The Little Missis

"SHE CAUSED THE CUP, WITH ITS CONTENTS, TO FALL INTO PHEBE'S LAP."

In a moment there seemed a tempest in the room.

Reynolds exclaimed, "Now you've done something!"

Nanna screwed her lips up so tightly that only a little "Oh" came out.

"Oh, mummy, your French dress!" cried out young Jack.

Mrs. Marchant sprang to her feet and made a dash over the table as though she was going to box Bessie's ears. The table, however, being too broad she sank back into her chair, exclaiming: "There never, never was such a provoking girl, never! You may thank your stars, young madam, this did not happen in your own home!"

Phebe was the only quiet one in the company. She had placed the empty cup-and-saucer on the table, and as she stood up, the tea streaming down the front of her dress on to the floor, she said, in a calm, low voice, "Pray, Mrs. Marchant, do not trouble about it, I can soon change my dress," but before moving away she bent down and kissed Bessie, who was sitting gazing fixedly at the havoc she had made. The kiss seemed to waken her, and she exclaimed, as the tears streamed down her face, "What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Do!" exclaimed Mrs. Marchant—"get some more sense into your head, that's what you should do, and drop all your wretched, nonsensical ways."

When Phebe returned Nanna had wisely arranged that she and Mrs. Marchant should finish their tea alone.

Mrs. Marchant's first words were: "Now I know that what our Phill said was true."

"What was that, Mrs. Marchant?"

"That you possess something I don't. If I had had a dress like that spoilt I should have gone into a towering passion, I know I should. But to see you taking it all so calmly, fairly staggered me. Tell me what it is that makes this difference between us?" Mrs. Marchant's voice was quite eager, and she looked beseechingly into Phebe's face.

"Perhaps several things," said Phebe, after a moment's hesitation; "I have trained myself not to get into flurries if I can help it, for they never accomplish anything. Then I knew Bessie was grieved enough without me adding one word more. But the chief thing is—shall I tell you?—do you really want to know?"

"Yes, I do, for I long to be like you." There was a catch in her voice that quite went to Phebe's heart.

"My first thought was, Jesus is here, and He would not like to see me agitated over such a little thing."

"Jesus!"

"Yes,—Jesus."

"Oh." There was a world of meaning in that one word.

"I think the difference between us is this," said Phebe, taking Mrs. Marchant's bony hand and gently stroking it: "I have put my life entirely into God's hands, and knowing He rules over everything, I can well afford to take things restfully."

"Then it is your religion that makes the difference?"

"Yes, if you like to put it that way."

"And would it make the same difference to me?"

"Of course it would."

"Well, I shall never forget the sight of your face when that tea went over. That sight was worth all the sermons I ever heard!"

"Wouldn't Bessie be glad if she knew! I'm not a bit sorry she spilt the tea, now. It would be worth the spoiling of all my dresses if it makes you want—Him!"—the last word very softly. Her eyes were on the silver star, but the secret of the star was too sacred to speak of.

"But," added Phebe, "you must not give me one bit of praise for keeping calm; I should have been as mad as anybody,—but for Him."

"And do you think of Him as always with you?"

"Sometimes I forget, and it is then that things go wrong."

That evening Phebe found Bessie busily engaged in unpicking the skirt of the unfortunate dress.

"I'll buy stuff to match it," exclaimed Bessie, "if I have to walk all the way to Paris!"

"Well, my dear, you cannot do that, because of the English Channel, but I want you to thank God you spilt that tea."

"Thank God I spilt that tea! What do you mean?"

And then Phebe told her story.

"Ah, it was not the tea, it was the blessed peace in your dear face that did it! It's just like your dear loving ways to want to give me a share in it! I tell you, mother is quite correct, I am the most exasperating girl that ever was! But"—and she looked up with a tender little smile—"I've caught a little bit of your secret to-day. As you stood up there with the tea all trickling down your dress, I fancied I saw Jesus just behind you! It was that which kept me from answering mother back."

"That was just splendid, Bessie, I am proud of you!"

"What, in spite of this!" holding up the stained breadth.

"Yes, in spite of that and a dozen like it! What is that worth compared with my Bessie? And Nanna would say just the same."

PARTNERS!

One December evening, after the opening of Sunshine Hall, Janie was telling little Jack wonderful stories about what people did at Christmas.

"Nearly always when people go away for a long time, they come back at Christmas, and bring such lots of nice things with them."

"My daddy's gone away," said the child, "mummy said so."

"Yes, I know he has," said the slow-witted Janie.

"Will he come back at Kiss-mus?"

"Perhaps he will."

"And will he bring Jacky nice things?"

"Of course he will, when he comes."

That expectation quite took root in the little brain, and when "Kiss-mus" morning came, his first words were "Has my daddy come? I want my daddy!"

The mother was quite startled, and wondered what had given the child this idea. Janie explained it afterwards, when a considerable amount of brain-searching had been done. It took a wooden horse on wheels, a box of chocolate and a box of bricks to get the little fellow to dry his tears.

The next Christmas, strange to say, there was the same expectation and the same disappointment, but with added sorrow. The child was older, and if it could appreciate good things more, also felt sorrow more. He had mingled with other children, whose fathers made much of them. "Perhaps daddy will come at Christmas," he would say to himself.

Christmas morning came, but again no daddy.

"Why doesn't daddy come?" he sobbed out on his mother's breast.

"I don't know, darling."

"Has he forgotten me?" he asked, turning up his tear-stained face to hers.

"I do not know." The words had to be uttered. There was no way in which she could truthfully cover up the silence of years. To the sensitive child the words were like a cruel blow; after building upon the father's return to be told that father might have forgotten him was more than he could bear, and in his grief, to his little mind, the doubt became a certainty—his father had forgotten him! It was the child-soul's first knowledge of Gethsemane.

The mother strained him passionately to her, showering both tears and kisses upon the little tear-stained face. "But mummy has not forgotten! Mummy never will forget!" she wailed over him.

From that hour a new feeling took possession of little Jack. If his father had forgotten him, it was very likely the mother was also forgotten. Mummy must feel lonely too, but he would not forget her, and when he was a man he would work for her. He would be her champion and defender—not that he used these words to himself, they were rather too long for him, but the idea they expressed was in his brave, loyal little heart. Nanna often wondered at the quaint little ways in which he showed himself his mother's protector, but never knew the heart-sorrow which had given birth to them.

