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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 http://archive.org/details/phoebeorhospitalOOhowl 
 
'VYVr >"3^> \'£'H 
 
 HOLLAND 
 
 p a CE B E . 
 
PHOEBE; 
 
 €1jb Inspital. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE PRIZE," "MAURICE FAVELL," "THE PRIMROSES," 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 DEPOSITORY 20 JOHN STREET. 
 1851. 
 
. > 
 
PHCEBE 
 
 OR, THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 William Freeman returned home from 
 his work one evening early in March, and 
 found his wife, who had prepared every thing 
 for his return, looking sad, and as if she had 
 been crying, very different from the fresh, 
 brisk, cheerful manner which he used to 
 reckon upon, when he opened his cottage- 
 door, with as much certainty as the warm 
 fire and comfortable supper. 
 
 fr- " What's the matter, wife ?" he began ; " is 
 
 i Phoebe worse?" 
 
 9 " No, not worse, I hope," she replied, 
 
 ^"though she has had a sad day of it, poor 
 thing; but the doctor has been here, and he 
 
6 phcebe; or, 
 
 says lie can do no good with her here ; that 
 
 she ought to go to the hospital at N if 
 
 we want her cured, and he says he'll get her 
 in if we like ; but oh, "William, I can't let 
 her go. What will a poor child like that do 
 without a mother to take care of her? No, 
 I can never let her go." 
 
 William sat sad and thoughtful for some 
 time ; at last he said : " You see she gets no 
 better ; every time I come home at night she 
 looks more pining and wasted than when I 
 left her in the morning, and it's a pity to 
 see such a nice bonny little lass as she was, 
 changed into a poor pale thing, starting ana 
 frightened if a dog does but bark, and so 
 worn out by the noises of the other children 
 and baby's crying. I'm sure if they could do 
 her any good, I'd let her go to the hospital ; 
 for, take all the care and pains you can, it's 
 clear to me she gets worse instead of better; 
 and pains enough you do take, that is certain, 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 7 
 
 for you have rest neither night nor day with 
 her." 
 
 The eonversation lasted some time ; and 
 under her husband's way of looking on the 
 subject, the poor anxious mother began to 
 make up her mind, that if it could be proved 
 really for her child's good, she would part 
 with her, and commit her to the care of 
 strangers. It is not necessary to explain all 
 that passed ; the doctor repeated his assurance 
 to William Freeman, and it was settled at last, 
 that on the following Monday Phoebe should 
 be taken to the hospital. The town was six 
 miles off; but William Freeman did not think 
 much of this distance, though with his little 
 girl in his arms. It made him sad, indeed, 
 to think, as he started on the journey, how 
 slight her weight was, and how small a bur- 
 den and hindrance. 
 
 Phoebe, as her father said, had been, till 
 the last few months, a fine, healthy child ; but 
 
8 
 
 an illness then came upon her which defied 
 all home-treatment, and all the receipts of 
 the most experienced neighbors, and even 
 did not give way under the doctor's reme- 
 dies, who explained to her father, that she 
 needed some most expensive medicines, and 
 also other things which, situated as they were, 
 it would be impossible for them to provide 
 for her. The poor child was sorry to leave 
 home, and felt grieved at her mother's distress 
 at -parting from her, but she was too uncom- 
 fortable and ill in her own feelings to be able 
 to enter thoroughly into what was passing, 
 and the promise held out to her of getting 
 better, reconciled her to a good deal. 
 
 " Don't cry, mother," she said ; " perhaps I 
 shall come back again quite well ;" but her 
 smile was so faint and languid as she spoke, 
 that her mother found it harder than ever to 
 restrain her tears. 
 
 Her last care had been to wrap the poor 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 9 
 
 child up in every warm thing the house con- 
 tained, and so defended, she reached the town 
 without feeling much of the keen March wind. 
 
 The hospital at N was a large building 
 
 on the outskirts of the town, and thither her 
 father made his way at once. It was Monday 
 morning and the time for receiving patients, 
 and Phoebe felt rather frightened and bewil- 
 dered when her father set her down in the 
 midst of a little crowd of sick people collected 
 there from different parts of the country in the 
 same hope of relief. She had presently to go 
 through the further alarm of being examined 
 and questioned by the physician ; and after this 
 was over, she was given into the charge of a 
 nurse, and told to go up stairs, where she 
 would be instructed where to go and what to 
 do. The time had now come for her father to 
 take leave of her, and then it did seem a hard 
 thing to him to say good-bye to his little girl 
 of but nine years old, and leave her amongst 
 
10 
 
 strangers. He felt no doubt, however, that he 
 was doing right, and besides he was comforted 
 by the doctor's kind manner, and the nurse's 
 promises of attention ; so he kissed little 
 Phoebe, and was able to conceal from her the 
 sadness that was in his heart while he did so. 
 The poor child saw him go before she fully un- 
 derstood what had happened ; for she was con- 
 fused by the new and strange scene, and besides 
 felt weak and ill after her journey. It was not 
 thought necessary for her to go to bed, or to be 
 confined to her own ward, so she was taken to 
 what is called the convalescent room, that is, 
 the room where those who are getting better, or 
 who are not bad enough to be obliged to lie in 
 bed in the day-time, spend their time. Several 
 women were there, and two or three quite 
 young people ; but none so young as she was. 
 Most of them looked very pale and sickly to 
 Phoebe, who had never seen much of illness, 
 and the whole place, she thought, seemed 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 11 
 
 strange and dull. Some few were engaged 
 in needle- work, and some were reading books, 
 their Bibles and Prayer-books, or others that 
 the clergyman had provided for them ; but few 
 sick people can either read or work for long at 
 a time ; so that generally the women were 
 resting themselves on the seats and long settles, 
 or talking now and then to one another in a 
 low voice. Phoebe was suffered to take her 
 place among them without much notice; prob- 
 ably they thought she would rather not have 
 any attention paid her, for she sat herself down 
 in a corner as soon as she could, as if wishing 
 to avoid observation. This first day seemed 
 very long ;' the only things to make a change 
 to her were, first, dinner, which she could not 
 eat, and then a dose of very bitter medicine, 
 which she contrived to swallow with less diffi- 
 culty than she usually made at home, because 
 she feared to draw attention upon her by 
 making a fuss about it ; and last came tea, 
 
12 
 
 which she found very refreshing. The nurse 
 then took her to her ward ; for this is the name 
 of the bedrooms at a hospital ; and showed her 
 which bed was to be hers. It looked very 
 clean and comfortable ; and after a long and 
 weary day Phoebe felt glad and thankful to lie 
 down to rest once more. As she knelt down 
 and said her prayers, it made her feel less 
 lonely to think that her mother would pray for 
 her too that night, and in this thought she fell 
 more soundly asleep than she had often done 
 lately. 
 
