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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/phoebesfortunes01orei
 
 PHCEBE'S FOETUNES
 
 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES 
 
 BY MRS. ROBERT O'REILLY 
 
 THREE VOLUMES.— L 
 
 STRAHAN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 3i, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 
 
 All rights ruerved
 
 Hazeil, Watson, and Viney, Printers London and Aylesbury.
 
 
 v.l 
 
 CONTENTS OP VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. WALL-FLOWERS 
 
 iL nicholl's row . 
 
 in. GOOD TIMES AND BAD 
 IV. FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 
 V. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 
 VI. FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY 
 VII. GOING TO GRANDFATHER . 
 VIII. NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE 
 
 PAGB 
 1 
 
 35 
 64 
 96 
 125 
 159 
 196 
 236 
 
 t
 
 -WALL-FLOWEES. 
 
 EEY well, since the attics are 
 to be had, to the attics we 
 will move. There is at least 
 this consolation — we shall have sunk, or 
 rather risen, to the level of our fortunes 
 at^ last. We can go no higher than the 
 back attics." 
 
 Harold Blunt, a tall thin man with a 
 stoop in his shoulders, and the hair on 
 his temples already turning grey, spoke 
 in the quietly humorous tone habitual 
 to him, but which never failed to astonish 
 his landlady. 
 
 She did not see what there was to be 
 humorous about, or indeed that a man 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 who could no longer afford to pay ten 
 shillings a week for the roof over his 
 head had any right to be amused at all, 
 still less amused as this man seemed to 
 be at his own misfortunes. 
 
 Of course it was proper to be resigned, 
 but according to her ideas a wo-begone, 
 dejected demeanour outwardly was in- 
 separable from a spirit of true resigna- 
 tion. To meet poverty not only bravely 
 but with a smile savoured of levity. As 
 a Christian she held, theoretically, that 
 having food and raiment one should 
 therewith be content; still, practically, 
 it was a matter of astonishment to her 
 that her lodger ivas contented. 
 
 His daughter, too, though it was 
 evident she had seen ^^ better days," as 
 the saying goes, appeared to find these 
 days good also. Her never-failing cheer- 
 fulness brightened all the dingy house 
 when she came in from her daily round
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 3 
 
 of teacliing amongst the tradesmen's 
 families in the immediate neighhour- 
 hood. Her father would not allow her 
 to go farther afield. He had obtained 
 some kind of copying work for himself, 
 partly because, without money or hiends, 
 it had proved hard to get anything to 
 do at all, and partly because this work 
 could be done at home, and entailed no 
 separation from his child. There was 
 another and a sadder reason for his own 
 choice, if choice it could be called, of 
 occupation. This copying was as much 
 as his faihng powers left him strength 
 to undertake at all. Yet, even faihng 
 health abated nothing of his placid 
 cheerfulness. He seemed neither trou- 
 bled in the present nor anxious for the 
 future. No wonder his landlady was 
 puzzled. 
 
 It was spring, the London season was 
 at hand, and even here in this dull
 
 4 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 quarter its influence was felt, for the 
 rent of the second floor was raised in 
 April, and Harold Blunt could no longer 
 afford to pay it. 
 
 *' I can help you move your bits of 
 sticks upstairs now, Mr. Blunt, and have 
 it all tidy before Miss Phoebe comes in ; 
 and, to tell the truth, I'd be glad to get 
 it done at once, for there's a party been 
 after the rooms already, and may come 
 in any time to-day, and there's the 
 floors to scrub," said the woman, whisk- 
 ing up a couple of chairs in her strong 
 arms. 
 
 . *' Don't trouble yourself, pray — I can 
 move my ^ bits of sticks ' mthout help, 
 and will make room for my betters forth- 
 with, Mrs. Bhmder." 
 
 ^^Blundell^ if ijou please," she answered 
 sharply; for, indeed, she was tired of 
 setting him right as to her name 
 {'-'' Call me out of it he will," she had
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 5 
 
 once told her liusband, ^'for all tlie 
 world as if I was a mistake, though it's 
 no one but him as makes a blunder of 
 me.") ** And as for your ' betters/ 'twas 
 you as said that, and not I, sir, as have 
 seen enough to know with half an eye 
 w^hen folks have come down in the 
 world," she added, preceding him up the 
 narrow staircase. 
 
 ^^ Odd that people who come dow^n in 
 the w^orld move up higher in lodgings," 
 he said with a smile, and then said 
 nothing more, for Phoebe's bed was 
 heavy and his breath came in gasps as 
 they reached the upper landing. 
 
 The rooms were clean enough and 
 airy, but very small. It did not take 
 long to arrange in them the few articles 
 of furnitm-e father and daughter possessed, 
 but the unwonted exertion left Harold 
 Blunt exhausted and spent. His state 
 moved the compassion of Mrs. Blundell.
 
 6 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^^ Stairs is bad for you/' she said, 
 as she opened the window and let in a 
 breath of sweet spring air. 
 
 And then it struck her that he looked 
 more ill than usual. Instead of hurrying 
 away to her business on the floor below, 
 she hesitated to leave him. A secret fear 
 entered her mind and showed itself 
 too plainly in her face. He saw it, and 
 spoke to the point. 
 
 *' A man must die someiuhere, Mrs. 
 Blunder." 
 
 ** Lor, sir ! " she exclaimed with a 
 great jump, her broad countenance grow- 
 ing crimson, haK from surprise, half from 
 shame that her thought should be de- 
 tected. ^^ You do say such queer things. 
 Who was thinking of dying ? — though, 
 to be sure, we ought all of us to be think- 
 ing of it all our days." 
 
 ^'In that case I am afraid most of us 
 would do but a bad day's work. I would
 
 WALL-FLO WERS. 7 
 
 rather try to live well, and trust for the 
 
 rest." 
 
 ^^We are bound to prepare for our 
 
 latter end," said the landlady. 
 
 Again he answered to her thought, 
 
 and not to the ordinary meaning of the 
 
 words she used, — 
 
 '' I assure you I have prepared. You 
 
 will be put to no trouble, and my child 
 
 will not be friendless. What do you 
 
 take me for, my good friend ? After all 
 
 these months do you know me so little 
 as to beheve I should play you the mean 
 
 trick of using your house to die in, with- 
 out having taken every precaution that 
 you should be no loser? I have even 
 left you my ' sticks,' since Phoebe will 
 not need them." 
 
 u gij.,— Mr. Blunt,— I did not mean 
 that. My thoughts was otherwise, as 
 you might be sure, on such a solemn 
 subject. If a person does let lodgings
 
 8 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 and is forced to look sharp after things, 
 owing to a husband tliat soft that money 
 would never come in at all if I didn't 
 scrape for both, is it any reason she 
 shouldn't have a heart to feel for others, 
 as has always been civil-spoken to her ? 
 I was thinking of your soul, Mr. Blunt, 
 as it is but natural I should think of it 
 when a man talks of dying." 
 
 '* I thought you were thinking of the 
 rent," he said quaintly, ** and that would 
 be natural, too. For any other thoughts 
 I thank you heartily, and feel sure when 
 the blow falls, as it must fall very soon 
 now, my girl will find a friend in 
 you." 
 
 " I must say I am glad she has other 
 friends to look to," said Mrs. Blundell ; 
 ^^ I've wondered now and again to see 
 you so little troubled about her, or about 
 anything else, for that matter." 
 
 '' Why sliould I be troubled ? "
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 9 
 
 ** People mostly is where money's 
 scarce." 
 
 "And what a pity that is ! There is 
 nothing under the sun that I can see 
 to be troubled about, except wrong- 
 doing, our own or others'." 
 
 ** Well, there's plenty of that — both 
 kinds," said the woman shortly, pausing 
 as she turned to go, to ask, " "Will you 
 have a doctor? '* 
 
 " I have seen one. He can do no- 
 thing." 
 
 *'And that don't trouble you neither? " 
 
 '' Would it trouble you ? " 
 
 "I've always considered death a very 
 solemn thing," she said. 
 
 *' More solemn than life ? " 
 
 " Lor, now ! what things you do say. 
 There ain't nothing solemn about mud- 
 dling along down here day after day, 
 trying to make both ends meet, with 
 lodgers in the season, and coal in winter.
 
 lo PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and rent all the year round upon one's 
 mind, and slaving and scraping from 
 one week's end to the other, with, to 
 be sure, a rest on Sunday, or may-be a 
 holiday, such as Whit Monday and the 
 like, between whiles, though that's such 
 a squeedging and shoving as makes a 
 toil of pleasure. Worrittin' it may be, 
 and is, but solemn ain't the word." 
 
