And after that the working, suffering days never seemed so long. Somehow, the thought of Sunday brightened all the week, and Phœbe lifted up her heart. Sometimes, indeed many times, Miss Lane came to see her and gave her books. Once or twice the child had spent an hour in her kind friend’s own dainty room. And when at last she became “a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven,” Miss Lane stood near to encourage, and ever since had been pointing out the way in which she should walk.
No one could dream then, how inexpressibly sweet and strong was this tie that bound her to her benefactress. No one knew how the thought of this earnest love warmed and lighted that cold room in the gloomy December morning. And but little could the outer world of those more fortunate than she, guess how exquisitely beautiful were the thoughts and feelings of this poor, untaught child, whose one joy had changed the earth into a Paradise.
So she lighted the fire and sat fanning it into a blaze with her apron, thinking, with a thrill of delight, that to-day Miss Lane was to begin teaching her to knit fancy knitting. She had promised to find sale for any articles that Phœbe might make; and such a bright vision rose before her fancy that she clapped her hands and laughed aloud—such a picture of a winter cloak, a hood, and a little offering to the Sunday School, which it burned her cheek to think she had never been able to give. And on Christmas morning she would go herself to Lyle’s to buy a bouquet for Miss Lane, one made up of delicate, pure flowers like the lady herself, with heliotrope and geranium leaves.
Inside of her Prayer-book was a withered, faded blossom, which Miss Lane had given her weeks ago, and told her it meant, “I love you,” and Phœbe kissed it night and morning, and many times in the day, if hard words brought tears to her eyes or tempted her to lose her trust and hopefulness. It all came back when she touched this talisman, or read, “Let not your heart be troubled.”
She used to think a great many strange thoughts, these lonely days, when sometimes, for many hours, there was no human friend to whom she could speak, and only the wide, blank snow, with the leafless trees waving over it, for her to look out upon.
She liked to look at the sky, and watch the clouds at sunset, for God seemed just beyond them, and her loneliness left her when she remembered that He was her Father, and a beautiful hope was in her heart, that she, the believing child, might save that erring, earthly parent.
So, when the blaze sprang up, Phœbe, under the influence of its warmth, grew drowsy and fell asleep, and dreamed. While she dreamed, the messenger came; slowly the flame crept towards her, and a spark rested on her cotton dress; it glowed and spread and crackled, then burst into a flame and bathed her in a stream of fire. Her father and mother were asleep up stairs, but her dreadful, agonized screams soon reached their ears.
When they burst into the room, the panting, trembling, shrieking child was rolling on the floor, blackened, burnt, a pitiful sight for human eyes. She had wrapped a piece of carpet about her, and so put out the dreadful fire; but the agony of those few seconds who can tell?
She bore it all, the dreadful, sickening dressing of the burns, her faintness, and the coarse words of the step-mother, who reproached her even then; she bore it because Miss Lane held her hand, whispered her words of Jesus, and cooled her brow, praying God to help her bear it. He did help her, and a wonderful patience and sweetness came into her soul, so that heaven seemed to lie not far off.
She could not bear, at first, that her comforter should leave her, but one word on the duty of resignation dried her tears, and she waited in calmness till her dear friend came to her again.