“Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!—well, Gatty, then, as you are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose.”
“I wonder for what!” said Gatty.
“Well, we can’t tell yet, you see,” replied Phoebe, simply. “I suppose you will find out by and bye.”
“I wish I could find out,” said Gatty, sighing.
“I think He will show you, when He is ready,” said Phoebe. “Father used to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good while. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doing with us while He does it, but only when He has finished.”
“Nice,” at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of delicately particular.
“I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been living now.”
“Oh!” very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish.
“Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?”
“My patience!” repeated astonished Phoebe.