 Mrs. Blundell paused for breath. The 
 answer was very gently given. 
 
 '^ Still — it is not only in death that 
 we are present with God. In Him we 
 live, and move, and have our being. 
 We cannot escape out of His presence, 
 or hve one moment of our lives out of 
 His sight. That is what, to my mind, 
 makes life a solemn and a happy thing." 
 
 ^' I can't say I ever heard it put just 
 so," said the landlady in a lowered 
 tone. 
 
 ^' But don't you think it is a good
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. ii 
 
 way to 23ut it ? Don't you fancy that 
 to realise it may make it quite as natural 
 to think of one's soul while living — and 
 ' scraping/ let us say — as to remember 
 it only when one speaks of death ? " , 
 
 To that Mrs. Blundell made no answer, 
 hut she went away understanding her 
 lodger better than she ever had under- 
 stood him before. His words came back 
 to her from time to time as she scrubbed 
 and cleaned in his vacated rooms below, 
 getting them ready for a new tenant, 
 nor did she ever quite forget them. 
 
 Left alone, and feeling restless and 
 unsettled after his move into a strange 
 apartment, where as yet the familiar 
 furnitm-e looked ' out of place and un- 
 comfortable, Harold Blunt descended 
 into the street for a breath of fresh air 
 before he began to work again at his 
 writing. The street was a dim and 
 dingy one, the houses for the most part
 
 12 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 let in lodgings, while the owners re- 
 served only the basement floors for their 
 own use. They had a hard time of it, 
 perhaps that was some excuse for their 
 hard dealing with others. In almost 
 every case they took the houses only 
 for the sake of living rent free them- 
 selves, making no other profit out of 
 their many lodgers, and having fully as 
 much anxiety with regard to rent as 
 those had who paid rent to them. 
 
 Glancing up the dingy street Harold 
 Blunt became aware of a rich glow of 
 colour at the further end of it. The 
 sunshine, falling on the slender, white 
 spire of a district church hard by, fell 
 upon the tawny, orange -coloured mass, 
 and lit that up also. It was only a 
 costermonger's barrow heaped with wall- 
 flowers ; but the effect was striking, 
 and when the man came nearer, and 
 the rich, sweet scent was perceptible,
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 13 
 
 the whole seemed an embodiment of 
 Spring. 
 
 It was an odd load. Some people 
 might have doubted its being a profit- 
 able one, but the costermonger had 
 known what he was abo^t. As he passed 
 along bawling his hoarse ciy, every door 
 opened. It was touching to see how the 
 people coveted those little bits of spring, 
 and how willingly they paid for them. 
 Even at the low price of a penny a 
 bunch, the investment evidently was a 
 good one ; the stack (for it really was 
 almost that) of wall-flowers diminished 
 rapidly. 
 
 Two mites of guis stood upon the 
 pavement. 
 
 *' Oh, my ! look 'ere ! " said one. 
 
 ** Them's posies," said the other ; *^ seed 
 'em grow, I have, down in the country." 
 
 ^'I ain't got 'ere a halfpenny, and I 
 should hke a posy to smeU to."
 
 14 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ''I'd give yer one if I'd got a copper," 
 said tlie smallest child, and then both 
 set off to follow the barrow, and at least 
 sniff its fragrance, which could be had 
 for nothing, till Harold hailed it, and 
 made the children happy with a "posy" 
 each. The luxury of giving was left him 
 stilL 
 
 "Yours is a strange load, my friend," 
 he said to the man, as he selected 
 another bunch for Phoebe. 
 
 " So my mates say. They cheeked 
 me about it uncommon. But I knowed 
 it would sell, and seU it do. There's 
 scarce a woman in the streets hereabouts 
 as has kept her door shut to-day when 
 Spring come along and knocked at it," 
 said the costermonger. 
 
 Harold Blunt laughed. Had the 
 poetical nature of the man's load made 
 an unconscious poet of him ? And then 
 he looked at him more attentively, and
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 15 
 
 fancied there was something different in 
 his looks from those of the ordinary run 
 of London roughs, who get their Hving 
 in the streets, something too in the 
 accent of the voice, when it was not 
 shouting its hoarse cry, that sounded 
 almost famiHar to his ears. 
 
 "You are from the country yourself, 
 I fancy," he remarked. 
 
 "It's a precious long time since I 
 seed a wall-flower growing anywheres 
 else than in Covent Garden, but if it 
 comes to that, they was all on 'em raised 
 in the country, and so was a good many 
 of us as handles 'em here," said the 
 man. 
 
 Again the accent seemed to Harold 
 not that which met his ears every day, 
 as he went to and fro in London, but 
 the echo of some tone heard long ago. 
 It puzzled him to account for the effect 
 this voice had upon him.
 
 1 6 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 He would have kept up the conversa- 
 tion if only to try and satisfy himself 
 that he was mistaken, but the coster- 
 monger seized the handles of his barrow, 
 began to cry his wares once more, and 
 went off up the street ; so Harold Blunt 
 carried his wall-flowers upstairs, and 
 placed them in a glass of water, as a 
 pleasant greeting to Phoebe in the new 
 room. 
 
 The scent of them filled the room, 
 and seemed to mingle strangely with 
 the tones that had caught his attention 
 in the street below. Memory was busy 
 just then. Few things recall the past 
 more vividly than a familiar odour, 
 wliich steals over the senses, and con- 
 jures up the very sights and sounds of 
 other days. 
 
 He must have been a Calminster 
 man, said Harold Blunt to himself, as 
 his thoughts went back to great tufts of
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 17 
 
 wall-flower blooming in an old garden of 
 a country town far off. A small garden 
 with a high wall all round it, in which 
 there was a door leading on to a narrow 
 street; for the garden lay at the back 
 of a shop. He remembered how, when 
 the passage-door into the shop stood 
 open, the rich scent in spring-time would 
 reach even there. It recalled to him 
 reams of smooth paper, packets of long 
 quill pens with feathery tops, books in 
 gay bindings, and an old man, with 
 while hair, seated at a desk behind the 
 counter. It recalled the very look of 
 the cathedi'al towers, standing up against 
 a background of blue sky — the towers 
 which were visible only from the left- 
 hand top corner of the great plate-glass 
 window ; for Grove Street lay under the 
 shadow of the cathedral itself, and so 
 near to it that the opposite houses shut 
 it out from ^iew, as the petty grievances 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 i8 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and ignoble pleasures of life shut out 
 from our dull eyes the great works of 
 God, standing so near to us at all times. 
 He seemed to see again, as plainly as 
 when he was really h\dng there, the 
 shops over the way, the people passing to 
 and fi^o, himself helping in the business 
 and for ever forgetting his work to sit 
 and dream, while his brother was the 
 old man's right hand; — to see himself, 
 dreaming still, wandering in the mea- 
 dows, from whence the whole beautiful 
 cathedral could be seen at once, in its 
 turn dwarfing the town lying at its 
 feet. 
 
 Very early in life he had grown tired 
 of the shop, of the ceaseless scraping 
 together of money, which seemed the 
 end and sole object of life in the busy, 
 thriving town ; and when his father 
 died, Harold astonished his brother by 
 declining to enter into partnership with
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 19 
 
 him, declaring that his share of the 
 accumulated profits of the flourishing 
 and long-established business more than 
 contented him, and would give him 
 leisure to follow his own cherished 
 pursuits. 
 
 With a thirst for knowledge and a 
 keen love of stud}^, he had always been 
 told that study would never make his 
 fortune, and that books, in any other 
 sense than that of selling them, could 
 be no soiu'ce of riches. Now, with a 
 fortune, however modest, ready-made, 
 he might surely please himself. 
 
 So he left Calminster, where he and 
 his brother had never pulled together 
 very well, being as they were such dif- 
 ferent men, and having such widely 
 different views of hfe, and went to 
 London for a while, in order to be near 
 the museums, and to surround himself 
 with his beloved books, finally setthng
 
 20 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 down in a small house in tlie neigiibour- 
 liood of Clapham Common, where he and 
 Phoebe were as happy as the days were 
 long. 
 
 At the birth of Phoebe her mother 
 had died. That one short episode of 
 his married life Harold Blunt never 
 spoke of even to his child. 
 
 Of late years, in an evil moment, he 
 had been over-persuaded to invest his 
 money in a joint-stock bank, the break- 
 ing of which left him penniless, to begin 
 the w^orld again with failing health, a 
 daughter w^holly dependent on him, 
 and the knowledge that w^hatever else 
 they turned to, his varied and extensive 
 studies were of no use in their fallen 
 fortunes. 
 