 She did not wake again till the middle of the 
 night, when the restless feelings of her illness 
 generally came most strongly upon her ; and 
 she was beginning to call out for her mother to 
 come to her, as she was used to do, when the 
 thought rushed upon her mind that her mother 
 was far, far away, and that she was amongst 
 strangers. Poor child ! it was more than she 
 could bear at such a time; for who does not 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 13 
 
 know what feelings of fear and distress and 
 alarm will often crowd upon the mind at night, 
 which the day shows to be unreasonable and 
 vain? She was ill too, and at that moment 
 thought herself even more ill than she was; 
 and the end was, that after a frightened glance 
 round the dimly-lighted room, she gave way to 
 a flood of tears, which, when once begun, she 
 could not stop, and which almost threatened to 
 get beyond her control. At this moment some 
 one in the farthest bed, who till then seemed to 
 have been asleep, rose up and throwing a large 
 cloak round her, approached the bedside of the 
 poor disconsolate child. This was Mary Grey, 
 a young woman who had been for some time a 
 patient in the house, and who had observed 
 Phoebe from her first arrival, but being a shy, 
 retired person, had not liked to be the first 
 to take notice of her. But now when she heard 
 her distress, she willingly rose from her bed, in 
 no ill humour though roused from a comfortable 
 
14 
 
 sleep which she much needed, and went to try 
 what she could do to soothe and comfort her. 
 At the same time a voice from the opposite side 
 of the room cried out, in peevish tones : — 
 
 " Oh ! for goodness' sake stop that child ; 
 it's bad enough when one is well to have 
 their crying and noise, but when one is ill, 
 it's past all bearing ;" then raising herself 
 with a sudden, impatient movement, as her 
 first complaint did not seem to be attended 
 to, she added, "Do be quiet, I tell you ; do 
 you think nobody is ill but yourself?" 
 
 This angry appeal did Phoebe good so far, 
 that it roused her and stopped her tears, from 
 very surprise : she had in fact hitherto been 
 allowed to give way to her feelings far too 
 much for her own good, her mother having 
 been always too patient and forbearing to like 
 to use any authority. She had considered, 
 justly enough, that such attacks were caused 
 by illness, and so must be excused ; but she 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 15 
 
 had not thought sufficiently, that though ex- 
 cusable, it was the worst possible thing for 
 the child to be allowed to indulge in them ; 
 and so it happened that Phoebe had never 
 received such a check before, and the effect 
 was certainly good upon her, for she was 
 silent at once. In this moment Mary Grey 
 came softly up to her, and speaking to her 
 in a kind voice, asked her what was the 
 matter that she cried so sadly ; and gently 
 reminded her at the same time, by way of 
 explaining the angry voice from the corner, 
 that other people were ill too, and that it was 
 not kind or right to disturb them more than 
 could be helped. Phoebe felt the reasonable- 
 ness of this, and besides was comforted by 
 Mary's soft, gentle voice, and by the thought 
 that a kind person was near her; and after 
 answering her questions in as calm and quiet 
 a manner as she could, she promised to try 
 to go to sleep, and resolutely shut her eyes 
 
16 PHCEBE; OR, 
 
 to do so. Mary still sat on the bed, and 
 Phoebe was glad for^her to be there. While 
 her eyes were closed, she could almost fancy 
 it her mother still at hand ; but another 
 minute or two reminded her that it would be 
 very selfish of her to allow her new friend 
 to tire herself only to please her fancy, so 
 she begged her to leave her, and promised 
 she should not be disturbed any more ; and 
 this was whispered so gently and softly, that 
 the sleeper in the other corner (for the angry 
 voice had fallen asleep again) could not be 
 roused by it ; and with this promise Mary 
 returned to her little bed, and in another 
 hour all in the room were again at rest. 
 
 The next day the acquaintance thus begun 
 between Phoebe and Mary Grey made consid- 
 erable progress. Phoebe naturally felt anxious 
 to see her new friend by daylight, to judge 
 if she liked her appearance as well as her 
 soft voice and kind words. And she was 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 17 
 
 not disappointed ; for Mary was certainly a 
 very pleasing-looking person, fair and modest, 
 and quiet in all her motions. There was 
 only one drawback to the pleasure of looking 
 at her; but that was a sad one. Mary was 
 very pale ; and often she would start and put 
 her hand to her side or her head, as if struck 
 with a sudden attack of pain. When the 
 doctor of the house, too, came up to her and 
 made his usual inquiries, he looked serious 
 and grave, so that Phoebe, who was by, 
 felt sure he thought her very ill. Perhaps 
 Mary thought so too, but it did not make 
 any difference in her manner ; and when he 
 had passed on, she turned again to Phoebe 
 as calmly and quietly as before, and encour- 
 aged her to go on with what she was saying. 
 You may fancy what a relief it was to Phoebe 
 to be able to talk of home and all that inter- 
 ested her. There was a danger, indeed, of 
 her talking too much and too long ; bnt Mary 
 
18 PHCEBE; OE, 
 
 perceived that she looked tired and excited 
 before she was aware of it herself, and ad- 
 vised her to go and lie quietly on the bed 
 for a little while, which she did. She made 
 as little noise as possible ; 'for the owner of 
 the angry voice in the corner, whose name 
 was Hannah Sanders, was still there, not hav- 
 ing risen with the others. Her appearance, 
 however, was not very alarming ; she was, 
 in fact, rather a pretty young woman, with 
 no look of particular ill health about her, 
 nor of ill humour now the night was over. 
 She asked Phoebe some questions, as to who 
 was in the great room, &c. ; but as she had 
 not yet become acquainted with many names, 
 she could not satisfy her curiosity. When she 
 lay clown she felt very restless and poorly, 
 but kept as quiet as she could, took the medi- 
 cine that was brought her, and had sunk to 
 sleep when she was roused by voices near 
 her. It was Hannah Sanders conversing with 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 19 
 
 a friend out of the town, who had come to 
 pay her a visit. They were talking over the 
 inmates of the house, and Phcebe paid little 
 attention to their conversation till she heard 
 the name of Mary Grey. The new comer 
 seemed to know her, and spoke well of her. 
 
 " I'm sorry she should be ill, poor thing," 
 she said ; " she seems so friendless, having 
 neither father nor mother belonging to her, 
 and so steady and thoughtful as she is. What 
 is the matter with her?" 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know," answered Hannah ; 
 " she looks like a ghost, and I don't think 
 the doctors can do her any good. It's my 
 opinion that it's something they can do noth- 
 ing with that makes her ill." 
 
 " What can you mean ?" said the other, with 
 some curiosity. 
 
 " Well, I think she takes William's conduct 
 to heart. You know they were to have been 
 married long before this, and now he has left 
 
20 
 
 the town ; lie went off with some excuse about 
 seeking for work elsewhere, and she has heard 
 nothing of him for months." 
 
 "Indeed," said the friend; "well, I should 
 have thought better of him than to think he 
 would do such a thing — such a steady young 
 man and punctual at his church as he was !" 
 
 " Well I don't see such great harm," added 
 the other ; " she is so quiet and formal in her 
 ways, that I dare say he got tired of it; and 
 besides, she was beginning to be sickly and 
 poorly ; and what can a poor man. do with a 
 sickly wife ? I did hear that William is court- 
 ing another young woman. I asked Mary 
 about it the other day, for I thought it would 
 do her good to know every thing, and would 
 set up her spirit. She said nothing, and looked 
 as cool as she could, as if she cared nothing 
 about it ; but I could see she had heard it 
 before." 
 
 " She is better a great deal without him, if he 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 21 
 
 is such a one as you think," said the friend in 
 some indignation, " and a girl of her sense will 
 think so, I hope." 
 
