“My father? Oh! ‘Really, Gatty, I can’t interfere,—’tis your mother’s affair; you must make up your mind to it. We can’t have always what we like,’—and then he whistles to his hounds, and goes out a-hunting.”
“Well, Mrs Gatty, suppose you try God?”
“Suppose I have done, Phoebe, and got no answer at all?”
“Forgive me, I cannot suppose it.”
“Is He so good to you, Phoebe?”
The question was asked in a very, very mournful tone.
“Mrs Gatty,” said Phoebe, softly, “He has given me Himself. I do not think He has given me anything else of what my heart longs for. But that is enough. In Him I have all things.”
“What do you mean?” came in accents of perplexity from the bed in the opposite corner.
“I am afraid,” said Phoebe, “I cannot tell you. I mean, I could not make you understand it.”
“‘Given you Himself!’” repeated Gatty. “I can fancy how He could reward you or make you happy; but, ‘give you Himself!’”