 Harold sat thinking of all this, while 
 the scent of the wall-flowers recalled his 
 earlier days, — days when he and Edmund 
 had been boys together, days before the
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 21 
 
 world had been all in all to the elder, 
 and before the dreams of the younger 
 were anything but dreams. Old memo- 
 ries crowded upon him. Under their 
 influence he determined to write at once 
 a letter that must, for Phoebe's sake, be 
 wiitten some time or other, and had 
 perhaps been already too long delayed, 
 for at that moment he felt more than 
 ever sure that he need not fear to confide 
 Phoebe to her uncle's care. 
 
 But that letter was not to be written 
 just yet. As he spread the paper before 
 him and dipped his pen in the ink, a light 
 foot sounded on the stairs, the door opened 
 softly, and a fresh, young voice exclaimed, 
 
 " "^Tiy, father ! are we promoted to 
 the attics ? " 
 
 He laid down the pen again, and for 
 a moment looked neither tired nor ill 
 as he returned the loving greeting that 
 accompanied her words.
 
 22 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 '* Even so," he said; ^* we have risen 
 in life, as a necessary consequence of the 
 rise in rent." 
 
 '* They are not bad rooms," said 
 Phcebe, glancing critically round, and 
 seeing, as she always did see, the best of 
 things at first sight; "the higher the 
 better in this close street, it is so much 
 more airy, but — how easy to see a man 
 arranged the furniture ! " 
 
 " You are wrong for once ; it was Mrs. 
 Blunder's doing," he said, as he watched 
 her moving gently about, and by a touch 
 here and there certainly making the 
 poor room appear every instant more 
 home-like and better ordered; '^ and you 
 do not pay me the compliment of so 
 much as noticing the one effect of colour 
 our drawing-room does owe to me." 
 
 "Indeed, I do. I saw my wall-flower 
 man go down the street, and hoped you 
 were looking out."
 
 WALL-FLOWERS, 23 
 
 '^ Your wall-flower man ! how do you 
 make that out ? I was under the de- 
 lusion that I had discovered him myself. 
 Child, the sunlight was on the white 
 spire of St. Gabriel's, making it gleam 
 against the blue sky, and a long slanting 
 ray fell straight upon that mass of rich 
 colour. I assure you it lit up the street. 
 It was a httle bit worth painting." 
 
 '' You look at everything with the eye 
 of a i)ainter, father, and see pictures 
 everywhere," she said; *'but it luas my 
 man. Don't you remember I told you of 
 him and his children ? " 
 
 '' I have no doubt you did. You per- 
 petually are teUing me of some children 
 or other. Y^ou may refresh my memory 
 with regard to these." 
 
 *^ They lodge in Nicholl's Eow, and 
 the man never brings home money for 
 the rent, or for anything at all, — drinks 
 it, the old woman of the house thinks ;
 
 24 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 lie hardly ever comes near his children, 
 so they have heen turned out at last." 
 
 ''Turned out!" 
 
 ''Oh, not on to the streets. The 
 ■woman keeps them still, and lets them 
 live in her hack kitchen, and now and 
 then worries the man out of a few shill- 
 ings, but she has turned liim out. The 
 children are such dear little things, the 
 girl quite a character. I must bring her 
 to see you." 
 
 He made a gesture of dismay. 
 
 "My dear ! have you no fear of Mrs. 
 Blunder before your eyes ? Have you 
 forgotten the charwoman?" 
 
 Phoebe looked serious. 
 
 " She was very angry, certainly. Per- 
 haps I had better not bring the little 
 girl. The man does not always sell 
 flowers, you know," she added, burying 
 her little nose in the fragrant bunch 
 upon the table; "sometimes it is fish,
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 25 
 
 or vegetables, in the summer often fi'uit. 
 To-day Belinda ran out to buy some of 
 his wall-flowers. You remember she gave 
 me a cast-off frock for his Fib once." 
 
 Belinda, be it known, was the daughter 
 of a greengi'ocer in the next street. She 
 was a good girl, one of Phcebe's pupils, 
 and when the lessons first began used to 
 appear at them in curl papers and with 
 a necklace of blue glass beads. Under 
 the unconscious influence of her teacher's 
 good taste the curl papers had disap- 
 peared, the beads were replaced by a 
 simple locket tied round her neck on a 
 piece of fi'esh blue ribbon, and Behnda 
 had learnt to take an interest in Phoebe's 
 poor people. 
 
 *' I do remember your coming home 
 one day with a big bundle. There are 
 people worse off than ourselves, my 
 Phoebe, and a back kitchen, I suppose, 
 is a lower depth than a back attic."
 
 26 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 '' To be sure it is. But you have been 
 in miscbiefj dear. How tired you 
 look!" 
 
 " Not more tired than usual, or per- 
 haps a little more so than yesterday, 
 and not so weary as I must be to- 
 morrow." 
 
 She went to him and kissed liim then, 
 and wandered aimlessly about the room, 
 but being a brave girl and trained to 
 look trouble in the face, came up at last 
 behind his chair, and putting her two 
 arms round him, said quietly, — 
 
 ^' Would the doctor be no good, 
 father?" 
 
 He gave her the same answer he had 
 given to his landlady. 
 
 ^^ I have seen him. He can do no- 
 thing." 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes ; 
 then he drew her round in front of him, 
 and she took up her favomite position
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 27 
 
 on a stool at his feet, her head resting 
 against him. 
 
 ''There are some things I must say 
 to 3^on, child. They had better be said 
 to-day. If we have moved to a poorer 
 room, it is only for a little time, and 
 because I dare not draw upon our little 
 savings. You will want them all soon. 
 And I think the time has come when I 
 must write to Calminster." 
 
 " To my uncle ? Oh, father, I thought 
 we had agreed to be independent ? " 
 
 "While it was possible, but when 
 health fails, don't you think it is time 
 to put pride in our pocket ? " 
 
 *' ShaU you go there ? " 
 
 " No, child— but you will." 
 
 She understood him, and laid her face 
 upon his knee to hide the tears that tvould 
 come now. He let them have their way 
 for a while, only stroking her head gently, 
 and at last she looked up again.
 
 28 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 '' I tlionght of asking your uncle to 
 come up," he began, '^ but we two will 
 not part till the end comes. I hope you 
 may make friends at Calminster — friends 
 with one to whom you owe " he hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 ** My uncle has his own children, and 
 I have never seen him," she said; ^' he 
 cannot want me, or care whether I love 
 him or not. He is wrapped up in his 
 business, and thinks of nothing else, I 
 have heard you say." 
 
 ^^ Child! one's own wrong-doing seldom 
 looks so wrong as when one sees it re- 
 flected in another. I cannot have you 
 judge your uncle, or despise the old 
 home." 
 
 ^' Wrong- doing, father ? " 
 
 ^^Yes," he said; *'I doubt now whether 
 it was ever right to lose sight of all as I 
 have done ; and the worst of it is, I am. 
 puzzled with regard to you. I can only
 
 WALL-FLO IVERS. 29 
 
 bid you do right always, Phoebe, and 
 give dutiful afifection ivlierever it is due 
 — as you have given it to me. And now 
 I must write that letter while I have 
 strength to ^\Tite it." 
 
 ^^ Then I shall stand by and watch 
 you, see every word you say, and take 
 the pen away if your hand so much as 
 begins to tremble," and the young t}Tant 
 stationed herself at his elbow, prepared 
 to carry out her threat. 
 
 The gui's cheerfulness was not feigned. 
 Tears and smiles with her lay very 
 near together, even as sorrow and joy 
 lay near together in her chequered life. 
 Was her father's secret hers also, that 
 nothing stirred her sweet content, or 
 banished happiness entirely, nor even 
 the heavy trouble coming upon her, 
 and that it wrung her heart to think 
 of? 
 
 *' My dear Edmund," the letter began,
 
 30 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^'it is long since we heard of one another, 
 and you may be surprised to hear from 
 me now, — perhaps not surprised at part 
 of the news I have to tell, for your 
 prophecies have come true at last. I 
 am a ruined man. All I possessed was 
 lost in the smash of L. & Co., a year 
 back, — all except the choicest legacy a 
 man can have to leave, and that legacy 
 I mean to leave to you — my daughter 
 Phoebe. 
 
 ^* Do not think that I ask at your 
 hands much more than kindness for the 
 child. She will be no burden. She 
 now earns her own livehhood by teach- 
 ing, and I have no doubt you can help 
 her to find some such work in the old 
 place, or that you will give her a home 
 with you imtil she finds a permanent 
 situation." 
 
