“Is that a trouble, child?”
“No,—not that. Oh no! But—”
“But a trouble sticks to it. Well,—what?”
“She says I ought to—to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for me to do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be the best chance.”
Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to Mrs Latrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe.
“I don’t think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy,” said Phoebe uneasily. “And ought I?”
“I suppose somebody had better ask you first,” was Mrs Dorothy’s dry answer.
“I would rather live with Mother,” continued Phoebe. And suddenly a cry broke out which had been repressed till then. “I wish—oh, I wish Mother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill of the fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!”
Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together on her little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe.
“Little maid!” she said, lovingly, “there are some of us women for whom no love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have it otherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one of those, Phoebe?”