ssed
as you?'

'True, most true,' she murmured.

'You are cradled in the supplications of the faithful. A thousand hearts
are hearing your sorrows, and yet you say impiously that you are on the
border-land of hell; but no, you will never go there. There are too many
marks of His love upon you. All this suffering has more meaning than
that.'

It is impossible to describe the look she gave me; astonishment,
incredulity, and something like dawning hope were blended in it; but
she remained silent.

'You have missed your vocation, that is true. You were set apart here
to do most divine work; but you have failed over it. Still, you may
be forgiven. How many prayers you might have prayed for Robert! You
might have been an invisible shield between him and temptation. There
is so much power in the prayers of unselfish love. This room, which
you describe as a tomb, or an antechamber of hell, might have been an
inner sanctuary, from which blessings might flow out over the whole
neighbourhood. Silent lessons of patience might have been preached here.
Your sister's weary hands might have been strengthened. You could have
mutually consoled each other; and now--' I paused, for here conscience
completed the sentence. I saw a tear steal under her eyelid, and then
course slowly down her face.

'I have made Susan miserable, I know that; and she is never impatient
with me if I am ever so cross with her. Ah, I deserve my punishment, for
I have been a selfish, hateful creature all my life. I do think sometimes
that an evil spirit lives in me.'

'There is One who can cast it out; but you must ask Him, Phoebe. Such a
few words will do: "Lord help me!" Now we have talked enough, and Susan
will be coming back from church. I mean to sing you the evening hymn, and
then I must go.' And, almost before I had finished the last line, Phoebe,
exhausted with emotion, had sunk into a refreshing sleep, and I crept
softly out of the room to watch for Susan's return.

I felt strangely weary as I walked home. It was almost as though I had
witnessed a human soul struggling in the grasp of some evil spirit. It
was the first time I had ever ministered to mental disease. Never before
had I realised what self-will, unchastened by sorrow and untaught by
religion, can bring a woman to. Once or twice that evening I had doubted
whether the brain were really unhinged; but I had come to the conclusion
that it was only excess of morbid excitement.

My way home