"Perhaps so; Phebe Mary go well together, and it was only natural he would like her named after you."
"It is not Phebe. Baby's name is Victoria Mary."
Mrs. Colston had long ago commenced the training of her lips, and for a moment did not speak.
"And may the little dear always have the victory. That's my wish for her."
"And you don't think it sounds ridiculous then?" asked Phebe, raising herself up on her elbow, "I mean for a draper's daughter?"
"Certainly not; why shouldn't a draper's daughter have as good a name as anybody else? I hope she will grow up a real queenie."
"I was thinking, dear Mrs. Colston, as you came into the garden, that the process of Christian-making is slow work with me. Indeed, sometimes I am afraid it has stopped altogether."
"Not it, my dear; not a wee bit of it," stroking her hair. "If you had said, 'I'm getting on fine—shall soon be a saint,' I should have said it was pretty nigh all up with you. But, bless you, my dear, you've got that feeling just now because the Lord's been dealing with you. I watched old Robert in the spring cutting his vine; my, there was a slaughtering! I fancy the poor old vine thought it was almost done for, but you should just see it now!"
As Mrs. Colston stepped out of the shop door that evening she nearly fell into the arms of Neighbour Bessie, as Phebe loved to call her. "How is Mrs. Waring?" Bessie asked anxiously. "Do you think she is all right?"