The child's grief was an added weight to the mother's heart. She saw that her burden was no longer one which she had to bear alone, but that her child, her innocent, sunny-haired child, with the face of an angel, and brother to an angel, had to feel some of its weight also.

Away in Holland a gardener will patiently labour for even twenty years to bring one hyacinth to perfection. Its soil is often changed, and the hand, though moved by a heart which dearly loves the flower, does not hesitate to even use the knife to the sensitive root.

With still greater patience bends the Great Gardener over the flowers of the Kingdom.

And still there was no letter from Ralph. She had left off writing now, not knowing into whose hands her letters might fall. At last she ventured to write to Stephen Collins, asking if he thought there was anything more she could do. He at once replied that he was scanning several Australian papers every week, but had not come across any mention of Ralph, and that he could think of nothing further she could do. It did not seem to him to be at all necessary to seek police aid, though he did not say so in his note. Later on, he sent word that he had written to the proprietor of the hotel to which her letters had been addressed, and he had replied that for a long time six letters had been waiting for Mr. Waring, but a little while ago Mr. Waring had sent a messenger for them. Should that same messenger call again he would do his best to obtain Mr. Waring's address.

This gave Phebe courage to write again, but after some months the hotel proprietor returned the letter, saying that nothing had been heard of Mr. Waring, but that if at any time he did receive news of him it should be forwarded instantly.

After that all was a dark blank. Years passed, but not the faintest report of his doings was ever received. "Do you think he is dead, Nanna?" Phebe would often ask, but the old friend could only shake her head and say, "Dear heart, I do not know, but he's somewhere where the Lord knows all about him. We must rest on that."

LIGHT ON THE PATHWAY

One Friday morning Mrs. Waring received a note from Mr. Hugh Black asking her to call, if possible, and see him at his house that morning, as he wished to consult her on important business.

It was next to impossible for her to do so, as two travellers were expected, but, thinking the visit had to do with the hall or meeting, she sent Bessie in her place, and a note to Mr. Black, saying the bearer was her special friend with whom he could safely talk over any point, or trust with any number of messages.

Reaching the house Bessie was shown into a conservatory where Mr. Black was writing some letters. He received her very courteously, and, as politely as he could do so, gave her to understand the business he wished to discuss with Mrs. Waring had nothing to do with the work among the men, but was quite private. He would, however, explain it all in a letter to Mrs. Waring, if Bessie would be kind enough to wait while he wrote it, and he would himself call on Mrs. Waring the next day. On a little table near by was some fruit and biscuits to which he asked her to help herself. But a fit of shyness seemed to have come over Miss Bessie, and though she looked wistfully at the tempting fruit, she only nibbled away at a biscuit while the letter was being written. It was an innocent-looking little missive Bessie carried home, but not nearly so unimportant as it looked. It did not contain exactly a bomb, but it certainly gave Phebe a shock. Both Nanna and Bessie noticed her excitement, but said nothing, as they were both quite sure they would hear all about it in due course.

Mr. Black paid the promised visit, and remained talking a long time, but there was still the same kind of subdued excitement about Phebe when he had gone; indeed, the interview had even deepened it.

At supper-time that day—Saturday—Bessie made a confession. There were some nice pears on the table, which Nanna informed the company were Bessie's gift. "Yes," said Bessie, "but I'd better tell you why I bought them. When I went to Mr. Black's yesterday he asked me to have some fruit. There was a tray with a nice white cloth on it and some plates, and on one plate a silver knife-and-fork and some parings. And on the tray, besides other things, a beautiful dish of pears, and another knife-and-fork. Oh, I did want one of those pears so badly; you can't tell how much I wanted one!"

"Well, bless me," said Nanna, "why didn't you take one, then! Didn't he ask you to take one?"

"You so often ask me to bless you, and I really haven't any blessings to spare. So please excuse me."

"Your very presence is a blessing," put in Phebe.

"That does sound nice, but really if you interrupt me so much I shall never get through my little story. Of course Mr. Black asked me, and that made me want one all the more. But the sight of that knife-and-fork made me feel I could not dream of having one—yes, I did dream of it, but I couldn't really take one! Just fancy me taking a pear with a knife and fork! I should have been as awkward as an elephant in a china-shop."

"What did you do, then?" asked Reynolds.

"Do? Why, I went without, of course. I wasn't going to show off my bad training. So to prevent such a display of self-sacrifice again I bought some pears this morning, and I had a downright good practice in the kitchen with Janie. We can both do it in high style now."

And then everybody round the table, except David Jones, who usually spent week-ends at Hadley, and had arrived just in time to hear Bessie's story, began eating pears with a knife-and-fork, only the knives were steel ones.

After supper David asked Bessie if she would take a little walk with him for a few minutes. It was not the first time he had done so. Both Phebe and Nanna had seen the growing nearness between these two, but had made no remark, for the friendship had certainly been helpful to both.

"I could quite sympathise with you about that pear," said David as they reached a quiet road away from the usual Saturday night scenes. He did not always reach Hadley so early, but had made a special effort this night for a special purpose. There was something on his heart he wanted to say very much, and had hardly known how to introduce it. The story of the coveted pear seemed quite like "a godsend" to him. "Yes, I have felt like that myself."

"Have you?" said Bessie. "Shouldn't have thought it; it isn't like a man to hesitate at a trifle like that."

"Do you think I should have eaten it straight away out of my hand?"

"Something like that."

"Would you have blamed me if I had done so?"

"I shouldn't have blamed you, most certainly not; but smart folks might."

"I don't care for smart folks, do you?"

"Can't say I don't, seeing I should like to be smart myself."

There was a little pause, and then David said: "But you would advise me, if there was something I wanted very much, to take it the best way I could?"

Bessie seemed to hesitate; perhaps she guessed what it was the young fellow wanted! "Certainly," she answered in a low voice.

"Bessie," and he turned eagerly towards her, "it's a flower I want, a flower to wear for ever on my heart."

"I think you're growing sentimental, and it's getting late; we had better turn back."

