en't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare say
the troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he should
not have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I owe
you all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!"

Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night.

Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladies
was a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governess
and nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreading
tree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness to
the children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages of
the Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day.
In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbot
and Mrs Clarissa Vane.

Mrs Marcella's health had somewhat improved of late, but her
disposition had not sustained a corresponding change. She was holding
forth now to her two listeners on matters public and private, to the
great satisfaction of Mrs Clarissa, but not altogether to that of Mrs
Eleanor.

"Well, so far as such a poor creature as I am can take any pleasure in
any thing, I am glad to see Mrs Derwent back at White-Ladies. Mrs
Phoebe would never have kept up the place properly. She hasn't her poor
mother's spirit and working power--not a bit. The place would just have
gone to wreck if she had remained mistress there; and I cannot but think
she was sensible of it."

"Well, for my part," put in Mrs Clarissa, "I feel absolutely certain
something must have come to light about Madam's will, you know--which
positively obliged Mrs Phoebe to give up everything to Madam Derwent.
'Tis monstrous to suppose that she would have done any such thing
without being obliged. I feel as sure as if I had _seen_ it."

"O my dear!" came in a gently deprecating tone from Mrs Eleanor.

"Oh, I am positive!" repeated Mrs Clarissa, whose mind possessed the
odd power of forcing conviction on itself by simple familiarity with an
idea. "Everything discovers so many symptoms of it. I cannot but be
infinitely certain. Down, Pug, down!" as Cupid's successor, which was
not a dog, but a very small monkey, endeavoured to jump into her lap.

"Well, till I know the truth is otherwise, I shall give Mrs Phoebe
credit for all," observed Mrs Eleanor.

"Indeed, I apprehend Clarissa has guessed rightly," said Mrs Marcella,
fann