Then he painted over the rejected one and let it dry; so that
sometimes a paid portrait would present a beauty enthroned on the debris
of two or three rivals, and that is where few beauties would object to
sit.

All this time he wrote nice letters to Phoebe, and adopted the tone
of the struggling artist, and the true lover, who wins his bride by
patience, perseverance, and indomitable industry; a babbled of "Self
Help."

Meantime, Phoebe was not idle: an excellent business woman, she took
immediate advantage of a new station that was built near the farm, to
send up milk, butter, and eggs to London. Being genuine, they sold like
wildfire. Observing that, she extended her operations, by buying of
other farmers, and forwarding to London: and then, having of course an
eye to her struggling artist, she told her father she must have a shop
in London, and somebody in it she could depend upon.

"With all my heart, wench," said he; "but it must not be thou. I can't
spare thee."

"May I have Dick, father?"

"Dick! he is rather young."

"But he is very quick, father, and minds every word I tell him."

"Ay, he is as fond of thee as ever a cow was of a calf. Well, you can
try him."

So the love-sick woman of business set up a little shop, and put her
brother Dick in it, and all to see more of her struggling artist. She
stayed several days, to open the little shop, and start the business.
She advertised pure milk, and challenged scientific analysis of
everything she sold. This came of her being a reader; she knew, by the
journals, that we live in a sinful and adulterating generation, and
anything pure must be a godsend to the poor poisoned public.

Now, Dr. Staines, though known to the profession as a diagnost, was also
an analyst, and this challenge brought him down on Phoebe Dale. He
told her he was a physician, and in search of pure food for his own
family--would she really submit the milk to analysis?

Phoebe smiled an honest country smile, and said, "Surely, sir." She gave
him every facility, and he applied those simple tests which are commonly
used in France, though hardly known in England.

He found it perfectly pure, and told her so; and gazed at Phoebe for a
moment, as a phenomenon.

She smiled again at that, her broad country smile. "That is a wonder in
London, I dare say. It's my belief half the children that die here are
perished with watered milk. Well, sir, we shan't have that on our souls,
father and I