 Here Harold's pen made a long pause. 
 He looked thoughtfully in Phoebe's face,
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 31 
 
 then resumed liis writing more slowly, 
 and as if carefully weighing every word 
 he traced. Yet the words were few and 
 simple enough when written : — 
 
 ^^ It is possible a more humble way of 
 life may be open to her. Whether she 
 shall turn to that or not I leave you 
 to judge. I have heard no news fi'om 
 Calminster for long. In leaving you my 
 Phoebe, I leave to her and you the de- 
 cision what it will be best and right for 
 her to do. 
 
 *' And now, brother, come and see me 
 before I die, for I am dying. Without 
 having the slightest doubt that you will 
 receive the child, your own assurance of 
 it would be comforting, and the sight of 
 you " 
 
 '' Stop ! " said Phcebe, suddenly, and 
 taking the pen fi'om him as she spoke, 
 " do you hear jfAa?^ r' 
 
 A man was crying something in the
 
 32 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 street. Street cries resounded all day 
 long in that neighbourhood. The neces- 
 saries of life must be sought for at the 
 nearest shop, its luxuries were brought 
 to the doors of frugal housewives. 
 Watercress, radishes, fruit, fish, and, as 
 we have seen, flowers were offered to 
 them all day long. This time it was 
 fish. 
 
 ^' Fresh mackerel ! Fine fresh mack- 
 erel ! ' 
 
 The sound reached the ears of Phoebe 
 and her father. 
 
 '■'- You can finish the letter by-and-by ; 
 you must have some food now," said the 
 girl. 
 
 '^ He yielded without remonstrance, 
 but, as she prepared to leave the room, 
 detained her a moment. 
 
 ^' One word, child. In the days to 
 come you viay have to choose for your- 
 self. The way seems dark to me just
 
 WALL-FLOWERS. 33 
 
 now — through my own fault — I cannot 
 direct you, but you know where to seek 
 
 for guidance ; your mother " he broke 
 
 off here. Phoebe felt a little bewildered : 
 he had never spoken to her of her mother 
 in her hfe. '^ I do not even know whe- 
 ther — whether any of her people are 
 still hving. If you meet with them — oh, 
 child, what shall I say to you, but this, 
 in every case, in every choice or change 
 that comes to you in life, try to do 
 right, and remember always of how little 
 importance worldly station, wealth, the 
 world at all, is to a Christian ? Your 
 face is set heavenwards, take heed that 
 you do not turn your gaze away. I can 
 say no more now ; but there are things 
 I will tell you to-morrow." 
 
 He never lived to tell her of those 
 things, and the letter to his brother was 
 not finished by his hand at all. 
 
 A few minutes later the scent of the 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 
 
 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 wall-flowers was overpowered by that of 
 the fish dehcately broihng over the coals, 
 as Phoebe knew right well how to broil 
 them.
 
 II. — NICHOLL S ROW. 
 
 VEN in the spring simsliine, 
 NichoU's Kow could not look 
 ^"^ anything hut dull. Princi- 
 pally perhaps hecause its prevailing cha- 
 racteristic was dirt. Everything ivas so 
 dirty. The rag and bone shop was 
 beautifully in keeping with its sur- 
 roundings in the narrow street where 
 the pavement was never clean, where 
 the children at play or idling vacantly 
 about seemed not to know what soap 
 and water meant, where the women's 
 dresses, — as their wearers hurried along, 
 stood gossiping with one another, or 
 drove hard bargains in the dusty, fusty-
 
 36 PhCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 smelling shops, — must have been quite 
 innocent of the wash-tub, and never 
 could have seen it in their lives. And 
 the men — there were not many of them 
 about, the work, of those who had regular 
 work, lying at a distance, but those who 
 were to be seen looked as hopelessly un- 
 washed as the women and children, the 
 grimy pavement, and the street itself. 
 That last tvas washed now and then. 
 The skies themselves undertook the 
 friendly and charitable office. Torrents 
 of pure rain, falling from heaven, flushed 
 the filthy gutters till they ran full and 
 sweet for once. The children rejoiced, 
 sailed mimic boats upon the rushing tide, 
 paddled in it with bare feet, and by-and- 
 by NichoU's Kow was dirtier than ever 
 from mud added to its other charms. 
 
 It was a very unsavoury region too. 
 Walking down it the nose was offended 
 at every step. There was nothing bright
 
 XICHOLrS ROW. 37 
 
 or cheerful all the length of the Row, no 
 one house that looked clean or comfort- 
 able, no one open door that tempted you 
 to enter, — except, alas ! one and one only. 
 
 The public-house, so much more at- 
 tractive-looking than any other house 
 in Xicholl's Eow — the public, with its 
 attempt at decoration, or at the very 
 least its attempt at greater cleanliness 
 and order, which in itself was ornamental 
 in that squahd neighbourhood, offered 
 the only pleasant change from their 
 overcrowded wretched homes, to those 
 of the inhabitants who wearied for some 
 change in the monotonous poverty of 
 their lives. 
 
 Perhaps it was not much to be won- 
 dered at that the w^all-flower man, as 
 Phoebe called him, driving his empty 
 barrow home towards evening, should 
 have driven it straight to the tempting, 
 ever-open door of the gin palace. A few
 
 38 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 odd bunches of his fi'agrant load littered 
 the barrow still, and that was all that 
 remained of the goodly heap of scent and 
 colour mingled with which he had that 
 morning started on his rounds. 
 
 k. sharp eye watched the wall-flower 
 man, or, rather, his boots, for very little 
 more of him was visible from the under- 
 ground cellar, dignified with the name of 
 front kitchen, and a sharp voice as he 
 passed called out, — 
 
 ''Fib! Fib! come along here, I tell 
 yer. I seen your father's boots go by, 
 as sure as sure." 
 
 The sjDeaker was too much occupied to 
 go in pursuit of those boots herseK. The 
 whir of a rusty sewing-machine never 
 ceased for a moment as she spoke, nor 
 could she turn her eyes away for more 
 than a minute at a time from the coarse 
 greasy canvas coat upon which she was 
 at work. There being no answer to her
 
 NICHOLAS ROW. 39 
 
 summons, slie called again, louder this 
 time, and with rising anger in her 
 voice, — 
 
 '' Fib ! " 
 
 '^ Wliat now ? Is it me you're hollerin' 
 after ? " 
 
 The words were no more courteous 
 than were the words of other dwellers 
 in NichoU's Eow, where the daily fight 
 for daily bread, the rush and turmoil of 
 their weary lives, left little time for cour- 
 tesy of speech or manners, but the voice 
 was fi'esh, and sweet too, in spite of its 
 sharp cockney accent — a young child's 
 voice. And when Fib put her head in 
 at the open door, her bright clean face 
 seemed quite to illumine the dingy, 
 grimy den where the woman sat at work. 
 
 Fib's clothes, — or rather, since it is 
 doubtful whether truth permits them to 
 be mentioned in the plural. Fib's fi'ock, of 
 some dark stuff, hung about her in rags
 
 40 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and tatters. One little bare shoulder 
 peeped throngli, but that little shoulder 
 was not as dirty as most other things 
 in Nicholl's Eow, and Fib had washed 
 her face, washed even the tangled masses 
 of her elf locks, which hung now all 
 dripping about her ears. 
 
 "What was you hollerin' affcer?" she 
 asked again. 
 
 "Your father's boots went by, — I 
 knowed 'em ^along of their being that 
 busted as it's a wonder he keeps 'em on 
 his feet," — and you must go after him. 
 Quick, child ! " 
 
 "Don's in the tub, then, and I ain't 
 a-going to leave him to dry hisself, and 
 get all grimy again cutting about in the 
 dirt before he is dry." 
 
 The woman snatched an instant to 
 look up, and becoming aware of the 
 unusual appearance of little Fib, stared
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 41 
 
 at her, as at a spectacle rare indeed in 
 that place. 
 
 ^' Lor, child ; why, you've been — youVe 
 been and tvashed yerself. What's that 
 for?" 
 
 ^^ She said as ^cleanliness were next 
 to godliness,' and if one's a long way 
 off, soap and water is handy," answered 
 Fib ; " but it wasn't just as handy as 
 she thought, when you hadn't a penny, 
 nor a fai^thing neither, for to buy the 
 soap, and nothing for to hold water. 
 But Tve been and borrowed a tub." 
 
 ^' And the soap ? You ain't got no 
 money." 
 
 '* Begged it," said Fib, shortly. 
 
 *^ And you've took and washed Don, 
 too. Where's the good of it, he'll be as 
 bad as ever in ten minutes." 
 
