‘I cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed it is safe to think of His great loving-kindness and mercy. Robert will be here to-morrow. He will tell you better.’
‘He will give me the Holy Sacrament,’ said Mrs. Fulmort, ‘and then I shall go—’
Presently she moved uneasily. ‘Oh, Phœbe, I am so tired. Nothing rests me.’
‘There remaineth a rest,’ gently whispered Phœbe—and Miss Fennimore thought the young face had something of the angel in it—‘no more weariness there.’
‘They won’t think what a poor dull thing I am there,’ added her mother. ‘I wish I could take poor Maria with me. They don’t like her here, and she will be teased and put about.’
‘No, mother, never while I can take care of her!’
‘I know you will, Phœbe, if you say so. Phœbe, love, when I see God, I shall thank Him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have some comfort in one of my children.’
Phœbe tried to make her think of Robert, but she was exhausted, dozed, and was never able to speak so much again.
Miss Fennimore thought instead of reading. Was it the mere effect on her sympathies that bore in on her mind that Truth existed, and was grasped by the mother and daughter? What was there in those faltering accents that impressed her with reality? Why, of all her many instructors, had none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded Mrs. Fulmort?
Robert arrived the next day. His mother knew him and was roused sufficiently to accept his offices as a clergyman. Then, as if she thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed.