tairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumed
letter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done.

"Sir,--If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen.
A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take.

"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe."

The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire."
And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's head
was bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and she
let her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took note
of the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knew
that Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on that
account to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circumstances might have
shown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure gold
of the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stood
now. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happiness
at the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind which
seeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give him
leave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe was
human; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, over
that gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would not
tarnish the gold.

It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. She
wiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs and
tapped at Betty's door.

"There's that worriting Sue," she heard Betty say inside; and then the
door was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought
'twas that Sukey,--she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you,
my dear?"

"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty."

Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected the
seal.

"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're only
young, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for this
here letter?"

"'Tis not what you think, Betty," said Phoebe with a smile on her pale
lips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for my
cousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you will
send that letter."

Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes.

"I see," said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind ba