 " Can't help that ; she'll come along 
 to-morrow, being Sunday, and may-be 
 she'll be pleased to see him, and to see
 
 42 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 I've minded her words. I want to mind 
 'em," and Fib looked out of the narrow 
 opening through which the feet of 
 passers-by only were visible, with a 
 strangely wistful look upon her Httle 
 face. 
 
 "I ain't no patience with 'notions,'" 
 said the woman angrily, for the thread 
 in the needle of the machine broke just 
 then with a jerk. 
 
 Everything, beyond the one idea of 
 earning enough to keep body and soul 
 together, was in her vocabulary '' no- 
 tions," whatever that might mean. All 
 the pretty fancies of childhood, — which, 
 wonderful and strange to tell, flourished 
 and found room to grow in Nicholl's 
 Eow — and yet it was neither wonderful 
 nor strange so long as childhood was 
 innocent even there ; all the wise 
 tender lessons Phoebe taught, all the 
 faint gleams of a brighter world, all the
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 43 
 
 weak struggles after a better life, the 
 dawnings of a belief that it is not by 
 bread alone man lives, — these, and all 
 things like these, were '^ notions." 
 
 Fib knew well what she meant, but 
 then rib liked ^' notions " herself, and 
 found her life the better and the happier 
 for the few her friend had been able 
 to implant. She had no mind to give 
 them up. 
 
 Eeturning to Don, sitting squeezed up 
 in a far from comfortable position in the 
 borrowed tub, but patient and smiling 
 still, she dried the little fellow quickly 
 by means of a thin blanket which served 
 the children for a bed, then hung that 
 out to dry in its turn, and having dressed 
 the boy in such rags as he possessed, she 
 took him by the hand, for Fib went 
 nowhere without Don, and the two set 
 off in pursuit of their father. 
 
 *^ You've took your time about it," the
 
 44 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 woman remarked, as she passed her to 
 go out, but she did not really consider 
 the delay of much importance. Going 
 in the direction in which they had gone, 
 the boots of the wall-flower man could 
 be conveying him to only one place. 
 Fib would find her father in the public- 
 house, nor had he yet spent time enough 
 there to make it probable that he would 
 be utterly unmanageable when she did 
 find him. 
 
 Innocent Phoebe, in speaking of these 
 proteges of hers, had thought it very 
 good of the woman to continue to main- 
 tain the children ; but to tell the truth, 
 not only was Fib useful in the way of 
 running errands, or now and then in 
 selling trifles in the street, but the 
 money from time to time wrung from 
 her father more than paid for the food, 
 such as it was, given to the children. 
 It was a fair enough bargain on both
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 45 
 
 sides, and the little ones were fairly 
 well treated. With Don, indeed, no one 
 had anything to do hut his motherly 
 elder sister, who took care that, what- 
 ever she might put up \\ith herself now 
 and then when times were bad, lie never 
 suifered, — for suffering, hke most other 
 things, is comparative, and coarse, even 
 scanty food, hard bed, and ragged 
 clothing, w^ere no great hardships to the 
 children, so long as health and the 
 companionship of each other were left to 
 them. In spite of poverty. Fib's play 
 was merry, her sleep sound at night, 
 her heart Hght always, all the Hghter 
 since Phcebe had found her out. 
 
 " Why shouldn't she be merry ? 
 Phcebe had asked once, when the child 
 had run to meet her in wild spirits, and 
 the woman of the house had grumbled 
 at what she called her ^'random ways," 
 — '' don't you like to hear laughter in
 
 46 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 your house ? It's like the song of 
 birds, when it is innocent as well as 
 gay," and she showed the text she had 
 chosen for her little friend to learn : 
 ^^Your joy no man taketh from yon." 
 '^ There are others like it, you know," 
 she went on, preaching her little sermon 
 with so sweet a voice and smile that no 
 one could refuse to listen : " one of the * 
 * fruits of the Spirit' is 'joy.' " If Fib 
 and Don learn to love God, and are 
 good children, they must be happy, they 
 can't help it, you know ; and when we 
 are very young it is natural, when we are 
 happy, to be merry too." 
 
 To all of which and much more the 
 woman assented civilly, for it was the 
 day on which Phcebe had brought 
 Belinda's frock, and if anything was to 
 be got by '' notions," it was well to give 
 in to them. 
 
 The fi'ock, sad to say, was pawned as
 
 MCHOLL'S ROW. 47 
 
 soon as the yoiing lady's back was 
 turned, and Fib wore her rags con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 ^* We be snch an expense, yoii see," 
 she said, for, sharp child though she 
 was, she was not quite sharp enough to 
 knew her ot\tl value yet ; '^ and bread is 
 ris, but well get it out of pawn for 
 Sunday." 
 
 At the door of the public-house the 
 children found the barrow standing. 
 They knew it at once, but the faded 
 flowers surprised them. Don stopped 
 to collect the scattered blossoms. Fib 
 pushed open the swing door and looked 
 in. 
 
 Yes, her father was there, still sober, 
 and apparently in good humom- ; for he 
 was laughing and joking T\ith two other 
 men. 
 
 " Loaded up with posies, and sold 'em 
 all off," he was saying, as Fib crept up
 
 48 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 to his side and touched him on the 
 arm. 
 
 The child was accustomed to her 
 errand. There were days when she had 
 sought her father for hours, sought him 
 in hack streets, more dingy and more 
 squahd even than NichoU's Eow, she 
 and Don treading with weary little feet, 
 but knowing sadly too well where to 
 look for him. Sometimes when they did 
 find him, it was too late, and Fib was 
 too wise a child to speak to him or do 
 her errand then. There was nothing 
 for it but to tread the maze of streets 
 again, and go home to appease Mrs. 
 Gripps as best they could. She always 
 sent Fib in preference to going herself; 
 for the child invariably brought back 
 more money than Mrs. Gripps could 
 *' worry out of him," as she expressed 
 it. It was chiefly when she came upon 
 him unawares that she herself attacked
 
 NICHOLAS ROIV. 49 
 
 him, and he kept a keen look-out for 
 her coming, and dodged her in by-ways 
 or down courts and passages. When 
 he was brought to bay there ensued a 
 fierce war of words, but to Fib he was 
 always kind. He followed her out now, 
 and lifted Don up in his arms. 
 
 ^' What ! robbed the barrow, have 
 you? " he said, as the Httle fellow held 
 up the faded flowers; ^' and— my eyes! 
 — what a swell. Why, Fib, whatever is 
 the matter with him ? " 
 
 '' He's clean," said Fib. 
 
 '^ To think o' that now ! so he is, the 
 young shaver. W^hat brought you after 
 me, child? not but what I expected to 
 be followed when I ventured so nigh 
 Mother Gripps — oh, but she's well 
 named ! " 
 
 ^* Father, what's my name ? " the child 
 asked suddenly, and as if struck by an 
 idea. 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 PHCEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 ^*As how? ain't Fib good enougli for 
 yer ? " 
 
 ^^ The lady says I couldn't have been 
 christened that. It ain't a name at all, 
 she says, and means telHng what's not 
 true, and she laughed, she did, above a 
 bit. She said it was a queer 'traction." 
 
 ** How came she to get talking of it at 
 aU?" 
 
 '' Along of the Catechis' ; '' What is 
 yer name ? " it begins. She was a 
 learnin' me of it, you know, father." 
 
 ^' Your Catechism name is Phoebe," 
 said the man, setting little Don down 
 upon the barrow; ''and now off we go, 
 — I'll trundle you home again." 
 
 ''And come along in, father — do. We 
 can get supper, and have it to ourselves 
 in the back kitchen. There won't no 
 one interfere." 
 
 " Catch me going through the front 
 kitchen to get to the back 1 No, you
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 51 
 
 be content with what you can get, Phoebe, 
 and don't go botherin' for more. Here, 
 give this to the old woman. It ought to 
 keep her quiet for a bit, oughtn't it ? " 
 
 He was so good-natured to-day. Fib 
 ventured on a request which lay near 
 her heart. 
 
 ^^ To-morrow's Sunday," she said. 
 
 ^* What about it ? " 
 
 *^ You don't go out with barrer Sun- 
 days ? " 
 
 ** Never you mind about that," he said 
 sharply. If he did contrive to evade the 
 law and take his share in Sunday trading, 
 he had no mind his child should know 
 of it, seeing, too, that of such ill-gotten 
 gains no portion ever found their way 
 into the hands of Httle Fib. 
 
 '^ Ain't yer got a Sunday coat in 
 pawn ? " was Fib's next question. 
 
 ^^What do yer want to know for? 
 May-be I have ; may-be I haven't." 

 
 52 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 *' If you liad., we could go to cliurcli." 
 
 Her father lifted tlie handles of the 
 barrow, and tilted Don unceremoniously 
 into the street. 
 
 *' Pack of nonsense ! " he said angrily. 
 ** There ! take the boy out of this, and 
 get along home with you both. 1 ain't 
 going no further. I've had enough of 
 you for one while." 
 
 He went off rapidly, and was soon out 
 of sight, leaving Fib looking after him 
 sadly, — vexed, not so much at his refusal 
 and sudden change of mood, as at what 
 she thought might be her own mis- 
 management. 
 
 " I must have done it stupid," she said 
 to Don, always a good Hstener, if his 
 baby lips could not yet contribute much 
 to the conversation. '^ Slie said, ^ Bide 
 yer time. Fib, and do it lovin'.' I must 
 have done it wrong somehow, for he was 
 that kind as he ain't often, though he's
 
 NICHOLAS ROW. 53 
 
 never bad to us. Well," with a patient 
 sigh, ^* I'll try again some one day, and 
 now ^ith all this 'ere money we'll g6 
 straight off before we goes home at all 
 and get my frock and yonr little coat, 
 Don, so as we can go to chm'ch ourselves 
 to-morrow." 
 
 They had no need to go home for 
 the tickets, they were tied np in a corner 
 of Fib's rags. She had kept them 
 about her ever since the time some had 
 60 mysteriously disappeared fi'om the 
 cracked cup in which Mrs. Gripps kept 
 them, and no one could find trace of 
 them, though the old woman herself 
 joined in the search, which Fib thought 
 kind of her, seeing that the loss was 
 only the children's. 
 
 '^ Things ivill make away with them- 
 selves now and again, and more by token 
 that the world's not quite full of honest 
 folk yet," Mrs. Gripps said at last, which
 
 54 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 did not comfort Fib mucli when she found 
 the little garments had been redeemed by 
 some one else, and fancied she saw her 
 own frock on another girl's back. 
 
 " But not to swear to," she sorrowfully 
 agreed, w^hen Mrs. Gripps, who showed 
 some anxiety to reconcile the child to 
 her misfortune, pointed out that ^* frocks 
 is very much alike w^hen that dirty as 
 colours can't be told apart, and it was 
 just possible there might be tw^o of the 
 same pattern going about in the Kow." 
 
 So Fib said nothing of her loss to any 
 one else, only taking more care of her 
 tickets for the future. 
 
 It was not everij Sunday that pence 
 w^ere forthcoming to take out the festal 
 array of herself and little Don. She was 
 glad it could be done this week when she 
 had washed the boy, and wished her 
 father could see him and be proud of 
 him, as she took his little hand to lead
 
 NICHOLLS ROW, 55 
 
 him along to chui'cli on Sunday morn- 
 
 ing. 
 
 Later in the day there was the Eagged 
 Smiday School to go to. Phoebe had 
 found it out for them, and introduced 
 her small fiiends herself to the super- 
 intendent. When that was over, and 
 the poor dinner provided by Mrs. Gripps 
 had been shared between the two, Don 
 getting all the tit-bits, the soft mouth- 
 fuls of bread, and largest portion of cold 
 potatoes, the great excitement of the 
 day drew near. It began to be time to 
 watch for Phoebe's weekly visit. Great 
 was Fib's anxiety that Don should keep 
 clean and tidy. She resisted all efforts 
 of other cliildren to entice her to join 
 their games, chose the cleanest bit of 
 pavement she could find, and established 
 herself there with the little boy in her 
 lap. The treasured bits of wall-flower 
 were stuck in Don's cap still.
 
 S^ ' PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 '' You look like a posy yourself, you 
 do ! " Fib said, giving him a great hug, 
 ''■ and now you just sit still and watch 
 for the lady, and I'll tell you about them 
 lions I heard of in school to-day. Lions 
 they was, and not ne'er a one of 'em 
 could touch Dan'el 'cause he loved God. 
 The lady said we'd lions too — cold and 
 hunger and that, and I 'spect we has: 
 but they can't hurt us, can they, Don ? " 
 
 ^^No, no," Don said, though under- 
 standing not one syllable, — understand- 
 ing only that the day was fine, the fresh 
 air sweet even in Nicholl's Row, and his 
 Fib's arms round him as he sat curled 
 up upon her knee in great content. 
 
 *^ Teacher was telling, too, of Dan'el 
 in the king's court. Must have been a 
 nice court that, clean always, and vrith 
 flowers in the winders, I dare say — least- 
 ways it couldn't have been like Fann's 
 Court hereabouts.
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 57 
 
 Fib grew rather confused here, the 
 very word representing to her only the 
 filthy courts and alleys she knew too 
 well. 
 
 ^' In the king's own house, Don, Dan'el 
 never forgot God, and wouldn't do wrong 
 when they wanted him to. In the day 
 of prosperity he was just as good as in 
 the day of adversity, teacher said, and I 
 asked what prosperity was. She said a 
 lot about it, and how fine things and 
 good living tempt one. I don't see as 
 ive are tempted that way — unless it is 
 when Moggs the butterman has us in to 
 tea. Oh, my ! isn't it good, the butter- 
 milk and that there fi'esh bread ? I wish 
 he'd do it oftener, I do. But there, it's 
 pomps and vanities, and may-be we're not 
 as good as Dan'el, and too much of it 
 would make us forget. We're very weU 
 as we are, Don, ain't we ? " 
 
 And Don, still with small comprehen-
 
 58 PHCEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 sion of tlie subject, nodded his head in 
 acquiescence. He was past two years old 
 now, and used to Fib's talk. A good 
 companion she found him at all times, 
 being, like older and wiser people than 
 herself, quite content with the division 
 of labour that left listening to him and 
 speech to her alone. Don would grow 
 up with ^'notions," that was an indispu- 
 table fact, for Fib was instilling them 
 into his young mind as fast as she 
 gleaned them herself. Pausing in her 
 talk now, she made the boy sit up straight 
 and say his hymn, the hymn he had re- 
 peated that day in school, where he, the 
 smallest and youngest of a set of little 
 waifs like himself, had (perhaps owing to 
 his clean face and hands) sat upon his 
 teacher's knee to learn it, and fallen 
 asleep there, waking only when the buzz 
 and hum of voices in the large room 
 ceased at last for a moment before the
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 59 
 
 final prayer. And then, roused by the 
 sudden silence, had not Don opened his 
 blue eyes, and begun again in his soft, 
 childish tones, just where he had left off, 
 quite forgetting the lesson was over now ? 
 The other children tittered, but were 
 hushed into silence again, as their 
 teacher, a working- woman who found a 
 spare hour on Sundays to keep these 
 little ones quiet and good, kissed Don 
 upon the forehead as she set him down, 
 and held his tiny hand in hers through 
 the prayer that followed. 
 
 He said his hymn again now at Fib's 
 bidding, — 
 
 *' Gentle Jesus, meek and mild." 
 
 The words sounded strange in Nicholl's 
 Kow. Two men, idly lounging past, 
 unwashed, slouching in their gait, with 
 not one thought for the sacred day, or 
 for sacred things at all in their darkened
 
 \ 
 
 60 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 minds just then, stopped for a moment 
 as they passed, and heard Don to the end. 
 
 ** Sounds good, don't it ? " said one. 
 
 " I've got a young shaver of my own," 
 said the other, and remembered, with 
 something like shame, the last lesson he 
 had taught liis hoy, and how loudly he 
 had laughed at the time when the had 
 words came from the parted childish lips. 
 He did not laugh now. 
 
 The children still watched patiently 
 for Phoebe's coming ; Fib still felt so 
 sure of it, for her friend had never disap- 
 pointed her on Sunday yet since first 
 they had made acquaintance with each 
 other. It could not be that this day of 
 all days, when she had taken such pains 
 to tidy up herself and Don, and when she 
 so sorely needed to get more advice about 
 persuading her father to better things, — 
 it could not be that to-day so great a 
 disappointment was in store for her.
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 6i 
 
 But the afternoon wore slowly away. 
 The bells had sounded for service and 
 then ceased again, and now the whole 
 city was musical with them once more, 
 for the time of evensong was at hand. 
 The bell of a Methodist chapel in a 
 neighbouring street was ringing dis- 
 tractedly, as if half beside itself in its 
 loving effort to oblige people to listen 
 and come in. The preacher, having a 
 Bible in his hand, came along Nicholl's 
 Eow on his way to the chapel, as he 
 often did, stopping to speak now to one, 
 now to another, and beg them to come 
 and hearken to his message. Fib before 
 now had followed him and crept into a 
 place near the door, where Don fell 
 asleep contentedly, and she Hstened to 
 the hymns she loved, for everything else 
 was beyond her comprehension. Fib 
 would not follow him this evening. 
 