"No, Bessie, now I've once started you must let me finish. It's you I want." And then he told her the old story which has had so many different endings, yet always beautiful when coming from lips sincere. That same night David told his mistress all about it. "And what did Bessie say?" asked Phebe, greatly interested and pleased at the confidence he showed in her.

"Well, she didn't say much, but I think it will be all right."

"You may rest assured if she had meant to refuse you she would have said so right out. But, David," and here she put her hand on his arm, and her voice took on a low, tender note "have you told her how you came to be in my employ?"

"No, Mrs. Waring," all the joy suddenly dying out of his face; "do you think I need do so?"

"Yes, I do; I think it is your plain duty to do so."

"If I did she would throw me over as she would toss away one of her pears that was bad."

"I don't think so; it is only your fear makes you have that thought."

"But why should I tell her? That is all past and gone."

"You would be starting life together with something withheld from her; there would be no thorough trust in each other. And, suppose some one told her of the occurrence? Such a thing would not be impossible. Better lose her now than lose her respect when you are tied together for life."

There was a tender pleading in her voice which quite broke David down. "I believe you're right. I'll do it," he said in a broken voice.

The next morning he was unusually quiet; during the walk to the meeting in the afternoon he was still as absorbed. Bessie did not know what to make of matters, trying in vain to read the secret of the gloom on his face. "I never knew he was of a sulky turn before," she said to herself; "if this is having a lover it's a mighty queer business. I wonder if it's something I've done wrong! I wonder if he expected I should have gone down on my knees in ecstasy last night!" But wonder as she might there came no answer.

On the journey home David made a desperate effort to get the unpleasant task over.

"Bessie, there's something I want to tell you which I ought to have told you last night, but did not like to."

There was such a ring of pain in the voice that Bessie's heart was touched at once, and for the first time, and of her own accord, she slipped her hand into his arm. The little action was like balm of Gilead to David.

"When Mrs. Waring engaged me, she took me without a character," he went on.

"She did me, too," said Bessie, "so we're in the same boat."

"I had used some of my master's money, and before I could pay him back he found it out. I was going to return it, for I had money in the savings bank."

"Did you pay him back?"

"Yes, every penny; but he would give me no reference, and I was dreadfully afraid mother would find it out. It would have broken her heart."

"Well, that's all done with now, so forget it. You've good character enough now for the two of us."

"And you don't think any the less of me?" he asked, bending anxiously towards her.

"I think all the more of you," she said, looking up frankly into his face and pressing her hand upon his arm more firmly, "only it's made me feel rather queer, for I shall now be obliged to tell you not simply one bad thing I've done, but heaps. In fact, I don't know where to begin."

"That's all nonsense," he said. "I know you are trying to cheer me, and I bless you for it, but there's still another thing I must say, for I want that there should never be a shadow between us. I did not want to tell you of my slip. I don't want you to think I was frank enough to tell you all this of my own accord. It was Mrs. Waring who pressed me to tell you."

"That's just like her; she is a dear."

"So she is; she's been the making of me."

"So she has of me. Leastways," added Bessie in her characteristic manner, "she is making me. The business is not near finished yet."

"It's all right," whispered David to Mrs. Waring as they went into tea.

"I'm so glad," was her reply, "doubly glad."

There was really no need for him to tell her this; his face told the story so plainly—so very plainly—that when tea was over, and they were standing in Sunshine Patch, Mrs. Colston went up to them and said:

"And so you young folks have made each other happy."

"Why, how do you know? Who told you?" exclaimed Bessie.

"Know! Who told me? There was no need for anybody to tell me. Your faces tell the tale. Well, do you think you'll get on together all right?"

"I can get on with anybody," sang out Bessie, "if they only let me have my own way."

"Do you think we shall, Mrs. Colston?" asked David.

"Yes, I've watched you, and I do think you will; but you must neither try to get in front of the other. It must be side by side." Taking a hand of each, she said in a sweet, serious way: "May the Lord bless you both; may you not only be strength to each other but to many besides."

"You dear!" exclaimed Bessie, flinging her arms round her neck, and kissing her, while the tears streamed down her face; "if I'm only half as good as you, I'll do."

"Nay, nay, child, you must not take any measurement by a mortal; Jesus is our measure. But look here, dears, you've both got to go in and tell your story to mother next door. Don't leave her in the cold. But, mark you, you'll have no silver forks to eat your pears with."

"Oh, yes, she shall," exclaimed David as they both went away laughing.

That same evening Phebe and Nanna talked this courtship over, and concluded that things were going on all right. Then Phebe started a fresh subject. "Perhaps you have wondered, Nanna, dear, what Mr. Black came about. I felt I could not tell you about it all in a hurry; it was too exciting, and I have not had a quiet moment till now."

"It's all right, dearie; I knew you would tell me at the proper time."

"Ah, my dear, I wish I always had your calmness."

"I wonder how it is so many folks seem to envy me! I have nothing everybody cannot have as well as me."

"Tell me in a word what you think your secret is, could you?"

"How like I am to Mrs. Marchant!" she thought to herself. "How much we all lean upon one another!"

"Yes, I think I could; but then it's your secret as well as mine."

"Never mind whose else it is, tell it me, there's a dear."

"It's only this—that I know the Lord is always with me, and that in His hands things are sure to come right—could not help but be, He's so clever and good. So why shouldn't I be calm?"

"You say 'in His hand things are sure to be right,' but so often I say to myself, 'How can He make my tangle right?' He cannot make sin come right."

"There's your mistake, dear heart," exclaimed Nanna. "He can! He can! He can make the wrong you've suffered work out splendid things in your character, and help you to do things you would never have force enough to do if you'd had a smooth life. And He's doing it now, now! So rest on that, you poor, tired child. Now tell me about Mr. Black, will you?"

Phebe gave a little sigh of relief. "I had almost forgotten about it. It will almost take away your breath, so be prepared."

"Stop one minute," said Nanna, "let me ask one question. Is it something you approve of?"

"Yes, quite."

"All right, then, nothing whatever can take away my breath now."

"Don't be quite so sure about it. What do you say to him showing me how I can have two thousand pounds paid to me this week?"

"I should simply say he couldn't."

