"Oh." There was a world of meaning in that one word.
"I think the difference between us is this," said Phebe, taking Mrs. Marchant's bony hand and gently stroking it: "I have put my life entirely into God's hands, and knowing He rules over everything, I can well afford to take things restfully."
"Then it is your religion that makes the difference?"
"Yes, if you like to put it that way."
"And would it make the same difference to me?"
"Of course it would."
"Well, I shall never forget the sight of your face when that tea went over. That sight was worth all the sermons I ever heard!"
"Wouldn't Bessie be glad if she knew! I'm not a bit sorry she spilt the tea, now. It would be worth the spoiling of all my dresses if it makes you want—Him!"—the last word very softly. Her eyes were on the silver star, but the secret of the star was too sacred to speak of.
"But," added Phebe, "you must not give me one bit of praise for keeping calm; I should have been as mad as anybody,—but for Him."
"And do you think of Him as always with you?"