 Soon after, the visitor left, and Phoebe re- 
 mained in silence to ponder over what she had 
 heard, and to grieve over Mary's state of health 
 that all seemed to think so ill of. She was full 
 of these feelings when she next saw Mary ; but 
 then she looked so calm and easy, thought so 
 little of herself, and seemed so glad to help 
 others who needed help, that it was impossible 
 not to think better of her case. 
 
 Hannah Sanders came into the convalescent 
 room at the same time with Phoebe. She was 
 fast recovering, and was in high spirits and full 
 of pleasure at the thought of leaving. She 
 talked a great deal about herself to Mary, who 
 seemed a kind listener to every body, and de- 
 scribed all the places she had been at in a way 
 that amused Phoebe a good deal, who had never 
 before been in the way of hearing such talk : 
 
22 * phcebe; ok, 
 
 but though, she was amused, she could not 
 like Hannah very much, and she was there- 
 fore quite puzzled to hear from her what a 
 high value all her friends and the mistress 
 whom she was with, seemed to have for her ; 
 and Phcebe could not, in spite of herself, 
 help feeling respect for a person who, by her 
 own account, could do so many things better 
 than any body else ; who was so trustworthy, 
 and thoughtful, and handy, and industrious, 
 that no one ever could be found to supply 
 her place. It must be very nice, thought 
 Phcebe, to be so well thought of, and to do so 
 many things well ; but I wonder she should 
 like to talk of it. Then she began to wish 
 Mary would begin to tell something about 
 herself, and was half inclined to be vexed at 
 first that she had nothing to boast of in re- 
 turn. But Mary listened very quietly, and 
 did not seem at all inclined to interrupt or 
 take her share in the conversation, till Han- 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 23 
 
 nail began to reflect on the treatment she had 
 received in the house. 
 
 " She could not say that she had been at- 
 tended to as she had expected, and indeed she 
 had a good many things to complain of." 
 
 " Have you ?" said Mary very gently. 
 " Well, you have a home and plenty of 
 places to go to, and I suppose that makes 
 you particular ; but it is different with me, 
 and I never can be thankful enough for all 
 the care and kindness I have found here. It 
 makes my heart full whenever I think of it. 
 I am sure that Mr. Maynard (the house- 
 surgeon) cares as much about us, and that 
 every thing we take should do us good, as 
 if we were his children." 
 
 " You may be a favourite," answered the 
 other: " but I must say for myself, that he 
 will never hear half I have got to say, but 
 seems in such a hurry." 
 
 u At least," said Mary, with a smile, " he 
 
24 
 
 lias done you good, he and all the doctors 
 together; for you don't look like the same 
 person you were when you came in/' 
 
 " Yes," answered Hannah ; " but there are 
 not many with such a constitution as I have. 
 I go out next Monday," she continued, after 
 a little pause ; " how long do you stay ?" 
 
 " I don't know yet," Mary replied ; " not 
 very much more, I am afraid." 
 
 " Oh dear," exclaimed Hannah, " I shall 
 be so glad to get away !" 
 
 " Yes, because you are nearly well, and 
 will be ' able to take your place directly ; but 
 I, you know, I have nobody near belonging 
 to me, and I can't think of being a burden 
 to any one, though nobody can be a kinder 
 friend than Ellen Swain." 
 
 " Ah ! that's she you used to lodge with," 
 said the other carelessly; and something com- 
 ing to interrupt them, the conversation 
 ended. 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 25 
 
 One of the chief subjects of interest amongst 
 the women in the convalescent room was the 
 sad case of a poor little boy, who had been 
 brought into the hospital some days before 
 Phoebe came there, on having met with a 
 dreadful accident in the mill in which he was 
 working, by which his leg was so seriously 
 injured, that the surgeons had found it neces- 
 sary to take it off immediately. There had 
 happened at the time of his admission to be 
 a woman in the hospital who knew the poor 
 boy, from having lived in the same court 
 with his parents, and who could, therefore, 
 tell a good deal about him ; and this, of course, 
 had made her anxious to learn all she could 
 of his case from the nurse who attended upon 
 him. The account she heard was not very 
 satisfactory. The nurse had described him as 
 having borne the operation with great cour- 
 age — "like a man," as she said, "without 
 shedding a tear, or giving way under the 
 
26 phcebe; or, 
 
 worst pain." All this sounded well ; but he 
 had been throughout sullen and discontented: 
 his misfortune seemed to harden his heart, so 
 that he turned away from words of kindness, 
 and appeared only anxious to be unnoticed, 
 showing especial annoyance when people ex- 
 pressed before him the pity and compassion 
 which all must feel for a child under such 
 circumstances. This frame of mind injured 
 his health, and at first even threatened his 
 life. However, in spite of it, he was now 
 considered out of danger, and was slowly re- 
 covering. These particulars Phcebe gathered 
 from a conversation between her friend Mary 
 Grey and the woman before-mentioned, both 
 of whom made many natural reflections on' the 
 sad state of mind the unhappy boy seemed to 
 be in. 
 
 " Such a trouble must be bad indeed to 
 bear," said Mary, " if he does not know Who 
 sends it to him." 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 27 
 
 " There it is," said her companion ; then 
 lowering her voice for Mary alone to hear, 
 — " One does not like to speak against one's 
 neighbors, but the truth is, he was ill taught 
 before he came here. He has no mother of 
 his own, poor thing, and was sent to the 
 mills before he was fit for it, by his step- 
 mother, who thought him an incumbrance 
 that she would get rid of as soon as she 
 could." 
 
 " Poor thing !" said Mary ; " and what will 
 become of him now, when he is likely to be 
 an incumbrance all his life?" 
 
 In the mean time Phoebe was improving 
 in her health every day, and the sense of 
 returning strength made her very happy, 
 though in the place where she had at first 
 felt so dreary ; and no wonder : indeed, she 
 would have thought herself quite ungrateful 
 if it had been otherwise, for all the people 
 were kind to her, and she well knew that 
 
28 PHOEBE; OR, 
 
 every thing was done that could be done for 
 her comfort and amendment. 
 
 As the weather was now very mild and 
 fine, she was allowed to go out into the 
 grounds belonging to the hospital every day 
 about noon ; and though these were not so 
 pretty and cheerful as the fields and nice 
 cottage-gardens of her own village, she quite 
 enjoyed the change after being so long con- 
 fined within doors ; and as she watched the 
 young leaves opening out on the shrubs, and 
 felt the soft wind blowing upon her, the 
 thought that she should soon be well and be 
 able to return home, brought feelings of joy 
 that she had never known before. However, 
 she was not yet strong enough for much 
 exertion, and a little walking made her tired, 
 so that she was glad to turn for a rest 
 towards a sheltered arbour, which had been 
 placed for the comfort of the patients near 
 the gravel-walk laid out for their exercise- 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 29 
 
 ground. She was not aware that any one 
 was seated there before she came close up to 
 it, and then she found it occupied already by 
 a little boy of about eleven years old. He 
 looked very pale, but it was not his paleness 
 that struck her so much as the look of 
 misery and wretchedness that was expressed 
 in his thin features. Another glance showed 
 her the poor mutilated limb ; and she had 
 no doubt of its being poor Simon Milford, 
 of whom she had so often heard. Her first 
 impulse was to turn back ; but her next 
 thought was, that he might think she shrunk 
 from him, and she stood still and irresolute. 
 He had, however, been quick to observe her 
 first movement, and to give the meaning to 
 it she had feared ; and exclaiming, in a hur- 
 ried tone, " You needn't go ! I'm going my- 
 self !" he began hastily to feel about for his 
 crutches. However, he was not yet accus- 
 tomed to the use of them ; and in his impa- 
 
30 P H CE B E ; O R, 
 
 tient tremour, let both fall to the ground, thus 
 leaving himself helpless. Phcebe ran to pick 
 them up, saying, at the same time, " There 
 is room enough on this great bench for us • 
 both ; but if you would rather I went away, 
 I will go.". 
 
