“I know He is,” said Phoebe, again.
“‘Mon sort n’est pas à plaindre,’” softly repeated Mrs Dorothy.
“Oh, it is wrong of me!” sobbed Phoebe. “But it does seem so hard. Nobody cares for me any more.”
“Nay, my child, ‘He careth for thee.’”
“Oh, I know it is so!” was the answer; “but I can’t feel it. It all looks so dark and cold. I can’t feel it!”
“Poor little child, lost in the dark!” said Mrs Dorothy, gently. “Dear, the Lord must know how very much easier it would be to see. But His especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet have believed. ’Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly father would have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenly Father?”
Phoebe’s tears were falling more softly now.
“Phoebe, little maiden, shall I love thee?”
“Thank you, Mrs Dorothy, but people don’t love me,” said Phoebe, as if it were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. “Only dear father and Perry.”
“And thy mother,” suggested Mrs Dorothy, in a soothing tone.