“I must leave it. He will have it.”
“He will have it,” repeated Mrs Dorothy solemnly; “but, Phoebe, you can leave it in loving submission, or you can have it wrenched from you in judgment. Though it may be that you must loose your hold on a gem, yet you please yourself whether you yield it as a gift, or wait to have it torn away.”
“I see,” said Phoebe.
“Was there any further trouble, my dear?”
“Only that,” replied Phoebe. “Life seems hard. I get so tired!”
“Thou art young to know that, child,” said Mrs Dorothy, with a rather sad smile.
“Well, I don’t know,” answered Phoebe, doubtfully. “I think I have always been tired. And don’t you know some people rest you, and some people don’t? When there is nobody that rests one— Father used— but—”
Mrs Dorothy thought there was not much difficulty in reading the story hidden behind Phoebe’s broken sentences.
“So life is hard?” she echoed. “Poor child! Dear, it was harder to Him that sat on the well at Sychar, wearied with His journey. He has not forgotten it, Phoebe. Couldst thou not go and remind Him of it, and ask Him to bless and rest thee?”
“Mrs Dolly, do you feel tired like that?”