 " It is no matter to me," he answered, 
 sullenly ; however, as he made no further 
 attempt to rise, being, perhaps, vexed at 
 having to show his awkwardness before a 
 stranger, Phoebe sat down to rest at the other 
 end of the bench, and both remained silent 
 for some time. At length, Phcebe, whose 
 mind was dwelling on his terrible misfortune, 
 could not help saying, " I am very sorry for 
 you ; it must be very bad to bear." 
 
 Simon shrunk at hearing her words, and 
 exclaimed, hastily, " Don't speak of it ; don't 
 look at me; I can't bear it." 
 
 " Have I vexed you ?" Phoebe answered, 
 timidly ; " I'm sure I did not mean it." 
 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 31 
 
 " Every body vexes me that pities me," 
 he answered ; "I want nobody to take any 
 notice of me again as long as I live." 
 * " Oh, you won't think so when you get 
 home !" exclaimed Phoebe ; " you are strange 
 here, that's the reason ; but when you are 
 with your mother again, you'll feel happier." 
 
 " I have no mother," he answered, gloomily. 
 
 " No mother !" she cried, in a tone of sor- 
 rowful pity. 
 
 " My mother died before I was six years 
 old," he continued ; " I've a step-mother now." 
 
 Phoebe made no answer ; she was thinking 
 over what he had said, when he went on as if 
 talking to himself. " A fine nuisance I shall be 
 thought when I get home again. I suppose 
 they'll get me into the workhouse if they can." 
 
 " Oh, no," cried Phoebe, " they'll never be 
 so cruel as to send you away." 
 
 "Why, perhaps, I shall be better there 
 than any where else," he replied. " I sha'nt 
 
32 phcebe; ok, 
 
 have all the boys staring and laughing at 
 me whenever I put my face out of the door, 
 nor see them play myself." 
 
 " Oh, how can you have such thoughts !" 
 Phoebe exclaimed. " Nobody in the world 
 would laugh at such trouble as yours." 
 
 " Won't they ?" he answered, with a sort 
 of contempt. " I know I've laughed at old 
 Joe Thompson's wooden leg many a time ; 
 and what's the difference between him and 
 me now? no doubt they have a right to 
 do it." 
 
 Phcebe said nothing. There was something 
 in his way of talking that she did not like, 
 and she was wishing for a good excuse for 
 going away without giving offence. Simon, 
 perhaps, observed the effect of what he had 
 been saying ; for, as if defending himself, he 
 continued, " Why, have not I enough to make 
 me cross and vexed?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied ; " nobody knows 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 33 
 
 how they could bear such a trouble ; but 
 you seem to like to think most of the things 
 that vex you ; now, you know, people who 
 know best, say, the worst things happen for 
 our good." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he answered, very impatiently ; 
 " so people talk who have no trouble of 
 their own ; but how can it be for my good 
 to lose my leg, and to be a helpless, useless 
 cripple all my life — a burden to people who 
 will want me out of their way ?" 
 
 Simon began his speech in anger, but as 
 he counted up his ill prospects and his trou- 
 bles, his courage gave way, and he burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " How I wish Mary Grey was here !" ex- 
 claimed Phoebe ; " she would know how to 
 comfort you, I am sure ; and I don't know 
 what to say. And she has troubles of her 
 own, though not quite like yours, yet she is 
 contented and thankful for every thing." 
 
 3 
 
34 P H m B E ; O K, 
 
 " Don't tell her of my being such a fool 
 here," said Simon, in alarm ; " and look, they 
 are coming to call us in to dinner ;" and, as 
 if glad to end the conversation, he began to 
 prepare himself for the painful walk. 
 
 It was a good sign, however, that he suf- 
 fered Phoebe to help him, by holding his 
 crutches till he was able to take them, and 
 even to mutter " thank you," when she had 
 done ; though a good deal as if he was 
 ashamed of being so civil. 
 
 A day or two after this, Phoebe received 
 a visit from some of her friends who had 
 come that morning from her own village. 
 They brought her a message from her mother 
 that she had not felt strong enough to walk 
 over to see her, and that her father had been 
 unusually busy ; but she sent her love, and 
 a fine nosegay that the children had gathered 
 to show they thought of her. Phoebe's eyes 
 glistened at the sight of the beautiful flowers, 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 35 
 
 and at the thought of those who had gath- 
 ered and sent them, and still more so when 
 she heard the doctor tell her friends that her 
 mother might come for her in ten days' time, 
 unless she heard to the contrary ; for that if 
 Phoebe went on as well as she had clone lately, 
 she would be quite fit to leave the hospital by 
 that time. 
 
 Her visitors could not stay very long; and 
 when they left, Phoebe went to the garden as 
 usual, carrying her precious nosegay with her, 
 her heart quite dancing with pleasure at all the 
 thoughts it had brought with it. Suddenly, 
 however, she remembered her good friend Mary 
 Grey, and generously resolved to make her a 
 present of her beautiful flowers. It was a little 
 sacrifice, but one she joyfully made. And she 
 turned back to find her friend. She ran up to 
 her on finding her alone. 
 
 " Look here !" she exclaimed ; "here is some- 
 thing to do you good : smell how sweet I — turn- 
 
36 PHOEBE; OE, 
 
 ing the violets, that clustered at the bottom of 
 the nosegay, towards her. " Take them — thej 
 come fresh from our garden, and you shall have 
 them all." 
 
 Here she stopped short ; for she saw Mary 
 was in tears. 
 
 " Thank 3-011, dear," she answered ; " they 
 are very beautiful, but I won't deprive you of 
 them." 
 
 " Oh, don't say so!" exclaimed Phoebe; "if 
 you think them pretty, pray take them." 
 
 " They are too pretty and sweet for me," said 
 Mary, with a sad smile : " my head is so bad this 
 morning, that I can hardly look at any thing, 
 and the sweet scent seems too much for me. 
 Look, I will take these nice fresh primroses, and 
 thank you for them, and you shall keep the 
 rest. Why, they seem to have done you good 
 already : I never saw you with such a colour ; 
 and I am sure you are nothing like so thin as 
 when you first came in." 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 37 
 
 " Oh, no," answered Phoebe, U I feel so differ- 
 ent ; and I'm to leave next Saturday but oue r 
 and go home again to them all. But oh, Mary, 
 I shall be sorry to leave you, and so ill as you 
 seem just now. I thought you were a great 
 deal better." And the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " I shall leave at the same time," said Mary ; 
 "and I am better, only my head aches just now." 
 
 "And where will you go?" asked Phoebe: 
 " is it anywhere where I can come to see you 
 some times ?" 
 
 "No, my dear, I am afraid not," said Mary; 
 and, for a moment, a flush came over her face 
 as she continued, " I have no home to go to like 
 yours, and I am not strong enough yet to work 
 for my living : I shall have to go to the poor- 
 house." 
 
