‘May I be worthy of those thoughts!’ he fervently said. ‘And you will write to me—even when I go back to the Ottawa?’
‘I shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters! Oh! no, with them I am not going to pine’—and her strong young nature laughed at the folly.
‘And while God gives me strength, we will not be afraid,’ he answered. ‘Phœbe, I looked at the last chapter of Proverbs last night, and thought you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose “lips is the law of kindness.” And “you are not afraid of the snow,” as if to complete the likeness.’
‘I did not quite know it was snowing. I like it, for it suits your country.’
‘I like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear crystal ice,’ he said; ‘only not quite so cold! And now, what remains? Must your brothers be consulted?’ he added, reluctantly.
‘It will be right that I should tell them,’ said Phœbe. ‘From Robert I could not keep such a thing, and Mervyn has a right to know. I cannot tell how he may take it, but I do not think that I owe him such implicit obedience as if he were my father. And by the time you really ask for me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as I am!’
‘God helping me,’ he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful confidence.
And thus they looked forth upon this life. Neither was so young as not to be aware of its trials. She knew the sorrows of suspense, bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and severe—almost hopeless—everyday labour. It was not in the spirit of those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of all—the delay of their hopes. The cold but bracing wind, the snow driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench their spirits—nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling whiteness.
Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming darkness. It was like a foretaste for Phœbe of seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment’s farewell on the morrow. Phœbe would rather not have been met by Bertha, at the front door, in some solicitude—‘You are come at last! Are you wet? are you cold?’
‘Oh, no, thank you! Don’t stand in the draught,’ said Phœbe,