This little girl, though, whose face was so sad, and whose straw-hat hung so droopingly from her arm, was not like the Phœbe of most days, who, on her return from school about this hour, came popping her happy little face in at the door, and if dinner were ready, would eat hers quickly, and be off again.
The kitchen at Simon Copland’s was a long, large room, and had great beams across the ceiling, from which hung hams and other good things. Mrs. Copland was busy at the table, and near one of the windows sat her brother, Phœbe’s uncle, Roger, who lived some miles away at pretty Lady’s Mead, and who was very dear to his little niece. To him, however, she had no mind to go at present, and would have slipped upstairs; but he quickly spied out the little figure in the doorway, and opened his arms to her, saying, “Here’s the little lass; give thy Uncle Rogie a kiss, Phœbe.” There was no escape for Phœbe, and in a minute more she was on her uncle’s knee, while his large forefinger was placed on the marks of tears on her cheeks, and his kind inquiring eyes asked as well as his words, “Phœbe, my lass, what ails thee?”
Her mother turned round from the table. “What is it, Phœbe?” she said.
And then came a burst of tears from the little girl, and a confession, poured into Uncle Roger’s ear, of misfortunes that day, and many days before, at Mrs. Nott’s school in the village; how diligently Phœbe had always prepared her lessons overnight, but how first one book was lost, and then another; and how to-day, because the pencil had been carelessly fastened to the slate, it too had disappeared, and was not there when wanted, and in consequence Margaret Prettyman had got above her—sly Margaret Prettyman, who often did not learn her lessons at all, but kept her place at the head of the class by writing down her task on a slip of paper, and keeping it in her hand while she repeated it; and how Mrs. Nott had said that Margaret was so tidy and Phœbe so careless; and how she reproved the latter when the class was over, and told her that, unless girls were tidy and careful, all their learning was of no use. “Every girl ought to keep herself and her things in apple-pie order,” Mrs. Nott said. “And, O uncle,” sobbed Phœbe, “I know I’m careless, but I never can remember to be tidy; and I can’t keep apple-pie order, for I don’t know what it is.” And so, with many more tears, Phœbe’s confession ended.
“Well, child,” said her mother, “it’s as I’ve often told you. Your drawer is a shame to be seen; and I’m glad Mrs. Nott spoke to you as she did.”
Uncle Roger stroked his chin, and sat looking out through the window for a little, saying nothing, till Phœbe’s sobs grew less frequent, and at last almost ceased. He then reached his hand through the open lattice, and pulling a little flower from among the creepers, gently raised Phœbe’s face, saying,—
“Look thee here, little niece; mark this small, pretty flower, with its white blossoms so perfect and tidy; look at the stalk below, and each little leaf upon it, regular, one after the other. There isn’t one part of this pretty flower out of its place, Phœbe; and who made it?”
Phœbe’s sobs ceased altogether as she replied, “God, uncle.”
“And look there,” Uncle Roger went on, drawing towards him as he spoke a large china dish, on which lay a beautiful honeycomb, which Mrs. Copland had set aside for a sick friend—“look at this too. See each cell, and each of these beautiful little arches; there is not one unlike its neighbour. What do you think of order like that, niece Phœbe? isn’t it perfect?”