reception. She must be disciplined to civility at all costs.
Max had been wrong to yield to her sick whims.

I must have sung for a long time, to judge by the amount of work I
contrived to do, and if I had sung like a whole nestful of skylarks I
could not have pleased my audience more. I was sorry to set Miss Locke's
tears flowing, because it hindered her work; tears are such a simple
luxury, but poor folk cannot always afford to indulge in them.

I had just commenced that beautiful song, 'Waft her, angels, through the
air,' when the impatient thumping of a stick on the floor arrested me; it
came from Phoebe's room.

'I will go to her,' I said, waving Miss Locke back and picking up my
flowers. 'Do not look so scared: she means those knocks for me.' And I
was right in my surmise. I found her lying very quietly, with the traces
of tears still on her face; she addressed me quite gently.

'Do not sing any more, please; I cannot bear it; it makes my heart ache
too much to-night.'

'Very well,' I returned cheerfully. 'I will just mend your fire, for it
is getting low, and put these flowers in water, and then I will bid you
good-night.'

'You are vexed with me for being rude,' she said, almost timidly. 'I told
Susan to send you away, because I could not bear any more talk. You made
me so unhappy yesterday, Miss Garston.'

I was cruel enough to tell her that I was glad to hear it, and I must
have looked as though I meant it.

'Oh, don't,' she said, shrinking as though I had dealt her a blow. 'I
want you to unsay those words: they pierce me like thorns. Please tell me
you did not mean them.'

'How can I know to what you are alluding?' I replied, in rather an
unsympathetic tone; but I did not intend to be soft with her to-day: she
had treated me badly and must repent her ingratitude. 'I certainly meant
every word I said yesterday,'

To my great surprise, she burst into tears, and repeated word for word
a fragment of a sentence that I had said.

'It haunts me, Miss Garston, and frightens me somehow. I have been saying
it over and over in my dreams,--that is what upset me so to-day: "if we
will not lie still under His hand,"--yes, you said that, knowing I have
never lain still for a moment,--"and if we will not learn the lesson He
would fain teach us, it may be that fresh trials may be sent to humble
us."'

Pity kept me silent for a moment, but I knew that I must not shirk my
work.

'I am sorry if the truth pains y