"But he has, and when I tell you how, you will advise me to take it, I am quite sure. Now, doesn't this take away your breath?"

"No, I've still got a few gasps left."

"You know that meadow of mine? It has a long frontage to the main road. Some men have been buying up the land all round the new railway-station. They expect it will be quite a busy centre owing to the junction of rails. Mr. Black knew I owned that meadow. I told him so when I thought the hall might go up there, and he has negotiated with these men for the sale of it. But for him I should have thought I was doing well if I had sold it for five hundred. He is trying to see if he can get a little more when I told him what I should use it for."

"What is that?" a sudden fear again taking possession of Nanna lest money should become a snare to her darling.

"To build or buy a house for a cottage hospital here in Hadley. I have long wanted to do it, and now, without any trouble, God is sending me the money."

"God bless you, my dear one," said Nanna, her heart full of rejoicing.

"And what do you think of this plan?" continued Phebe. "I should like to give the money to Stephen Collins, and let him do all the business, my name never to be mentioned. He need simply say a friend had entrusted him with it. Mr. Black, I know, will keep my secret. I thought two thousand would provide the building, and the town might be willing to pay for its upkeep. I should like it called 'Love's Hospital.'"

"There! Didn't I tell you the Lord would help you to do big things? Can't you see if you'd never gone to the railway-men you would never have known Mr. Black!"

"Yes, I can see it, and if I had never visited Jim Coates, I shouldn't have gone to the railway-men. It is all the Lord's doing. I have got another scheme I want to work out, but have not the money for it yet, and I don't see where it is to come from either. Still, after this wonder I shall not give up hope."

Stephen Collins accepted the task, called together a town's meeting; a committee was appointed, Bessie's old superintendent, Mr. Bell, being one of the number. An old-fashioned house, with a large garden was bought, and in less than twelve months "Love's Hospital" was in working order.

Bessie, Reynolds and David knew Mrs. Waring had sold her meadow at a very good figure. They knew also of the anonymous donor of the hospital, and, as shrewd young people will, put two and two together; but the townsfolk, in spite of a good deal of curiosity, were not so wise.

LOYAL LOVE

When little Jack was nearly nine years old he came home from school one afternoon in a sorry plight. Not only was his face tear-stained, but his jacket was torn. There was every evidence that he had been in a battle, and had not come off victor, either. Fortunately, his mother was away spending the afternoon with her father and sister.

"My dear boy!" exclaimed Nanna; "what ever have you been doing!"

"Don't be cross with me, Nanna," cried out Jack, literally throwing himself into her arms, "I couldn't help myself. You would have done the same yourself." His arms were round her neck, and he was hugging her so tightly that she found it rather difficult to get her words out. The hugging really seemed to comfort him. Nanna felt alarmed, for it was so unusual for Jack to shed a tear or to be so demonstrative. Trying with one hand to loosen his grasp, and with the other stroking his tangled hair, she said: "You surely could never imagine your old Nanna mixed up with a fight, now could you? A pretty figure I should cut, shouldn't I?"

"Well, you would have done something; I know you would," sobbed out the little fellow, who could no longer keep the tears back.

"Ah, no doubt I should have done something; you're right there. But tell me what it's all about? Whatever will mummy say about it! And what do you suppose your little angel-sister thinks of you if she is looking at you now?"

The thought of the "little angel-sister" did not distress him much; but at the mention of "mummy" his grief broke out afresh.

"But you won't tell her, will you? And you'll mend my jacket for me, won't you?" taking his arms down from her neck to show the ugly rent by the pocket.

"Not tell mummy? Keep anything from mummy? Why, Jack, what can you be thinking about? She would not like her boy to have any trouble she did not share. And if you have done wrong all that she will do will be to give you advice that might help you another time."

"I know, I know," and the voice was a little fretful, an unusual thing for Jack, "but you don't understand: it's because it would make mummy cry I don't want her to know."

"Well, tell me all about it, and then I shall understand."

"And you won't tell her?"

Nanna felt to be in a difficulty, and had to think. Jack saw the difficulty she was in, and, like the chivalrous little fellow he was, helped her out of it by saying, "I'll tell you first, and then I know you'll say she mustn't know, and Janie must not know," getting down from her knee and shutting the door—"nobody must know."

Resuming his seat, and with one arm round her neck, he told out his little tale of woe, the tale that was so big to him. A fresh boy had come to his school whose displeasure he had won by obstinately keeping at the top of the class, a position keenly coveted by the new boy, whose name was Frank Bell.

Knowing of no other invective he could hurl at his rival, Frank tried this one: "You're no good; you've no business among respectable boys. Your mother's a wicked woman, and that's why your father can't live with her. My ma says so; I heard her."

"I told him she was as good as good could be, better than his mother, for my mother held meetings and his mother didn't. So he said he'd pay me out for calling his mother names, and after school he hit me in the face, and I hit him back."

"And you got the worst of it?"

"He's ever so much bigger than I am. My mother is good, isn't she?" lifting up his tear-stained face to look steadfastly at Nanna. There was no doubt in the loyal little heart of the mother's goodness, but there was one big mystery in his life he could not solve, and he wondered if Nanna could help him—or, would help him.

"Of course she is good; we both of us know that."

"If only daddy would come home! If he would, then Frank couldn't say anything." He watched her face attentively—the face that had always had truth written on it, that had never kept a secret from him.

"I wish he would, too; but I don't know why he doesn't, and mummy doesn't know either. Perhaps—but you must not speak of this—perhaps he is dead. Sometimes we think he must be."

"Poor daddy!" murmured the child, and then turned to look at his photo hanging over the mantelpiece.

"But, Jack, dear, I want to show you where you have done wrong and how you must be wiser another time. It does not matter what any number of boys say about your mother; it could not alter the fact of her goodness. You need only have said he was making a mistake. Then you should not have questioned his mother's goodness; it is quite right for him to think his mother better than yours—every boy should think his mother the best that ever was. And then, when he struck you, you should not have struck back—that's what cowards do, heroes quietly walk away. You remember what our dear Jesus said, that when anybody strikes us on one cheek, we are to let them do it on the other side, too, if they like."