 " Ah, and it is that that makes }^ou cry," said 
 Phoebe, sorrowfully; "I am so sorry." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I can't help taking it a little 
 to heart more than I ought ; for I dare say I 
 
38 
 
 shall have as kind treatment there as here, and 
 it is God's will that I should be destitute. I 
 wish to feel thankful that there is such a shelter 
 for me." 
 
 Phoebe's mind wandered to what she had 
 heard from Hannah, and a thought suddenly 
 struck her; and, lowering her voice, she said, 
 11 Hannah Sanders will be here very soon — I 
 saw her coming this way : don't let her see you 
 have been crying; she will think it is about 
 something quite different." 
 
 11 What will she think?" said Mary, with 
 some curiosity. 
 
 Phoebe felt she had gone too far, and would 
 have gladly been silent ; but Mary urged her, 
 and soon drew from her the gossip that had 
 passed within her hearing. 
 
 It seemed to move Mary, for a few moments, 
 a good deal ; but soon she spoke very calmly : 
 "Hannah Sanders was quite mistaken about 
 me. My illness would have come upon me 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 39 
 
 just the same if I had been in the greatest 
 prosperity and with every thing I could desire 
 about me; and nothing else has had to do 
 with it." 
 
 " Oh, then it's all a mistake about William 
 Johnson. I'm so glad !" cried Phoebe. 
 
 " It is all a mistake, I think, about William 
 Johnson being the sort of person she fancies," 
 answered Mary; " but it is better you should 
 not think of such foolish gossip, my dear: and 
 you will do me a kindness to bring me a sheet 
 of paper from my box, as I want to write a 
 letter." 
 
 Phcebe soon got the paper, pen, and ink ; and 
 after she had seen that the pen would mark and 
 the ink was not too thick, she followed her ori- 
 ginal intention, and set off with her flowers for 
 a walk in the grounds, leaving Mary to herself, 
 as she saw she desired to be. 
 
 It cost Mary some trouble to write ; for her 
 head ached, and the subjects of her letter were 
 
40 
 
 painful to her : but she knew it must be done, 
 and had best be done soon. It was to her 
 friend Ellen Swain, in answer to one she had 
 received from her that morning, and was as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Dear Ellex, — Thank you for your letter, 
 which has been a great comfort to me at a time 
 I wanted comfort. As for myself, though there 
 has been no great change, yet I fancy myself 
 
 better, rather than worse. I pressed Dr. B 
 
 to tell me what he thought of my case, and 
 hoped he would be quite plain with me ; and he 
 said he thought the worst of my illness was 
 over ; but he could not tell how long it would 
 be before I can hope to be well and strong ; at 
 the best, he says, I shall mend but slowly, and 
 I shall not be able to take to my work again for 
 a good while. It is about this that I wish to 
 write to you, dear Ellen, and to tell you that I 
 have made up my mind to go into the poor- 
 house. I can never be grateful enough to you 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 41 
 
 and your kind husband for wishing to take in a 
 poor ailing creature as I am, and to do for me 
 and provide for me till I get better * the tears 
 come into my eyes when I think of it ; but you 
 have children of your own, and I should be 
 glad to think that you were laying up for them 
 what little you could spare against an evil day 
 — though long may it be kept from you ; and I 
 believe it would be a weight on me, that would 
 prevent my getting well, to feel myself a burden, 
 though well I know you would not think me 
 one. I won't deny that it has been a struggle 
 to me to submit to this ; but surely it is God's 
 will: and I am ashamed of my proud heart, 
 which made the thought hard to bear at first ; 
 but it is so no longer, and I feel far happier to 
 have made up my mind. 
 
 " There was but one part of your letter that 
 troubled me : it was the anger you express 
 against William Johnson. I can't explain his 
 conduct any more than you ; but I will always 
 
42 
 
 believe that some mistake is at the bottom of his 
 change, though we may never know what it is. 
 We both have known him from a boy, and how 
 good and steady he always was. Is it likely he 
 should turn bad all at once ? It would be 
 worse than any thing that has happened to me 
 to have to think it. And having said this, dear 
 Ellen, you would confer a great kindness on 
 me never to name the subject to me again. I 
 am quite sure it does harm to talk much on 
 such matters ; and it is for the good of my body, 
 and mind too, to keep my thoughts as calm and 
 peaceful as I can : and if I do but learn to set 
 my mind on right things, then every thing that 
 happens to me — trouble, or sickness, or sorrow 
 — will be all for my good. 
 
 " I am to leave this place Saturday week : it 
 is a bad day for you to leave home upon ; yet I 
 think you will be so good as to come for me 
 here, and walk with me to the union-house at 
 once. I should not know what to say to the 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 43 
 
 gentlemen by myself. My kind love to your 
 husband and the children. 
 
 " Your affectionate friend, 
 
 "Mary Grey." 
 In the mean while Phoebe took her walk in 
 the grounds, and when tired went to rest in the 
 arbour. She had not been there long when 
 Simon came up, a little disconcerted, perhaps, 
 to see her, but not enough to make him turn 
 back ; so he took his seat in silence at the other 
 end of the bench. Phoebe, too, was silent, for 
 their last conversation had made her afraid of 
 him ; so she smelt her nosegay and examined 
 the different flowers that she might seem to 
 have something to do. The nosegay was 
 certainly well worth looking at, for its own 
 beauty as well as for the thoughts it brought 
 along with it. High above all the rest were a 
 profusion of daffodils, fresh and bright, sur- 
 rounded by dark rich-smelling wall-flowers ; 
 next came wild anemones, primroses, southern- 
 
44 
 
 wood, and, what Phoebe prized much, some 
 deep-edge polyanthus ; and clustering at the 
 bottom, choice double daisies, and violets, blue 
 and white, sweeter than all the rest. 
 
 " Those are nice flowers," said Simon at last, 
 to Phoebe's great surprise, for she did not think 
 he would care for them. 
 
 " Yes," said she, gladly; "should you like to 
 have some ?" and she placed them in his hand. 
 
 He gladly took them, and buried his face 
 among the flowers, as if eager to breathe in their 
 sweetness. At length he said : "It is long 
 since I held such a nosegay in my own hand : it 
 makes me think of when I was qjrite a little 
 fellow, and used to go into the fields and bring 
 home as many daffodils as my two hands would 
 hold. We lived in the country then." 
 
 " There are not many fields of daffodils," said 
 Phoebe. 
 
 " There was one at Marsden, however," he 
 answered. 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 45 
 
 "Why, Marsden!" cried Phoebe; "that is 
 close where we live. I did not know we had 
 been neighbours." 
 
 " Ah ! it's a long while ago," said Simon, 
 sighing. "Mother was alive then; and I often 
 can't think I am the same boy I was when she 
 used to take me to church with her, and teach 
 me to say my prayers ; and when I used to play 
 about the lanes and garden." 
 
 " And why did you leave such a nice place?" 
 asked Phoebe. 
 
 " Father thought we should do better," he 
 replied, "in a town, and that there would be 
 
 work for the children ; so we came to N . 
 
 But it was a bad change, as it happened ; for 
 mother was never strong, and she got worse 
 in the town, and died in less than a year." 
 
 " Oh, what a loss for you !" cried Phoebe, 
 in a compassionate tone. 
 
