ery 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.

"And I have sent her ten guineas."

"I thank you very much, Madam."

"I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible of
the propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I think
myself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have done
so much as this."

"I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you."

"And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of Mr
Edmundson."

"If you please, Madam, I did not like him," said Phoebe, honestly; "nor
I think he did not me."

"That would not much matter, my dear," observed Madam, referring to the
last clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would be
sorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better."

"If you would allow me to say so, Madam," answered Phoebe, modestly, yet
decidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am."

Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herself
for a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, though
she was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well!
go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come to
me at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night."

"I say, Fib," said Rhoda, who had