Jack sighed. Life to him just then was indeed an "unsunned space," and it seemed getting darker. It was bad enough to have had his dear mummy so wickedly spoken about, but to be struck and not retaliate! And now Nanna was disappointed in him. There came another deep sigh.

"Don't sigh, little man. It is by these mistakes we learn. You will be wiser next time, so cheer up. Let us ask Jesus to forgive us all our mistakes. We can afford to forget all about them then."

In the most natural way possible the two knelt down and made their request of the invisible Master, whose presence in that room was always acknowledged. It was by no means the first time these two had done so. Jack was not at all surprised or confused.

Prayer over, Nanna set about preparing tea, and Jack, still disconsolate, sat by the fire. His own share of the pain was forgotten, but he could not feel happy about his "mummy." He did not want her to know, and yet he longed to hear from her own dear lips that she did not mind.

"You won't tell mummy, will you?" he pleaded before going to bed, and the promise was given. "Not till you say I may," said wise, far-seeing Nanna. The burden of having a secret from mummy was a heavy one, and Nanna felt sure it would not be long before it all came out, and that the loving little heart would only find peace in the mother's arms.

Phebe that night went in as usual to give Jack his "good-night" kiss. He had cried himself to sleep. He had even laughed at supper-time, and forgotten all his sorrow, but in the darkness of the bedroom it had come back again with full force.

The mother bent to kiss her boy—the face was damp—Jack had been crying! Nanna had said nothing about any trouble, yet she was always Jack's confidante. What could it be? She bent again to kiss him. Yes, it was quite damp—the pillow even was damp. Her sunny-faced, earnest, eager-hearted Jack, crying! The boy sighed in his sleep, tossed about, and then, the light of the lamp falling on his face, he woke up.

"Oh, mummy! dear mummy!" The lamp was quickly put down, and in an instant the two were locked in each other's arms.

"Jack, darling, you've been crying. You must tell me all about it."

"But I can't—no—you are not to ask me."

And then straightway he told her, though not in words. He smoothed her face, he examined her, then he hugged her, and whispered:

"It is my good mummy!"

"Has somebody been telling you I'm not good?"

"Did Nanna tell you?" he exclaimed. "Oh, dear, she promised she wouldn't!"

"No, darling; Nanna did not tell me. She would not break her promise to you."

"Then how did you know?"

She could hardly explain. "I guessed it," she said. "I saw you had been crying. Who was it that was finding fault with me?"

"Frank Bell; he's a new scholar." The name was not familiar.

"See here, darling, you must never trouble about me. You know I do things differently from some mothers, and they think it is wrong, but I think it is God's wish; so it does not much matter. You understand?"

"Yes." Then, after a pause: "And it has not anything to do with daddy not coming home?"

There is a sisterhood of Mary found the wide world over—women who have felt the sword pierce the soul, and in that instant Phebe felt afresh what membership with that sisterhood meant. But her child, at all costs, must not know of it.

"No, nothing at all," was her calm answer.

And then came the story of the fight and the torn jacket. It was so nice to be able to tell her everything, and to know she was not hurt at all.

"What, my Jack been in a battle!" trying hard to laugh.

"Yes; but Nanna has mended my jacket, you'd never know it was torn, and I'm never going to fight again. Nanna says heroes walk away, and that must be so, 'cause it's harder."

"Nanna's right, you dear little champion!"

"When I am a man, nobody will dare to say you're not good."

"Yes, they will, dear. You know Jesus told us to beware if everybody spoke well of us. That would show we were not quite brave enough."

But the child spoke truer than she knew.

The next morning Phebe sent Frank Bell a box of chocolate, which Jack willingly delivered.

To say that Frank was mystified is putting it very mildly.

"For me?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, mother sent it you."

"Does she know what I said about her?"

"Yes, but I didn't tell her. I had to tell Nanna because of my jacket."

Frank thought Nanna was the servant. He wanted very much to "round on" Jack for telling, but did not know how fairly to do it.

"She knew what I said about her, and yet sent me this chocolate!"

"Yes, you see she's a real Christian—Nanna says she's one of the right sort."

"Well, she must be; my father's a Christian, but I don't speck he'd send anybody chocolates that snubbed him," and the very idea made the boy laugh.

"You'll never say she's wicked again, will you?" pleaded Jack wistfully.

"That I won't, I'll say she's a stunner, and she is, too!" And from that moment Phebe Waring had no more brave defender than chubby-faced Frank Bell.

That same morning Phebe got a few minutes' talk with Nanna: "Jack told me last night you knew all about his little battle and what occasioned it."

"Yes, he did," said Nanna, turning round to look at her carefully. She was not quite sure how much Phebe knew, nor how she would take it. The look satisfied her.

"I only want to say," said Phebe, "that you need not worry about it for my sake. I have been so happy lately that I can afford to have a little drawback like that. Perhaps God saw I needed something to keep me humble."

But she could not have spoken in that brave tone twelve hours before. She knew that, and Nanna guessed it too.

"Ah!" said Nanna, "it wouldn't do for us any more than for the trees to have all sunshine and never have a storm."

Yes, Phebe had been very blessed lately, and she not only knew it, but had drunk in all the joy of it. The railway-works had long since been completed, and the hall had been taken down and stored. Most of the men had been scattered all over the country, many of them taking with them the precious secret learnt from a woman's lips, but some still remained in Hadley and the neighbourhood, and these had persuaded Phebe to continue the meetings in the public hall. She had done so, and very happy gatherings they had proved to be.

Every week the further scheme she had in her mind took deeper root: the more she saw of working-men, of their hard life and colourless existence, the more she pitied them. The scheme was often talked over with faithful Nanna, whose brain was as keen as ever, though her body was more bent. More than once she advised Phebe to consult Stephen Collins, but Phebe could not trust herself to do that, knowing too well that temptation lay in that direction.

"Besides," she would add, "I have not money enough yet. Love's Hospital was not my gift—the money simply was passed on by me. This time God seems to show that I have to work for the money, storing it up little by little. When I have enough and have got my plans all settled, I'll ask Stephen to carry them out for me. I don't mind doing that; it would not take long."