 '^ We must wait for the lady, Don and
 
 62 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 I," she said to herself, and let him go 
 past. 
 
 The men whose attention had heen 
 caught by Don's hyran did follow, how- 
 ever. The httle chapel that evening 
 numbered amongst its congregation two 
 who for years past had darkened the 
 doors of neither church nor chapel. 
 
 By-and-by Don began to nod his 
 sleepy Httle head. The wall-flowers fell 
 from his cap, Fib must carry him down 
 the steep steps, shppery with dirt, through 
 the front kitchen, empty now, for Mrs. 
 Gripps was out, into the dai'k, chilly, 
 cellar-like vault that was the children's 
 home, and put him to bed there on a 
 heap of rags covered with the thin worn 
 blanket. Back again then into the street 
 to watch for Phoebe, though she had 
 never yet come so late as this, to stand 
 there till night closed in, till Mrs. Gripps 
 *' hollered " to her crossly to *' get along
 
 NICHOLLS ROW. 63 
 
 with her to bed, for she must be up 
 betimes to-morrow." 
 
 " What's that for ? " said Fib. 
 
 *^ Covent Garden," said the woman in 
 reply; ^' if posies paid yom- father, we'll 
 see which way ijou can work 'em. Yer'll 
 have to be there by ^yq. o'clock. Go 
 along in with you at once. It's ill work 
 minding other folks' childi'en," she added, 
 as Fib stumbled past her. 
 
 The child's foot had slipped on some- 
 thing. It was a crushed waU-flower. Far 
 away in another street the fellow blos- 
 soms were blooming, fresh still in their 
 glass of water, in the room where Phoebe 
 sat and read with unfaltering voice, — 
 
 '•'- Though I walk through the valley 
 of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." 
 
 ^^ I made so sure she'd come," said 
 Fib, creeping to the darkest corner of the 
 dark back kitchen, and lying down by 
 Don's side.
 
 III. GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 
 
 "" 4^, HE dim light of dawn could not 
 
 find its way to the cellar where 
 the children slept, yet Fib had 
 gone to rest over-night with no misgiving 
 that she would over sleep herself in the 
 morning. People in that house were 
 early astir, and made noise enough to 
 waken such amongst them as were 
 sleeping still. 
 
 True, Mrs. Gripps did not think it 
 necessary to get up in the dark, but her 
 slumbers being disturbed by footsteps 
 overhead, and rough voices calling to 
 one another, as a costermonger who 
 occupied the room once rented by Fib's
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 65 
 
 father — the room where Don had been 
 born — set off to make his bargains 
 early and be first to fill his barrow, she 
 threw a brickbat which she kept handy 
 for the purpose against the wall ; a hint 
 to Fib to bestir herself and rise at once. 
 
 Shivering a little, the child obeyed 
 the wonted signal, slipped on the one 
 ragged frock which formed her week-day 
 wardrobe, folded np the neater one she 
 had worn the day before, and laid that 
 with Don's little coat aside, knowing 
 that early in the week, that very morning 
 perhaps, Mrs. Gripps would sm^ely find 
 it necessary to raise a few pence upon 
 them again. If not very handsome in 
 themselves, they represented, as did so 
 many of the wardrobes in Nicholl's Kow, 
 a little income to the pawnbroker, and 
 if for that reason only were worthy of 
 respect. 
 
 It was a hard task to rouse little Don, 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 for he was very fast asleep indeed ; and 
 as she bent over him to wake him with 
 a kiss, Fib bethought herself that she 
 could not take him at that early hour 
 so far from home without giving him 
 food of some sort. For herself it did 
 not matter. The first penny earned by 
 the sale of her first bunch of flowers 
 would furnish her with breakfast. Her 
 little brother was too young to begin 
 the day fasting. Fib stepped into the 
 front kitchen before she woke Don at 
 all. 
 
 If she had only not done that ! If she 
 had but woke him first, had but felt his 
 kisses on her cheek, and the clinging of 
 his tiny arms about her neck, never, 
 never could she have been persuaded to 
 leave him, and thafc for the first time 
 since she, a child herself, had taken him 
 from his dead mother's arms 
 
 How soiTowfully, how passionately. Fib
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 67 
 
 thouglit of this when she got home at 
 night ! 
 
 But just now her only thought was for 
 Don and Don's breakfast. 
 
 Mrs. Grripps seemed to have composed 
 herself to sleep again, but she roused up 
 as Fib stumbled into the front kitchen, 
 having in the dim light tripped over the 
 fallen brick. 
 
 **Eeady, are 3'ou? then look alive," 
 said the woman, fumbling under her 
 pillow for the piece of rag which repre- 
 sented her purse, and in which was tied 
 up the few shillings Fib's father had given 
 her. She selected one and held ifc out. 
 *' You won't want more than this 'ere, 
 and you'll do the best you can. Make 
 up yom' posies — you might get cresses, 
 by the way — yes, now I think of it, 
 cresses is best ; make 'em up convenient 
 to the market and sell 'em round to 
 folks at breakfast time, but don't let me
 
 68 PHCEBKS FORTUNES. 
 
 catcli yon coming home again till the 
 basket's empty. There 'tis behind the 
 door." 
 
 ''Ain't there nothing to eat?" said 
 Fib. 
 
 ''Lor, yes. Crasts a plenty. Take 
 what you want. You're a good child, I 
 will say, for there's a many as would 
 have been and bought a breakfast out 
 of the money I just gave you, and it do 
 come cheaper to eat what's going ; but 
 mind you get a cup of hot coffee near 
 the market." 
 
 " Money ain't mine," Fib said. She 
 looked upon her father's reluctant pay- 
 ments as being due to Mrs. Gripps for 
 the board of herself and her brother, 
 and knew too that it might possibly be 
 very long before he paid again. "It's 
 for Don I want something. I s'pose 
 crusts must do for him ; I don't see 
 nothing else."
 
 GOOD TIMES AXD BAD. 69 
 
 '* Don ! " ]\Irs. Gripps roused up com- 
 pletely now. She looked very wide 
 awake indeed. 
 
 '' Wliatever be yon thinking of?" she, 
 cried; "what time o' day do yon expect 
 to get to the market, and yon idlin' along 
 at that there child's pace ? " 
 
 " I've took him afore. I ain't never 
 left him, and I ain't a-going to leave 
 him now," said Fib, doggedly. 
 
 " Took him ! that's tnie enongh, bnt 
 'twas when he was that small as he 
 conld be carried there, and you conld 
 step out. Yon're not big enongh to 
 carry him now. Yon jnst leave him to 
 me. Fib ! I'll see to him." 
 
 Leave Don ! The idea was such a 
 new one, so veiy strange and nn- 
 familiar, Don's sister conld not take it 
 in at first. She stood there pondering 
 over it, the crnsts still in her hand, and 
 her child's face wearing an anxions and
 
 70 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 puzzled frown. The faint liglit crept 
 in through the upper half of the window, 
 hut everything was in deep shadow in 
 the kitchen; the figures of Mrs. Gripps 
 sitting up now upon the wretched hed- 
 stead, guiltless of linen, covered only 
 with foul blankets, and of Fib herself, 
 looked like phantoms moving in the dark. 
 
 ^^ What harm should come to the boy ? 
 Can't you trust me, as has looked after 
 you both ever since Don was born, to 
 look after him by hisself, for one day ? " 
 
 " YoVj ain't looked arter him. I have," 
 Fib said, and it was true. 
 
 ''You ought to be ashamed of want- 
 ing to wake a hinfant Hke that and tug 
 him through the streets this time o' 
 day. And what's more, I won't have him 
 treated so ; let him have his sleep out 
 and a bit of comfortable breakfast by- 
 and-by," said the woman, trying another 
 tack.
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 71 
 
 ^^ What '11 yer give liim ? " asked Fib. 
 
 '' Milk," said Mrs. Gripps. 
 
 ^* Never ! " said Fib ; '* promise now 
 as you will give him a taste of milk." 
 
 ^'Haven't I said I would? Don't I 
 do right by both of you when yom: father 
 does fork out. ^Mien he doii't^ 'tisn't 
 likely you can live on the fat o' the 
 land. Now be off with you, do. You'll 
 make no bargain at all if you're so late 
 at market. "Where be going, child ? " 
 she added sharply, as Fib moved back 
 towards her own domain instead of 
 towards the steps into the street. 
 
