vident expectation of a chat; 'she did finely
yesterday in spite of her missing you; when I went in to her in the
morning she quite took my breath away by asking if there were not an
easier chair in the house for you to use. "'Deed and there is, Phoebe,
woman," said I, quite pleased, for the poor thing is far too
uncomfortable herself to look after other people's comforts, and it was
such a new thing to hear her speak like that: so I fetched father's big
elbow-chair with a cushion or two and his little wooden footstool, and
there it stands ready for you this afternoon.'

'That was very thoughtful of Phoebe,' was my reply.

'Well, now, I thought you would be pleased, though it is only a trifle.
But that is not all. Widow Drayton was sitting with me last afternoon,
when all at once she puts up her finger and says, "Hark! Is not that your
Kitty's voice?" And so I stole out into the passage to listen. And there,
to be sure, was Kitty singing most beautifully some of the hymns you sang
to Phoebe; and if she could not make out all the words she just went on
with the tune, like a little bird, and Phoebe lay and listened to her,
and all the time--as I could see through the crack of the door--her eyes
were fixed on the picture you gave her, and I said to myself, "Phoebe,
woman, this is as it should be. You may yet learn wisdom out of the lips
of babes and sucklings."'

'I am very glad to hear all this, Miss Locke,' I returned cheerfully.
'Kitty will be able to take my place sometimes. She will be a valuable
little ally. Now, as my time is limited, I will go to Phoebe.'

I was much struck by the changed expression on Phoebe's face as soon
as I had entered the room. She certainly looked very ill, and when I
questioned her avowed she had suffered a good deal of pain in the night;
but the wild hard look had left her eyes. There was intense depression,
but that was all.

She evidently enjoyed the singing as much as ever: and I took care to
sing my best. When I had finished I produced a story that I thought
suitable, and began to read to her. She listened for about half an hour
before she showed a symptom of weariness. At the first sign I stopped.

'Will you do something to please me in return?' I asked, when she had
thanked me very civilly. 'I want you to go on with this book by yourself
now. I know what you are going to say--that you never read--that it makes
your head ache and tires you. But, if you care to please me, you will