"But that was not all she said," went on Bessie; "she said I was getting far too much of a saint for her; she wondered I had anything to do with such a wicked woman as she was,—but she believed it was only some clever trick I was up to,—mother even said I could act a sham to you, but she was not so easily gulled."
"Something had surely been worrying her."
"No, I don't suppose so, that's just mother. What is the good of me trying! I feel as if I'd never go in home again, that I do!"
"Do you think that would be acting a daughter's part?"
"No,"—very faintly.
"Then your course is very clear, dearie."
"Yes," with a deep sigh.
"Don't despair, Bessie, darling," said Phebe, stooping down and kissing the girl's brow. "It's a difficult piece of work you have to do, but there'll be all the more joy when it is completed."
There was a long silence between them, and the subject was not referred to again that evening. But Phebe sat long after Bessie had retired for the night thinking things over. The thought uppermost in her mind was this:
"I plead for visitors to go to zenanas in India, but what is my duty to Mrs. Marchant? All the years she has been my neighbour I have never even prayed for her, or tried to pass on to her any helpful message! Fancy that! And I call myself a Christian!"