“There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from some disorder of the body.”
“What, Mrs Dorothy?”
“Discontent, my child.”
“But that is sin!” said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled.
“Ay. ‘Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.’”
“Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?”
“What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God’s child be willing to do her Father’s will?”
Phoebe’s face became grave.
“Dear Phoebe, ‘when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.’ Have a care!—Well, what is your next trouble?”
“I have had a letter from mother,” said Phoebe, colouring and looking uncomfortable.