"Oh, dear, dear, what can have caused it all? And me not to know a word of it!"

"She has told no one but her father and sister. I got to know of it in another way; but do not ask me how--some day I may tell you, but not now."

"Where is her husband?"

"On his way to Australia."

"Poor lamb! poor stricken lamb!"--the tears would not keep back, and something like a sob came from Stephen as he rose to his feet to go.

"Stay, stay," said Mrs. Colston, putting a detaining hand upon him, "the shepherd would be sure to give some particulars as to the lamb's whereabouts and what help it needed. Tell me how it is she is in difficulties about money, and what you would advise her to do."

"You can guess how it is she is in difficulties; the worst reason you can think of will be the right one. What I want her to do is to accept my help, but that she refuses to do. If no other way opens up she will accept her sister's help, but she is rather afraid that would anger her father."

"Yes, he has rather close ways. How much does she require?"

"Three hundred pounds with care would set her upon her feet."

In another five minutes the two had parted company outside in the road--Stephen to go home to the lonely farmhouse; Mrs. Colston to go and do shepherd-work.

CHAPTER VIII

A TWOFOLD PARTNERSHIP

Mrs. Colston found Phebe seated at her books, where she had been ever since Stephen had left. A brighter look came into her face when she saw her old friend than had been there since Ralph's disappearance, but it was the brightness of the rainbow, for in a minute or two she was seated on a stool at Mrs. Colston's feet sobbing bitterly.

"Poor lamb! You precious dear!" murmured the old friend, gently stroking the brown bowed head and putting her arm lovingly round her neck. She never sought to check the tears, knowing what a safety-valve they are.

And who can say tears are either weak or wicked, since "Jesus wept"?

"I am so glad to see you; I did so want you to come, but did not like to send for you," Phebe managed at length to say.

"I came off the first minute I knew you were in trouble. I only wish I had known before," and she put both arms round her then, and kissed her--just like a mother would have done.

"Stephen Collins told me, so I may as well tell you. Do you see these hands?" spreading them out before her. "There's a good deal of strength in them yet. No harm shall come near you that I can keep off. You're not alone in the world, thank G.o.d; there's one friend who'll stand by you if no one else does, and her name's Susan Colston!"

Phebe looked up with quite a smiling face. "That does sound nice!" she exclaimed. "You are a dear. I cannot tell you how lonely I have been since Ralph went--just as if I were living in a desert; but such a load seems gone now you have come."

Then Phebe told her story. Sometimes the words would hardly come for a choking sob; but at last it was spread out before her childhood's friend in all its grim, unromantic baldness.

When it was finished Mrs. Colston said: "Well, dearie, I'm not going to say one word against Ralph; I hope I never shall. We will pray for him, that is all: he must just be left to G.o.d's dealings."

"But he could not have loved me, could he?" sighed Phebe. Mrs. Colston wisely did not answer. Then Phebe spoke of her fresh trouble: "The world will blame me, won't it? People will say I was a dreadful sort of woman that Ralph could not live with."

"I dare say they will, but what will that matter? Lots of people are wrongly judged and wrongly punished. All this goes into the making of a Christian. You know Job stood the trials of loss and bereavement, but he could not stand the trial of the loss of his good name. It was then he opened his mouth and used bad language. Up to that time he had blessed the Lord--a pretty good difference. Suppose they do take away your good name, the Lord will give it back to you again. Don't try to vindicate yourself: you just leave all that to Him, and He'll make all come out clear. People think it was the washing of those men's feet that showed how humble Jesus was. I don't think so. I think it was when He 'made Himself of no reputation'--just calmly let people take His character away. Don't you see, Miss Phebe, dear, that your life is getting a little bit more like the life of Jesus. Just a little step more, and, like Paul, you'll glory in tribulation."

"I'm afraid I'm a long way from doing that."

"No doubt you think so. But there now, I'm afraid my tongue is going on too fast. What I particularly want to know is how you are going to manage this business?"

"I think I can manage very well if I have a little more capital, and if no other way opens up I can have my sister's money."

"Will you let me ask a favour?"

"Of course I will. You know that."

"And won't be offended?"

"How could I be?"

"I want you to let me open the way for you. You have asked G.o.d to open up the way for you, let G.o.d answer your prayer through me."

"Do you mean it?" in great astonishment.

"Yes. Perhaps you think a poor old mangle-woman could not have a banking-account, but I have"--this with a pleasant ring of laughter.

"There now, what do you think of that? I've just got three hundred pounds in the savings bank. Will that be enough?"

_Three hundred pounds!_--just the amount Stephen said she would need.

Phebe stood speechless.

"Say, dear, won't you?" repeated Mrs. Colston.

"Why, of course I will; am only too delighted. It is the wonder of it that made me quiet. You are good--so very good--and I'll see to it you shall never lose the money," lifting up a face full of love-light.

"You are not to trouble about that. If it is lost it is lost; I shall not mind so long as we're partners. But there is something else I want to ask you, and this you may not grant because it is asking so much."

"I am sure you cannot ask anything I should not be only too happy to grant."

"If you are going to manage the business, who is going to look after the housekeeping and the children? You cannot do all."

"No, I cannot." Then after a pause: "G.o.d, who has helped me thus far so wondrously, in such an unexpected way, will certainly make that clear also."

"So He will!" jubilantly exclaimed the dear old body. "So He will, only He will let me do it for Him. It's just splendid to be on errands like this!"

"Whatever do you mean?" Phebe was bewildered.

"I mean this: let me come and live with you and be your housekeeper and nurse! I am tired of living alone, tired of my musical-box, and tired of having no one to show bits of love to when I've a mind to. Will you let me? I'll be so good if you will."

"Let you! Why, it fairly takes away my breath. But I don't know if I ought to let you. It is taking too much from you. You would have to give up your own little home, and then there's the children----"

"I know what you are going to say: that old folks don't want to be bothered with children. Perhaps some don't, but what would my life be worth now if I'd never had anything to do with children?"

"Ah! but that was when you were younger."

"I'm not old yet," drawing herself up with laughable dignity; "no, not yet, thank you. But now to business. As far as you yourself are concerned, have you any objection to my plan?"