 " You may well say so," he answered, 
 gloomily. " Every thing has gone wrong 
 
46 phcebe; ok, 
 
 since ; and worst of all with me. For my 
 father soon married again ; and she never took 
 to me. She was not like my mother, but 
 sharp and cross ; and I vexed her by some 
 things I said, and so she has never liked me. 
 And father takes notice of what she says 
 against me, as I don't deny I may sometimes 
 try to provoke her by talking how differently 
 my own mother treated me. But I did not 
 mind while I was able to work ; for I knew I 
 should earn more every year, and could soon 
 take care of myself; it is different now !" His 
 voice faltered as he spoke. " But," said he, 
 rousing himself, " all this has come of these 
 flowers, which made me think of Marsden. It 
 is odd that you should know the place." 
 
 "It is not a mile from our house," she an- 
 swered ; " and I often go there with mother." 
 This led to their recalling together all the 
 people at Marsden that both knew ; and in 
 such talk, and the pleasure of going back to 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 47 
 
 the happiest and best part of his life, Simon 
 was more cheerful than he had been for many 
 a day. It was a subject, too, that opened 
 Phoebe's little heart to him; and she talked 
 away, and found herself in fall description of 
 the sports of next May-day, before she reflected 
 that such a subject might be rather a sad one to 
 him. He would not let her stop, however, 
 though he understood her thought ; for he 
 liked to be reminded of all that happened at 
 those merry times, which he could hardly 
 recollect by himself. But together they could 
 go through it all, from the day before, the last 
 day of April, when all the flowers that could 
 be found in field and garden were gathered, 
 and laid by in water for the next morning, to 
 the happy moment when the last flower was 
 placed on the garland by the cleverest and 
 most experienced of the party. Then both 
 related together how the May -morning was 
 spent in going from house to house to display 
 
48 
 
 the beautifu 
 
 phcebe; or, 
 
 ? ul garland, while they sung the May- 
 day song, and collected from all the neighbours 
 who were kind enough to contribute halfpence 
 to their little feast. 
 
 " And you forget church in the morning," 
 said Phcebe. 
 
 " I don't think they went to church at Mars- 
 den," said Simon. 
 
 " Oh, but they do with us. And Mr. Os- 
 borne, our clergyman, likes to see us there. 
 He says holydays are given that we may be 
 happy, and thank God for it ; and May-day is 
 one of the holydays in the Prayer-book,* and 
 that is why we keep May-day." 
 
 Simon sighed. " Mother used to take me 
 to church while she lived ; and I used to like 
 to go with father afterwards ; but since he 
 married again, he has not cared to go like what 
 he used to do ; he says he's tired, and lies in 
 
 * It is called there St. Philip's and St. James -day. 
 
THE HOSPITAL. §f49 
 
 bed on Sunday morning ; and so I have not 
 been either." 
 
 "What, don't you go to church on Sun- 
 day ?" cried Phoebe. " Oh I that is very 
 wrong of you. Why don't you go to the 
 Sunday-school, and go along with all the other 
 boys?" 
 
 " Well, father always talked of sending me. 
 But the boys in our yard used to go out in the 
 fields, and I went with them ; and we used 
 to have fine fan sometimes, such as I can 
 never have again. But if ever I heard the 
 church-bells* ringing, though we were ever so 
 merry, the thought of my mother holding my 
 hand, as she used to do, and taking me to 
 church, used to come into my mind, and take 
 away all the pleasure. And often and often 
 I would have left them all, and walked off to 
 church at once, only I was afraid they would 
 laugh at me ; and so I was ashamed." 
 
 " That was a pity," said Phoebe, very 
 
50 . 
 
 seriously; and she was silent for a few mo- 
 ments. Then, in a timid tone, she said : " I 
 should like to tell you what I have been think- 
 ing about ; but will you be angry ?" 
 
 " I don't know what it is," he replied, with a 
 faint smile ; " but I'll try not." 
 
 " Well, I have been thinking this," she an- 
 swered : " that though yours is such a very bad 
 misfortune, yet there is one thing that may be 
 good in it. You can't go out now with those 
 naughty boys who laugh at people for being 
 good, and perhaps you will go to church 
 instead." 
 
 " Well, but I could have gone to church if I 
 had liked before," he replied. 
 
 " Yes, but then you did not like, and now 
 perhaps you will. Those boys won't be such a 
 temptation to you. You will like to keep out 
 of their way. And besides, when you are at 
 church, you will hear about heaven, and you 
 will like to hear of it, and will get not to mind 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 51 
 
 your troubles here, so you can get there at 
 last." 
 
 " I have thought so little about right things," 
 said Simon, with a sigh, "that I seem hardly to 
 understand you. But I do believe that I 
 should be much happier if such thoughts were 
 in my mind. Only, what am I to do ? I should 
 not know where to begin." 
 
 Phoebe could not tell him exactly : she knew 
 she was too young to be able to give advice. 
 But they both continued talking some time 
 longer. It did Simon good to open his mind 
 and heart, as he did then ; and though Phoebe 
 was too little to be a teacher, yet he could see 
 by every word she said that she was a good 
 little girl, anxious to do and say what was 
 right. Simon began to be sorry he had said 
 some of the things he had before her, and 
 feared she would dislike him for it ; for he saw 
 how different her ways of thinking were from 
 what his had been. He felt anxious she should 
 
52 
 
 think more favourably of him ; and though this 
 was not a very high motive, it was a worthier 
 one than had moved him amongst his old bad 
 companions ; so that he really was in a better 
 frame of mind after the conversation than 
 before, though there was danger of the im- 
 provement not lasting long. 
 
 Phoebe told Mary Grey what they had been 
 talking of, which she listened to with kind 
 interest. Phoebe wished she would talk to 
 Simon ; but Mary promised to do a better 
 thing, and mention him to Mr. Day, the clergy- 
 man of the hospital, who was very constant in 
 his attendance, and was particularly kind to 
 Mary. Simon had always shown himself so 
 dull and stupid to this gentleman, for fear he 
 should begin to talk to him on a subject he 
 dreaded, that he had never been able to get at 
 his feelings ; but when Mary told him what she 
 knew, he was glad to make a further attempt, 
 and this time with better success, for the poor 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 53 
 
 boy was in a more humble frame of mind, glad 
 of instruction, and ready to receive it. And 
 though he still continued to grieve and fret 
 over his misfortune, and look with dread to- 
 wards his future life, it was not in a sullen or 
 discontented spirit. He was weak and helpless, 
 and without friends to- care much for him ; and 
 we cannot wonder that his spirits should be 
 borne down, and that he should feel sad and 
 depressed. But in the midst of his troubles he 
 listened to what Mr. Day said to him, was at- 
 tentive at prayers, and did his best to under- 
 stand what he heard and read ; and was so 
 much more civil and thankful for the kindness 
 he received and the attention that was paid to 
 him, that the good nurse was quite delighted 
 in the change. 
 
 Meantime the important Saturday was ap- 
 proaching. Phoebe felt so well that she was 
 glad to be allowed to make herself useful in 
 doing little errands for the nurse, or helping 
 
54 
 
 Mary in, her sewing for the house; for Mary, 
 though often a great sufferer, was always glad 
 to do what she could to assist when at all able 
 to do so. At these times, when they were 
 sitting comfortably together, Phoebe used to do 
 her best to amuse Mary, and make her forget, 
 what she never could quite forget herself, that 
 her kind friend had rather a sad prospect 
 before her ; and that the day of parting, which 
 would bring so much pleasure to Phoebe, would 
 be sad indeed to Mary. 
 
