It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of a Syrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her love for Osmund Derwent—for she gave it the right name now—was a hopeless thing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall.
“But Thou remainest!”
The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones of her father’s voice. She recollected that they had formed the text of the last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he had said to her on his death-bed, “Dear little Phoebe, remember always, there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ.” The tears came now. There was relief and healing in them.
“But Thou remainest!”
“Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?”
Phoebe’s face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempest which had swept over her heart.
“Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment,” said Madam that evening after prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda.
“Yes, Madam.” Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting.
Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room. Then she said, “Child, I have writ a letter to your mother.”
“I thank you, Madam,” replied Phoebe.