'll tell you all in a day or two, but I cannot now. You'll trust me, won't you? And do not say anything to father."
"God bless and help you, Sis, darling."
Of course the only conclusion the sister could come to was that husband and wife had quarrelled. "He will soon get over his sulks and come back," she said to herself.
All that day Phebe watched minute by minute for postman or telegraph boy, but no message came. Even the shopmen went about on tip-toe, feeling that something strange was in the atmosphere, but the white set face of the mistress kept them from asking any questions.
Sharp-witted Bessie for once was at a loss to know what to do. Should she show any sympathy? Should she go in, or stay away? Should she seem to know nothing, or all? These were the questions she weighed over and over. At last this little note was sent:
"Dear Mrs. Waring,"Please ask me to come in to tea, or I shall go perfectly blue and never get a right colour again."Neighbour Bessie."
"Dear Mrs. Waring,
"Please ask me to come in to tea, or I shall go perfectly blue and never get a right colour again.
"Neighbour Bessie."
Just a wee bit of a smile crept into Phebe's face as she read it, and the thought came, "What would she do if she had troubles like mine to face?"
Bessie's blueness seemed to have quite vanished by tea-time. During the meal she kept up a lively chatter, and Phebe came to the conclusion that Bessie was not aware that anything unusual had happened. I don't know if Bessie had ever read that the way to cheer people who are down is not by bidding them count the blessings still remaining, for they are sure to sink still lower if you do that, but by counting up to them the blessings they have conferred on others. It has certainly a wonderful effect; and that was just what Bessie did.
After she had helped Janie to clear the table she sat down for a minute or two on the rug at Phebe's feet, and then said, "When I began to write you that cheeky little note this morning I wanted to say something—I've wanted to say something for weeks, but don't know how."
"Just tell me straight out," said Phebe gently, stroking her tangled hair, thinking it was some confession she wanted to make or to ask advice how to get out of a scrape.
"It's only that I wanted to tell you how much I love you and what a help you have been to me. Do you remember telling me that story Jesus told about the woman who would have her way, and how it taught us how to pray? Well, last night, for the first time in my life, I really prayed. I felt quite sure Jesus was listening. Things have been so different since you have been here. I never had anybody to talk to as I can to you; you understand me, and don't scold me."
"But I think I often scold you."
"Bless you, that's not scolding."
Phebe bent down and kissed her, saying in a low voice, "God bless you, Bessie, darling. I cannot tell you how your words have comforted me, just as though an angel had helped you to say them. Perhaps some day you will understand what I mean." Bessie thought she understood even now, but did not say so.
"And I may love you just as much as ever I like, may I not?"
"Of course you may, there is room in my life for a lot of love," and Phebe had suddenly to rise and go into the shop, but Bessie knew it was only that she might not see her tears.
Next morning came, still no message. The day passed to Phebe as the previous one had done—she had been ever on the watch, a feeling of dumb despair taking possession of her. In the evening she had a visitor; no other than Stephen Collins, who asked if he might see her alone.
After the first greetings were over there was an awkward silence, and then Stephen said, "Mrs. Waring, you are in trouble. I cannot tell you exactly now how I know, but will you not as an old friend confide in me?"
No answer. Poor Phebe could not think what to say; she could only look up into his kind face and as suddenly let her glance fall again to hide her tears.
But the look gave Stephen courage to go on. "Ralph has left you, has he not? Did he leave no message behind?"
"I can find none," she replied frankly, "and I have searched everywhere." Quite unconsciously she thus for the first time revealed the secret trouble which was so crushing her.
"Do not think me rude or interfering, dear Mrs. Waring" (how the name seemed to choke him!), "but are you left in difficulties?"
"I don't think so—besides, he will come back soon. But why do you ask? Have you any reason?"
"I am afraid people will think it is business difficulties that have made him go."
"But the business is prospering."
"Still you need some capital to go on with."
"The business, I am sure, is all right, besides if I were pressed I have a little of my own." That morning she had found the key of Ralph's desk in her pocket. It had startled her at the time, for Ralph must have placed it there; and now, taking it from her pocket, she rose, went to the high desk standing in the corner, and unlocking it produced the bank book. She opened it quickly, took one glance and then closed it with a sob. Ralph had drawn the whole of the money out as recently as the previous Monday. She put the book from her with a shudder; it was like the death certificate of her husband's honour.
A paper had fallen out of the desk, and mechanically she stooped to pick it up, praying as she did so for strength to appear calm.
Stephen was watching her closely, a struggle going on in his own heart too.
"Is the account all right?" he asked.
"No," then another sob. Oh, for strength! Why could she not make herself be calm? She looked at the paper in her hand, and more because she thought it might give her time to master her feelings than for anything else, she said, "Can you tell me what all these figures are about?"
Stephen took the paper and looked at it for a long time and then said, in a strained voice, "It is a statement Ralph has drawn out showing exactly how the business stands, with a list of all debtors and creditors. If you could get most of the debts in you would still need three hundred pounds to keep affairs going."
"I cannot tell how it is; everything is so dark."
"But if you will let me help you," he pleaded, "all will come right. I can easily lend you what you need."
For an instant, like a vision, there came to her a feeling of restfulness, and she looked up to his face, bending over her, with eager trustfulness. What a safe strong arm his would be to lean on! But instantly she put the temptation from her; it would not be right to accept his help remembering what Mrs. Colston had said, and the sweet light which had arisen went suddenly out, leaving the darkness deeper than before.