 At last it came. Phoebe was busy early in 
 the morning making up her little bundle of 
 clothes, before her mother came for her, that 
 then she might have nothing to do but take 
 leave of her many friends in the hospital ; for 
 she had been such a good, obliging child, that 
 she was a general favourite. Mary, too, had her 
 preparations to make, and then quietly sat 
 down to expect Ellen Swain, still busy with 
 some needlework the nurse had given her to 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 55 
 
 do, and glad to keep mind, as well as body, as 
 quiet and calm as possible. Phcebe, too, every 
 now and then sat down by her ; but she was 
 too restless to settle for more than five minutes 
 in any one place. 
 
 " I should like you to see Mother," she began, 
 u if only she comes for me ; and Mother must 
 see Simon, because he used to live quite close 
 by our village. I'll just go and see if any 
 body's come yet." 
 
 And so saying, she ran, for the sixth time at 
 least, to peep down the staircase, and see if there 
 were any arrivals in the lobby below. A few 
 people were there, though none she recognised. 
 
 But the porter caught sight of her: — " Here, 
 you little girl, can you tell Mary Grey she's 
 wanted? Here's a young man just come for 
 her." 
 
 Phcebe flew back with her message. 
 
 "A young man?" said Mary. "It must be 
 Ellen's brother. I wish she could have come 
 
56 
 
 herself: but I knew it was an inconvenient day 
 for her." 
 
 And she stepped down stairs at once, accom- 
 panied by Phoebe, to tell her guide she would 
 get ready as quickly as possible. They had 
 nearly reached the bottom of the stairs, and 
 Phoebe's eyes had wandered off in search of 
 new arrivals, when she felt her companion 
 catch hold of her arm, as if to support her- 
 self. " Mary, you are ill !" cried Phoebe, 
 observing that her countenance had changed; 
 but then following the direction of her eyes, 
 she observed a person advancing hastily to- 
 wards them, exclaiming, " Mary, here you 
 are at last !" Her short answer, " William, 
 how did you come here?" explained it all 
 to Phoebe. It was William Johnson himself, 
 looking so glad and so sorry, so overjoyed to 
 see Mary again, and so grieved to find her in 
 such a place, thin and pale, and altered; that 
 in the confusion of such feelings he could do 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 57 
 
 nothing to explain why lie was there, nor why 
 he had delayed coming so long., After the first 
 moment, however, Mary looked perfectly calm 
 and composed, though Phoebe conld still feel 
 her hand tremble. " I expected Ellen Swain," 
 she continued; "I am sorry you should have 
 come here." 
 
 " Sorry I should have come !" he exclaimed. 
 " Why, who should help you but me?" 
 
 "Do not speak so loud," said Mary. "See, 
 those people are looking at us." 
 
 "Well, well, never mind them," he answered 
 hastily, lowering his voice, however, at the 
 same time. " Ellen Swain will be here di- 
 rectly. I only ran on and got here a few 
 minutes before her, for she has her baby to 
 carry. She and I have talked over this mis- 
 take together, and found out how it all hap- 
 pened. It has made me a great deal more 
 miserable than ever it has made you, I am 
 afraid ; but if ever I can find the heap of letters 
 
58 
 
 I Lave written to yon, that through Ellen 
 Swain's change of house you never got, (more 
 shame to the blundering of those that kept 
 them,) I'll make you read them for a punish- 
 ment. Thank you for that smile ; it makes 
 you look more like what you used to do ; but 
 you are better, Mary, really better, Mary, are 
 you not? I wish you did not look so thin; 
 but we'll get you better," he continued, hope- 
 fully. " Come, where is your bonnet, that we 
 may set off? Ellen will be here by the time 
 you are ready." 
 
 "Oh, but, William, do you know where we 
 are to go ?" cried Mary. " Did Ellen tell you?" 
 
 "Why, to her house, to be sure," he ex- 
 claimed: "where else?" 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered ; " Ellen knows that 
 I intend to go to the union." 
 
 " The union ! Mary ! — but however," he 
 added, swallowing as if to get rid of some pain- 
 ful feeling, "when Ellen comes, you will see 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 59 
 
 that we have settled all about it. Trust her, if 
 you won't trust me. Mary ! indeed it is not 
 my fault that you have been left poor and des- 
 titute all this while ; only come and I will ex- 
 plain all to you, if only we can get out of this 
 place." 
 
 "Don't speak in that way, please," said Mary, 
 " of a place that has been a kind home to me so 
 long. I can never be thankful enough for what 
 has been done for me here." 
 
 " And I am thankful too," said "William, 
 " and grateful to those who have helped you ; 
 only just now I seem hardly to know what I 
 say." 
 
 At this moment Ellen Swain entered, carry- 
 ing her great baby, which would have been an 
 excuse for a longer delay. She greeted Mary 
 with an affectionate smile before they were near 
 enough to speak, and soon they fell into an 
 earnest whispered conversation, in which Wil- 
 liam seemed to feel he had better not join. He 
 
60 
 
 stood by, looking rather anxious and impatient, 
 until Mary at length observed it, and, turning 
 to him, said, as if finishing her .conversation, 
 " "Well, then, I will come — I won't keep you 
 long;" and she returned with Phoebe up stairs. 
 Phoebe had heard most of what had passed, and 
 had wondered within herself how quiet and 
 composed Mary seemed. She did not seem so 
 happy as she expected ; however, she could not 
 help saying, " Well, I am glad you are not 
 going to the union ; are not you, Mary ?" 
 
 " Do not speak to me, please, dear," said 
 Mary, hastily ; "I am not fit for talking just 
 now." 
 
 " Well, but, Mary, you are happier than you 
 were ; you are glad, are you not ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I believe so," answered Mary. 
 " Yes, I am sure, more happy than you can 
 think ; but do not make me speak of it, or else, 
 perhaps, I shall cry, and you would not wish 
 that;" and she turned away to tie on her bon- 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 61 
 
 net. "Phoebe, dear," she said, a minute or two 
 after, " I don't know when I may see you again, 
 but I hope some time, if I get better ; we must 
 not forget one another." 
 