RECOGNISED

Bessie's marriage passed off in high style,—the change that had come over her mother being most marked—and after a fortnight of "doing the grand" at Bournemouth she and her "Darling" Jones settled down to business with the firm determination of making it "hum." And "hum" it did. Bessie had been a treasure in the business at Hadley, but she was a far smarter business woman now that she shared some responsibility. Every morning the shutters were down at eight o'clock, every corner thoroughly swept by nine, every order attended to promptly, supplies well seen to. It was like taking in a breath of Swiss air to go into that shop. Many a sleepy country-woman rubbed her eyes and pulled herself together after an interview with Bessie. It was not simply done for the money it brought, though of course the more business done the more it was to the advantage of the managers, but the main impetus was in the thought that she was helping Mrs. Waring. Bessie's highest delight was to win her "Well done!"—to know she was hastening the development of her scheme, for Phebe had taken both Reynolds and Jones into her confidence.

Bessie's mother marvelled at the change which had come over her, and wondered if it could possibly be the same girl who used to be always in hot water! If there was anything "hot" now-a-days it was more of the nature of milk than water.

The money for Phebe's scheme was gradually accumulating. One or two special agencies had helped in this, but it had mostly been won by hard and constant application to work. And all the time the sum in the bank had been growing Phebe's influence had grown too. There was never a town's meeting called to discuss any forward movement, or to right any wrong, but she was invited, mostly accompanied by her boy. But, as nearly always happens, alongside with this growing influence was a growing disfavour with well-to-do, rut-bound people, especially with those who had class prejudices and believed that woman was simply the chattel of a man. This was very much accentuated when she was called in as an arbitrator in a dispute between some men and their master, and was still further manifested when she publicly exposed the wrongs of some laundry girls. Whenever she saw wrongs or injustice she was bound to speak out. She even once spoke out at a church-meeting against the custom of relegating the poorest members to the top seats in the church gallery. That was a shocking offence, and almost won for her church-discipline. But she calmly went on her way, her eyes still fixed on the silver stars, and more and more became the confidante and helper of the poor.

The day at last arrived—the day she had looked forward to for months, even years—on which she paid into the bank to her "scheme account" the last needed amount before commencing operations, bringing the grand total up to five hundred pounds!

The following day arrangements were made for an interview with Stephen Collins. Both Nanna and she agreed it had better take place at her sister's house, her old home. It would be quieter, and there would be less chance for gossip to make anything out of it.

The father was dead, but the sister was still staying on in the old house. Phebe frankly told her she wanted a business talk with Stephen, and asked if she would mind inviting him.

"I shall be only too pleased," was the reply. "The wonder to me is you manage to get along so much by yourself as you do. Who would have imagined our dreamy Phebe turning into an enterprising business woman, and quite a public character, too! How things change! I used to be the go-ahead, and now I'm as good as a recluse."

"You've done the hardest piece of work, after all, dear," was Phebe's answer; "one that God won't forget. And, besides, you have the opportunity of coming out into the world and its work now father is at rest."

Stephen Collins accepted the invitation, and on a dreary Friday afternoon at the end of October the three gathered round a cheerful fire in the old-fashioned parlour.

For a minute or so Phebe thought they were girls and boy together again, and that the door would open presently and "mother" would come in with her cheery voice, "Girls, it's time for tea, and you'd better get Steve to help you!" How many a romp they had had together, especially when "father" was away at market! The fire crackled and the old clock ticked just as they had done then, but a glance at Stephen's iron-grey hair and his sad, earnest face gave proof enough that the old merry days had gone by for ever.

They talked about the weather, about the new tenant in the next farm—all three seemed anxious to talk, and yet there were awkward pauses, and Phebe could not bring herself to mention her scheme. The Spirit of the Past seemed to hold them.

The sister must have known Phebe's thoughts, for all at once she said: "It's no use waiting for mother to announce tea to-day. I must get it ready myself."

"Let me help you," said Phebe.

"No, you sit and talk with Stephen." She still called him by his Christian name.

Phebe poked the fire, and swept some dust from the hearth, conscious all the time that Stephen was watching her closely. When she took her seat again they were both silent, till at last Stephen said:

"Mrs. Waring, I have not the slightest idea what it is you wish me to do for you, but rest assured whatever it is I will do my utmost to fulfil your wish. Please do not hesitate. Trust me."

"Trust you! There is no need to tell me to do that. I do not hesitate because of any thought of unwillingness or mistrust—never that." For the first time their eyes met and she could not resist putting her hand on his, just for an instant. "Why I hesitate is because I am going to ask so much, and you may not think my plan a wise one."

"You need not hesitate on either of those points. I have plenty of time at my disposal, and I should not put my judgment before yours."

"I don't think for a minute my sister will agree to my scheme."

"Then we must try to convert her."

It was not till the tea had been cleared away and the trio had gathered round the fire again that the scheme was unfolded. Phebe introduced it by saying: "You must please both of you let me tell my tale without interruptions, for I really feel nervous talking to two such critics. When I have quite finished, then you can talk. I must first of all tell you I have saved up five hundred pounds, and I want to buy Farmer Green's big meadow in Haystone Lane; he wants a thousand pounds for it."

"How can you buy a thousand-pound meadow for five hundred pounds? Folks will say that's like a woman," interrupted the sister.

"Will they? But you must please let me finish my story. I propose for the present getting a mortgage of five hundred. I want to put this meadow in trust of Mr. Collins, Mr. Black, Jim Coates, and my two assistants, Reynolds and Jones, with Mr. Collins as chairman, or something of that sort. Then I want this meadow turned into garden allotments. I think it will make forty. One of these I want to reserve for a plot for our railway-hall to stand on, to be used as a club-room. These thirty-nine allotments I want let out to working-men, or women, too, if they felt equal to spade-work. These would bring in a rental of thirty-nine pounds; twenty of this would be needed for interest and the remainder to be spent in prizes for the best things grown in the gardens. For the club I should propose that a small quarterly subscription be charged, which would be sufficient to keep the place going. I hope by the time the scheme is started to have saved another fifty pounds, which I should like spent in the purchase of plants and trees to start the gardens with." Phebe paused. The sister held up her hand like the children do at school: "Have you finished! Please may I talk?"

"Yes, I have finished."