"No," she said firmly, "I cannot accept your help."
"But what will you do?"
"I cannot tell, but in some way God will help me. And surely Ralph will come back soon!"
"I do not think so."
"Why?" It was Stephen's turn to be silent this time; how could he tell her all he knew? How could he explain how evident it was that Ralph had drained all the money he possibly could from the business?
"Do you know where Ralph is?" she asked suddenly.
"No, I do not."
After another pause Stephen said, "Perhaps I had better leave you now. When you have had time to think things over, you will trust me more."
A minute ago she would have urged it was not for want of trust, but now her mind, all so confused, could not rid itself of the idea that he knew something about Ralph which he had not told her. When he had gone the idea gave rise to two questions, "What had first made Stephen think Ralph had left her when not even Bessie knew how he had gone away?" and "What had given him the idea Ralph had left her in difficulties when the success of the business had been so widely talked about?" But though she asked the questions over and over again, no answer would come. "Could Stephen have had any share in persuading Ralph to go away? had he tempted him away?" But the remembrance of the tender, true face made such thoughts seem wicked.
Going to the desk for the paper which Stephen had replaced there she took it out to study it for herself, and with it, lying just beneath, she drew out a folded paper, and opening it found it to be—a letter from Ralph! How had it got there? Had Stephen placed it there?—but she was in too much of a hurry to read it to pause to reply.
"My Dear Wife,"I know this letter will pain you, it cannot help but do so, and for this I am very sorry. I would not willingly grieve you, but it all arises from the painful fact that you have always failed to understand me. You know that for a long time I have had a great desire for a larger sphere. You thought this was because my love to God had grown cold and the love of the world crept into my heart. I assured you this was not so, but that it was only a leading into other service. If I can make money and devote it to God's work, am I not still one of God's servants? I am now with my face set towards a foreign land, where I hope to win a fortune. I feel no remorse at the step I have taken, since I asked you to agree to emigrate and you would not. I know you will get on pretty well without me, because, if you fail in the business you can return to your father. The sale of the business will cover all liabilities and more. I shall let you know from time to time how I get on: it will always be a great pleasure to report progress to you. Never doubt but that all I make, which I do not return to God, I shall hasten home with one day to lay at your feet. Tell my dear children their father heard a call like Abraham did, and has gone out to seek a name and a fortune to enrich them with. I know I have no need to assure you that I shall always remain,"Your own faithful, loving husband,"Ralph Waring.""P.S.—I did not say 'good-bye' to you for fear you should succeed in persuading me to stay with you. Some day soon, I will send you an address where you can write to, as I shall be anxious to hear how you are getting on."
"My Dear Wife,
"I know this letter will pain you, it cannot help but do so, and for this I am very sorry. I would not willingly grieve you, but it all arises from the painful fact that you have always failed to understand me. You know that for a long time I have had a great desire for a larger sphere. You thought this was because my love to God had grown cold and the love of the world crept into my heart. I assured you this was not so, but that it was only a leading into other service. If I can make money and devote it to God's work, am I not still one of God's servants? I am now with my face set towards a foreign land, where I hope to win a fortune. I feel no remorse at the step I have taken, since I asked you to agree to emigrate and you would not. I know you will get on pretty well without me, because, if you fail in the business you can return to your father. The sale of the business will cover all liabilities and more. I shall let you know from time to time how I get on: it will always be a great pleasure to report progress to you. Never doubt but that all I make, which I do not return to God, I shall hasten home with one day to lay at your feet. Tell my dear children their father heard a call like Abraham did, and has gone out to seek a name and a fortune to enrich them with. I know I have no need to assure you that I shall always remain,
"Your own faithful, loving husband,
"Ralph Waring."
"P.S.—I did not say 'good-bye' to you for fear you should succeed in persuading me to stay with you. Some day soon, I will send you an address where you can write to, as I shall be anxious to hear how you are getting on."
It was strange, but the reading of that letter gave her the calm she had been struggling to obtain. After reading it a second time, she went out into the garden, named in the summer-time "Sunshine Patch." How long ago that seemed! Where was the sunshine now? But the stars shone down on it if the sun did not, and it was refreshing to feel the cool breezes on her face, and to be alone under the pitying skies.
Now that she had read this letter a burden of uncertainty had gone; she knew now something of what she had to face.
Surely Stephen had not been the bearer of that open letter; it must have been in the desk before! But the very doubt about it made it more easy to resist Stephen's offer.
It was impossible for her to return to her father; how could she burden him with herself and two children when even now he could only just manage comfortably? But how could she get the three hundred pounds Stephen said she would need? She had no earthly friend she could go to and had nothing she could sell or mortgage. But, ah, there was always one source of help she could go to! There was one way still open—the upward way! Sitting down in the desolate little arbour, she buried her face in her hands and prayed, "Dear Lord, I have no one to help me but Thee. Please open up my way! Show me how I can continue the business. Give me also business ability. Show me my way very clearly. I know Thou art listening to me. I feel sure of it, just as Bessie did. And now I am going to carefully watch for the sign that Thou art going to help me. Oh, strengthen me; I feel so lonely!" A flood of tears came, but she could let them flow unhindered now.