 " Oh, no, I shall never forget you," cried 
 Phoebe, -jumping up to kiss her. At this mo- 
 ment in walked Phoebe's mother, who, as so 
 often happens, took her by surprise at last, after 
 having been watched for all the morning. It 
 was a pleasure to witness their meeting — such 
 happiness at seeing one another again ! such joy 
 at Phoebe's improved looks! "And you have 
 been kind to my child, I know," said the 
 mother to Mary at the first pause. This led 
 to a short pleasant conversation, and a promise 
 that on the first good opportunity which of- 
 fered, Phoebe should come over some market- 
 day and pay Mary a visit at Ellen Swain's. 
 By this time Mary was ready. " And your 
 father's below, child, waiting to see you," said 
 the mother, " so we can all go down together ;" 
 
62 phcebe; or, 
 
 and so they did, Phoebe insisting on carrying 
 Mary's basket and umbrella, which she con- 
 signed to William Johnson, as he stood at the 
 bottom of the stairs ready to receive hjs charge, 
 and smiling most good-naturedly on Phoebe, 
 because she seemed so fond of Mary. Mary, 
 accompanied by Ellen, had to leave them for a 
 minute or two, to receive the doctor's last in- 
 structions, and to offer her warm thanks to him, 
 and every one, for past kindness; and when 
 this was over, and she had given Phoebe a kiss, 
 she was ready to take "William's arm ; and turn- 
 ing her head for one last look at the great hall, 
 and bestowing one sweet happy smile upon 
 Phoebe, who stood watching her departure, the 
 door closed behind them. " mother ! I do 
 think she will be happy," cried Phoebe ; " but 
 I am afraid she will have a bad headache, too," 
 she added, as she watched them from the 
 window ; " for look how fast William is making 
 her walk, while he is talking to her, and does 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 63 
 
 not think about it. Ah, there she is telling 
 him, I dare say, that she is not so strong as he 
 is — oh, no, she is waiting for Ellen Swain to 
 come up ; and now they are going slowly, as 
 they should do. Mother, do you like William 
 Johnson ?" 
 
 "I never saw him before, child," answered 
 her mother. "How should I like him?" 
 
 " Was that William Johnson ?" said her 
 father ; " is he a stone-mason by trade ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Phoebe. 
 
 "Well, then, I knew him when they were 
 doing the repairs of our church ; he was a 
 good lad then, and took good care of his 
 mother when she was left with nobody else 
 to take care of her ; and he that was a good 
 son will be a good husband, I make no doubt 
 of it, and that is better than trusting to 
 looks, though his are not against him." 
 
 " Mother," said Phoebe, " when we go, you 
 and father must come with me to say good- 
 
64 phcebe; or, 
 
 by to Simon ;" and then she explained who 
 Simon was, and where he had lived, and his 
 sad misfortune. Presently all preparations 
 were made, and Phoebe's parents had ex- 
 pressed their gratitude and thanks for the 
 benefit their child had received, and heard 
 the nurse's good report of Her in return, as 
 an obedient, tractable child. Having quitted 
 the house, they all turned down the walk in 
 search of Simon, whom they knew to be out 
 in the air. He looked very melancholy as 
 Phcebe approached him, for he knew she 
 came to say good-by, so that she felt half 
 ashamed of being so happy when he was so 
 sad ; but he was not sullen now as formerly, 
 and was ready and glad to answer all Mrs. 
 Freeman's kind questions about himself. To 
 her surprise she found that his mother had 
 been an old friend of hers, who had once 
 lived in service with her. This made her 
 feel a peculiar interest in her child, though 
 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 65 
 
 at any time she would have felt compassion 
 for a poor boy under such circumstances ; 
 and she lingered talking, and asking ques- 
 tions, and expressing regrets, till her husband 
 warned her that they must not stay. At this 
 moment, however, Mr. Day came up with a 
 gentleman, whom Simon recognised as Mr. 
 Wilson, his employer in the mill where his 
 accident had happened. This gentleman had 
 been from home at the time ; but on his re- 
 turn had come, as soon as possible, to see the 
 poor boy. He was a kind man, and felt 
 anxious, as he ought, to do what he could for 
 the child, whose whole prospects had been 
 blighted in his service. The chaplain, Mr. Day, 
 had given him some general account of Simon's 
 state, and the improvement he had observed 
 since he came into the hospital, adding, how- 
 ever, his -fear that from what he knew of his 
 home, especially his step-mother, who proved 
 a most unworthy person, this amendment 
 
 5 
 
would have little chance of continuing, under 
 the bad example he would see there. The 
 boy's father, too, had been with Mr. "Wilson 
 arguing the same things, and professing his 
 inability to do any thing for his son in his 
 present helpless state, explaining that his wife 
 objected to the charge in a way that convinced 
 Mr. Wilson that his home would certainly be an 
 
 unhappy one if he was made to return thither. 
 He had just spoken of this to Mr. Day, when 
 they came up to where Simon was, and found 
 him in conversation with the Freemans. Mrs. 
 Freeman was a person always to make a 
 favourable impression ; and just now, when 
 her heart was full of Simon's trouble, and the 
 thought that her old friend's only child should 
 be thus unfortunate, she appeared to Mr. 
 Wilson just the person to have the charge of 
 the boy a little while, till some employment 
 could be fixed upon for him, if she could be 
 prevailed upon to undertake it. The doctor, 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 67 
 
 too, had spoken of- country air as a great 
 advantage for him in his present weak state, 
 and this confirmed Mr. Wilson in his first 
 thought. He therefore entered into conversa- 
 tion with William Freeman, and learnt where 
 they lived, and other things ; and then asked 
 if they would be willing to take charge of 
 Simon for a few weeks, or longer, till his health 
 should be sufficiently restored for him to learn 
 some trade suited to his present condition. 
 William Freeman did not like the idea at first, 
 and his wife was a little startled by the thought 
 of an additional charge ; but Simon, who heard 
 the proposal, looked at her with such imploring 
 eyes, and Phoebe, who saw what was in his 
 mind, seconded these with such heartiness, 
 promising to help both him and her mother as 
 much as she could,' that Mrs. Freeman agreed, 
 only requesting Mr. Wilson to ride over and 
 see their house, and way of living, before every 
 thing was settled. "And one thing, sir, I 
 
68 phcebe; or, 
 
 must make a point of," said William Freeman, 
 — " if the bo j comes to my house, while he 
 stays I must have as much control over him 
 as I have over my own children, and I should 
 wish him to understand this. 
 
 Simon, who knew that he had not always 
 been a boy that Freeman would like to have 
 under his roof, here promised very humbly that 
 if they would take him, he would be obedient, 
 and do all he could to be as little trouble as 
 possible. 
 
 "It is not the trouble I shall mind," said 
 Mrs. Freeman; "there is sure to be some of 
 that with a poor child, crippled as he is. One 
 ought not to grudge that for a motherless 
 child; but I can't keep him unless he is con- 
 formable and well-behaved, which as this good 
 gentleman (curtseying to the chaplain) speaks a 
 good word for him, I hope he will be." 
 
 Simon looked brighter and happier after this 
 decision than Phoebe had ever seen him, " Who 
 
PIKE BE. 69 
 
 would have thought," she whispered to him, 
 " that you would help us to make our May-gar- 
 lands, after all ?" 
 
 " Yes," he added, " and I believe I shall 
 know where to look for the flowers, though it 
 is so long ago ; and I shall be able to go about 
 thenj for I can use my crutches a great deal 
 better than I did that first day, when I was so 
 cross, and had nearly sent you away from me. 
 I said then that nobody could help me, and 
 nobody could do me any good ; I hope I shall 
 never have such bad thoughts again ; for how 
 kind every body has been to me, and how happy 
 I feel at this minute, in spite of these things," 
 said he, smiling, as he shook his crutches, "that 
 I thought I should never bear the sight of." 
 
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 fjr&to, 
 
 Published and for Sale by the 
 
 GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, 
 
 Depository No. 20 John street, New York. 
 
 The Prize ; or, The Preciousness of a Meek 
 and Quiet Spirit. 
 
 Maurice Favell ; or, The Singing Lessons. 
 
 The Primroses ; or, The Elder Sisters. 
 
 The Friends. A Tale for the Young. 
 

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