"Well, I think you are a very foolish woman to squander your money in such a fashion! You've got your old age to think of, and your child to provide for. Let your working-men provide gardens for themselves—they can spend plenty of money in the public-house. You stint yourself to help them, and not one in twenty will give you a 'Thank you' for it. No, I say you are not called upon to do such a thing as this. What do you say, Stephen?"

"I say, it's just like her."

"That may be, but that doesn't say it's wise."

"You are too hard on these men, Lizzie. They can afford no luxuries, no hobbies, and there is little wonder they go to the public-house. I often think if I had a home like they have I should do the same myself; there is nowhere else that is bright and attractive for them to go. As for their thanks, I don't want them; besides, my name is not to be mentioned in connection with the scheme. But before I die I hope to be able to clear off the mortgage. As for my boy he can always get a living out of the business. I have no need to provide further than that for him." Turning to Stephen: "Will you do this for me, Mr. Collins?"

"I will." No marriage-vow was given with more earnestness.

"Well, you are the funniest woman that ever God made," exclaimed the sister.

When the time came to separate, Phebe would not hear of either her sister or Stephen accompanying her, though the night was dark. They went as far as the garden-gate with her, and as they stood there after she had left them, Stephen said in a choked voice: "You call her the funniest woman God made: I call her the best and the bravest."

"So she is," the sister replied frankly; "but then it doesn't do to tell her so, does it?"

"I only wish I might," was his low response.

As the sister walked up the path again to the silent old home she whispered to herself: "Poor old Steve! Dear old fellow! What a queer world this is!"

While Phebe was away from home that evening Nanna sat for a while in the desk in the grocery department; she often did so when a quiet time was expected. "I shall write a book some day," she used to say, "and the title will be 'From the Mangle to the Desk.'" Certainly she looked wonderfully wise there with her spectacles on her nose.

All at once she was attracted by the sound of a voice. Her memory for faces was very defective, but for voices very acute. Where had she heard that voice before? Looking up she saw a tall, elderly, shabby-looking man, who every now and again gave a little hacking cough. She watched him as he bought half an ounce of tea, a rasher of bacon, one egg, and half a pound of sugar. Then she heard him say to Reynolds, who was serving him:

"Who owns this shop?"

"Mrs. Waring."

"I wondered who 'P. Waring' was: it used to be 'R. Waring.'"

"Yes."

"Where is Ralph Waring now?"

"I don't know—he went abroad on business."

A little stifled laugh: "Oh, did he?"

Nanna saw that Reynolds suddenly looked up and gave the man a searching look. When he had gone Reynolds went up to the desk. He was too agitated to speak, and Nanna was feeling just the same. At last she managed to say:

"Follow him!" pointing to the door.

Just as he was Reynolds rushed to the door; he looked to the right, he looked to the left, but the questioning customer with his cough and his laugh was out of sight, for the gathering gloom of the chilly autumn night made escape easy.

It might have been a December night the way Reynolds was shivering. "Was it——?" he asked in a hoarse whisper as he returned to the desk.

"Yes," was all her answer. Then, "I must go at once and meet the mistress."

"Let me go."

"No, that would never do. She would wonder what was the matter, and as long as possible we must keep it from her."

As fast as she could the dear old lady hurried along the lonely country road. The little, stifled sarcastic laugh was still sounding in her ears, a laugh that spoke of a heart unchanged except as trouble had soured it.

At last she heard footsteps—light ones—she could see a woman's form! Yes, it was her dear Phebe, and, thank God, she was alone!

"Why, Nanna!" exclaimed Phebe, as soon as she recognised her; "whatever brought you out a night like this?"—kissing her on the cheek and taking hold of her arm.

"To take care of you, dearie, to be sure; and, besides, I wanted a walk."

"On a night like this?"

"Yes, I felt stifled like," which was quite true.

Phebe's suspicions were aroused, but finding all well at home, concluded it was just some whim of the dear old soul's, or else she had suddenly been seized with some unaccountable fear, as is sometimes the case even with young folks.

BESSIE COMES TO THE RESCUE

For nearly ten years Ralph Waring had been a homeless wanderer, getting a living in a variety of ways. Of course things had gone well with him while he had money in his pocket, but when that had melted away his appreciative friends suddenly disappeared. Like other folks in that new country he had plenty of opportunities of getting on, but like so many others he wanted the top rung of the ladder first, and found that such a leap did not come within the bounds of possibility. Every bottom rung he was compelled to try proved too prosaic, and years were spent in becoming familiar with a whole series of bottom rungs.

All the letters he had sent to Phebe had been under cover to Stephen Collins; even the one Stephen Collins had himself placed in the desk had been directed to him. Why Ralph had done this it would be difficult to say. His motive may have been the wish to provide Phebe during his absence with a reliable helper, but it was very questionable if he had really sufficient regard for either of them to do that.

The letters ceased just as soon as his "castles in the air" came to grief. He could never bring himself to write to Phebe of defeat. He was once tempted to make up a story of good fortune, but had sufficient good sense left to know that should Fortune continue to frown upon him this would only add to his annoyance. No, it was better she should think him dead than poor.

It was three years since his illness came upon him. He struggled against it with a heroism that would have placed him on the top rung if it had been shown earlier and in other ways. Then a feeling of home-sickness came over him; or perhaps it was that he missed the tender ministry of loving hands.

But how was he to get home? There was no other way than to work his passage over, and that he must do at once before he got too weak to do so. A berth as assistant-steward was secured, and in a few hours after setting foot on English soil he found himself in the old country town of Hadley.

His first impulse was to go straight to Phebe and pour out his heart to her, with all its bitter disappointments. Then his usual cautious habit reasserted itself—he would first of all make inquiries.

After taking a very humble lodging he soon found out the position Phebe held in the town, and then his chagrin knew no bounds. He wished himself back again a hundred times over in the land of strangers—what a fool he had been! However, she should never have an opportunity of lording over him. "R. W." would stand for "Richard Wood" equally well as "Ralph Waring." A very old school-fellow had failed to recognise him, so it was not likely Phebe would. It was this strong belief in his changed appearance rendering his identity impossible that made him enter the shop. He quite chuckled over the way in which he had "done" Reynolds, and tried the experiment a second time. Reynolds was in the shop and again served him. As soon as he left the stolid look disappeared from Reynolds' face, and quick as lightning he despatched a shop-boy to follow "the tall, thin man with a cough" to see where he went. "Don't show yourself, though," was his parting injunction.

