se for it, or you do not."

"I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen."

Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen.

"There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from some
disorder of the body."

"What, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Discontent, my child."

"But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled.

"Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.'"

"Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?"

"What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do her
Father's will?"

Phoebe's face became grave.

"Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.' Have
a care!--Well, what is your next trouble?"

"I have had a letter from mother," said Phoebe, colouring and looking
uncomfortable.

"Is that a trouble, child?"

"No,--not that. Oh no! But--"

"But a trouble sticks to it. Well,--what?"

"She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for me
to do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be the
best chance."

Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to Mrs
Latrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe.

"I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy," said Phoebe
uneasily. "And ought I?"

"I suppose somebody had better ask you first," was Mrs Dorothy's dry
answer.

"I would rather live with Mother," continued Phoebe. And suddenly a cry
broke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wish
Mother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill of
the fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!"

Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together on
her little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe.

"Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whom
no love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have it
otherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one of
those, Phoebe?"

"I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"

"Dear child, He knows. Canst thou not trust Him? `Dieu est ton
Berger.' The Shepherd takes more care of the sheep, Phoebe, than the
sheep take care of themselves. Poor, blundering creatures that we are!
always apt to think, in the depth of our hearts, that God would rather
not save us, and that we shall have to take a great deal of trouble to
persuade Him to do it. Nay! it is the Shepherd that longs to have the
lamb safe folded, and the