to it, Fib, haven't you? Well, 'tis mighty good
stuff to cure a cough."

"Phoebe," said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, "I wish
to speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours."

Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.

"My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband."

"Mother!"

"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable
handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet
broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for
he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable,
seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe,
at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while
these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish
to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early."

Phoebe felt any reply impossible.

"Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement."

Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was
this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak?
had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!"
went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right," said Phoebe,
plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plain
before my face," It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there
would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, and
that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She
could only put the case into God's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah:
"O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me."

It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda said
suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that Mr
Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more.

"Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me."

Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?

"I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda.

Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes.

"I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him
very well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_."

"Yes, poor dear," said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I must
fetch more wool."

And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her--

"Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"

"Pretty