The lad did his "shadowing" in quite a professional manner, and returned with the answer: "63 Dutton Street."

"63 Dutton Street!" repeated Reynolds to himself. "Well, I never! Things get worse and worse! I mustn't tell Mrs. Colston that, the poor old dear! I won't let out he's been in again."

After Ralph Waring had made his second lot of purchases and paid his lodgings a week in advance, he had one solitary half-crown left. He had no watch or anything with him he could sell or pawn; possessing absolutely nothing but the thin, shabby clothes he stood up in. He turned the silver coin over in his hand, and muttered: "Only that between me and the workhouse!"

Day after day Nanna kept her secret from Phebe. How could she tell her! How could she bring such a double fold of gloom over her! And day after day she prayed for God's clear guidance.

At every opportunity she kept a stealthy watch over every customer who came into the shop, and all the day she was for ever listening for that hollow, rasping cough.

All this tension told upon her considerably. Phebe was quite certain she was not well, and she knew herself it was taking away her joy and breaking her peace. At last she pulled herself together, and decided she must carry the burden no longer. "It is too difficult a piece of work for me to do," she said to herself, "I must leave it all to God. If He wanted me to help in it He would have shown me the way. I'll just watch and see how He does it," and the joy and peace came back again.

If she had known of "63 Dutton Street," she would have seen the beginning of God's plans.

The knowledge soon came.

She was in the business early one morning, when all at once she felt impelled to whisper to Reynolds—

"Have you seen Ralph Waring again?"

Reynolds had no alternative but to answer "Yes."

"Did he come into the shop?"

Reynolds gave a solemn nod.

"Tell me all you know, Reynolds," she said, fixing her clear grey eyes on him; "don't keep anything back. I am quite prepared, for I feel sure all will come right."

And then Reynolds told her, first of all looking round to see if any one should be listening.

"He is staying at 63 Dutton Street," he whispered.

"63 Dutton Street!" she exclaimed, and then checked herself. "Why, that is where Mrs. Coates lives!" in a lower voice.

"Yes, he is lodging with her."

"Well! well!" She hardly knew what to say. Surely God had led Ralph there—but why?—why?

"Why? Why?" kept repeating through her brain as she went about her work.

That morning she received a letter from Bessie, in which that young lady said: "When are you coming to see me? Couldn't you come this afternoon?"

"Yes, I will," she said to herself. "Bessie's brain is younger than mine, and quicker. Perhaps she can tell me what I ought to do."

When Phebe knew of the intended visit, she said: "Well, I am glad! I do believe you are improving in your old age. Be sure and tell Bessie she has my permission to give you a good scolding for not going sooner."

"How little she dreams of what my real errand is!" whispered Nanna to herself. "I wonder if I am doing right in not telling her! But surely if I can keep trouble from her that is right! Surely she has suffered enough through Ralph Waring already without having any more! She thinks he is dead—'tis better so." And with that assurance she started on her journey.

"You blessed one!" exclaimed the excitable Bessie; "I have a good mind now you are here to lock you up like lavender, and never let you back again. Now I am going to get a high-style tea ready. If only I had been quite sure you were coming I would have bought a whole red-herring—they are the most economical things going, you only need one; you hand it all round the table, and each guest rubs his, or her, bread with it, and each one has all the delight of seeming to eat a whole bloater. However, as it is, we must stretch to sardines this time. David!"—peeping into the shop—"I'm not coming into the shop any more to-day, so if you can't manage to scrape along without me, you can put up the shutters at once."

"You see, Mrs. Colston," said David, "she is just the same Bessie as ever."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Bessie, "if that isn't rich! Did you expect I should turn into somebody else?—say Polly Spriggs, or the Duchess of Marlborough!—which would you have preferred?"

But David had fled back into the shop.

It was during tea Nanna told her story—always the time for confidences.

"We had such a strange customer in the other day, Bessie. Guess who it was!"

"Was it one of the high levellers, or one of the low levellers?"

"He looked like one of the low levellers, as you call them; but he used to be——" Nanna's hands trembled so much she almost dropped her cup.

Bessie was quick to notice this. "Dear Mrs. Colston," she exclaimed, "you have some bad news to tell me! What is it?—Do tell me quickly!"

"The customer was Ralph Waring."

"Ralph Waring! And does the Little Missis know—did she see him?" and Bessie started up from her chair in her excitement.

"No; I want your advice. Reynolds has found out that he is lodging at 63 Dutton Street. Just fancy that!"

"63 Dutton Street!" repeated Bessie, quite bewildered.

"Yes; with Mrs. Coates. You know Mrs. Coates. Do you think I ought to tell her?"

"Tell Mrs. Coates?"

"No—the Little Missis, as you call her."

"Of course not. If his lordship does not choose to make himself known, why should you trouble her about him? She has had enough trouble with him already—at least, I think so."

"That is just how I have been thinking."

"Oh, dear, dear! Whatever in the world did he need to turn up again for! I wish to goodness I could run away with him, that I do!"

"What is that you are saying?" exclaimed David, looking in from the shop, with quite a dramatic expression on his face. "Who is it you are wanting to elope with now? I really must know!"

Amid both laughter and tears Nanna explained the situation.

"Well, if she can manage to run away with him," said David magnanimously, "I am quite willing. But how can you work it, my sweet queen Bess?"

"Ah, that's the difficulty," she sighed. "I shall have to put my thinking cap on."

"There is no doubt he is very ill," said pitying Nanna; "he has a dreadful cough."

"A consumptive cough?" asked David.

"Yes."

"Then may God help him! I know what that means. My father died of consumption in Warley Hospital."

"I have it!" exclaimed Bessie, "let's get him into Warley Hospital! At least he would be some distance away, and would be better treated than in lodgings. Oh, yes, I'll manage to run away with him after all, you see if I don't! I'll call and see Mrs. Coates, and if I hear her lodger cough, I'll offer to get him an indoor letter for Warley Hospital. I'll not show myself at all, of course. Mrs. Coates shall do the real elopement work; I'll only superintend."