“Mon sort n’est pas à plaindre,
Il est à désirer;
Je n’ai plus rien à craindre,
Car Dieu est mon Berger.”
“My lot asks no complaining,
But joy and confidence;
I have no fear remaining,
For God is my Defence.”
But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush of associations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, and covered her face with her hands.
“What on earth are you crying for?” asked Rhoda.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Dorothy. “The verse is enough for a day, and the truth which is in it is enough for a life.”
“I ask your pardon!” sobbed Phoebe, when she could speak at all. “But I used to sing it—to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poor mother. And they are all gone now!”
“Oh, don’t bother!” said Rhoda. “My papa’s dead, and my mamma too; but you’ll not see me crying over it.”
Rhoda pronounced the words “Pappa,” and “Mamma,” as is done in America to this day.
“You never knew your parents, Mrs Rhoda,” said the little old lady, ever ready to cast oil on the troubled waters. “Phoebe, dear child, wouldst thou wish them all back again?”
“No; oh, no! I could not be so unkind,” said Phoebe, wiping her eyes. “But only a year ago, there were seven of us. It seems so hard!”