 '^Just to give a look at him," Fib said, 
 hardly knowing why she wished it. 
 
 *' To wake him and set him screechin' 
 to go with you ! Well, you're a won- 
 derful wise child, and fit to have the 
 care of a baby, if ever there was one ! 
 Don't I tell you I'll see to him ? and 
 the sooner you're off the sooner you'll
 
 72 PHCEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 be back. Look sharp, and do your 
 best." 
 
 So Fib went out into the streets, cold 
 now in the chill air of early morning, 
 and as the day grew older and the light 
 broader, a chill wind awoke and began 
 to stir, a bitter, unkindly wind, such 
 as blows often in the first days^ of 
 spring. The air that had been balmy 
 yesterday was sharp and cutting now. 
 The easterly blast found its way through 
 Fib's rags, shaking them scornfully, 
 coming upon her suddenly round corne;:s, 
 raising spiteful clouds of dust, blowing 
 now right in her face, now fluttering 
 her torn frock from behind, threaten- 
 ing to tear it off her back altogether. 
 
 Fib's teeth chattered. She drew her 
 rags as tightly round her as she could, 
 bent her head, and, munching the dry 
 crusts as she ran, was glad Don was not 
 with her, strange as it felt to be with-
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 73 
 
 out the child, for he could not have 
 kept up Tvith her present pace, and to 
 accommodate her steps to his would 
 not only have caused much delay but 
 have made the cold harder still to bear. 
 After all, it almost seemed that Mrs. 
 Gripps had been quite right. 
 
 Fib reached the market in good time, 
 and made her simple purchase with her 
 usual care and judgment, being a sharp 
 child enough, too sharp and with too 
 capable a business manner of her own to 
 run much risk of being cheated. Her 
 goodly bundle of fresh watercress selected 
 and paid for, she turned aside out of the 
 busy crowd to sit down quietly and 
 make up her bunches. After that she 
 was very glad indeed of the cup of hot 
 coffee from a neighbouring stall which 
 Mrs. Gripps had given her permission 
 to buy. As she drank it she could not 
 help again changing her mind and wish-
 
 74 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 ing for lier little brother. The worst 
 part of the day's work was over now, 
 she thought. Warm coffee would have 
 been good for Don as well as for her, 
 and, as to tramping the streets after- 
 wards to sell the cresses, the two chil- 
 dren were used to that, and how long 
 and dull the day would be to Fib all 
 by herself! Moreover, she had many a 
 misgiving about the little fellow. Her 
 very care of him had rendered him less 
 capable of caring for himself than other 
 mites of his own age, often quite inde- 
 pendent in their ways, and never coming 
 to any harm however long they might 
 be left alone. Now Don never loas 
 alone. What if Mrs. Gripps should for- 
 get the child, and, busy with her work, 
 suffer him to wander out of her sight ? 
 With a pang at her little heart, Fib 
 caught up her basket and tm-ned to 
 leave the market and begin her rounds
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 75 
 
 at once. At least she would be home 
 agaiu as quickly as she could. 
 
 It was too early as yet for her business 
 to prosper much, though now and then 
 in a quiet street the wife of some work- 
 ing man would call to her to stop, and 
 would spend a penny in the simple 
 reHsh for her husband's breakfast. 
 But, by-and-by, trade gi'ew brisker. 
 Fib, interested in it now, as she gene- 
 rally contrived to be in anything to 
 which she had fauiy set her hand, got 
 on finely, the basket grew lighter on 
 her arm, the heap of, pence already 
 represented a profit upon Mrs. Gripps' 
 investment which would surely satisfy 
 that worthy woman. The cold wind 
 still blew, and every now and then a 
 few cold drops of rain fell, but Fib cared 
 little for that when the time came for 
 her to turn her steps towards Mcholl's 
 Eow, for surely the watercresses left
 
 76 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 might be disposed of in the streets of 
 that neighbourhood. 
 
 And then came a dull time when no 
 one would buy any watercress at all. 
 Fib, in her impatient longing to be home, 
 felt her heart sink. The little feet were 
 weary, too, at last, though, as even 
 Mrs. Gripps owned, the child was *^ will- 
 ing enough, and one to work till she 
 dropped." 
 
 She was very near dropping now, so 
 determined on taking a rest, and sat 
 down — after a keen glance all around for 
 fear of a policeman being near — upon a 
 door-step, her basket half empty beside her. 
 
 She was presently joined by a flower- 
 girl, who looked rather scornfully upon 
 Fib's merchandise. 
 
 '^ Folks'll buy posies all day long, — 
 they won't buy cresses, not only at 
 breakfast and tea time — ^you won't sell 
 them you've left till evening," she said.
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 77 
 
 " I must sell 'em," said Fib, vrlio long 
 before evening hoped to be back again 
 with Don. 
 
 *' Daren't take 'em home, eh ? " 
 
 Fib nodded. Not that she had any 
 wish to take them home unsold, having 
 a brave, independent little sphit, and 
 at all times much preferring to finish 
 thoroughly any task once entered 
 upon. 
 
 ^^ And yet I "want to get back bad, I 
 do," she said. 
 
 *'Why don't you beg a bit?" asked 
 the girl. 
 
 " Why sliouU I beg ? "' said Fib, who 
 felt trade was respectable, was rather 
 proud of it than otherwise, and would 
 have scorned to beg as long as work was 
 to be had. 
 
 Just then a young girl passed, walking 
 quickly, and carrying a roll of music. 
 Probably she was a teacher going on her
 
 78 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 daily rounds. Quickly as she had been 
 walking in the cold east wind, the scent 
 or sight of the flowers, or both combined, 
 appeared to have attracted her atten- 
 tion, for she stopped, bought a bunch of 
 violets, and fastening them in her black 
 dress, went on her way again more 
 cheerful, and with a brighter face. Fib 
 thought, than she had worn before. She 
 had not noticed the little seller of water- 
 cress at all. 
 
 '^I told you so," the flower-girl said; 
 *' whatever did you go in for watercresses 
 for this cold day ? " 
 
 '' They was best early in the morning, 
 and they'll go off again by-and-by, and 
 so long as the basket is empty at night, 
 it doesn't matter much what was in it 
 all day. And, oh, my! if trade was 
 always good, we'd all be kings and 
 queens. We've got to have bad times as 
 well as good, and we've got to be content
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 79 
 
 too, and take 'em as they come," said 
 tliis little philosopher, airing her wisdom, 
 and remembering Phoebe's lessons, as she 
 arranged the fresh, green bunches still 
 remaining in her basket. 
 
 ^'J don't see nothing to be content 
 about," remarked the other, who, like 
 Fib, lived poorly, worked hard, and had 
 been out since early dawn, but, unlike 
 her, had learnt no lesson in her life of 
 patient cheerfulness. 
 
 ^^Why, there don't nothing happen 
 as should make us discontent, so long as 
 we try to be good, and love God," Fib 
 answered; and then, jumping up, went 
 with renewed spirit to her work, for till 
 it was done she had many a misgiving 
 still about her brother. 
 
 Her late companion looked after her 
 as she went up the street, and wondered 
 rather at words so strange to her, and 
 which seemed to come so naturally to
 
 8o PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 Fib. Then she slowly rose and followed 
 in the same direction. 
 
 " Cresses ! fresh cresses ! " 
 
 Fib's voice sounded loud and clear, 
 and then, just before she reached her, 
 the flower-girl saw her stop suddenly, 
 stoop as if to pick up something from the 
 ground, and then stand looking up at 
 the house opposite to which she had 
 paused. The flower-girl hurried up, a 
 keen, sharp, eager look in her eyes, a 
 greedy, anxious, cunning look, so sad 
 to see upon so young a face. As they 
 joined each other, both girls spoke at 
 once. 
 
 *^ You'll have to go shares, little one. 
 I seed you find it," said the flower-girl. 
 
 *^ S'pose I dm^st knock ? She went in 
 here," said Fib. 
 
 ^^ She ? Who ? There didn't no one 
 else see you, only me, did there ? " 
 peering into her face, glancing up and
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 8i 
 
 down the street, speaking in low, hoarse, 
 nngirlish tones. 
 
 ^* The lady what bought your posy," 
 said Fib. '^I seed her turn in here, and 
 as I come up I seed the purse, and I 
 knowed it at once." 
 
 *' Well, give it here ; let's see how 
 much there is, and share it equal." 
 
 But the child darted up the steps and 
 pulled the bell. She trembled a little, 
 and wished the street was not so quiet, 
 that more passers-by were there ; for, 
 accustomed to the ways of dishonest 
 people, though so honest herself, and 
 seeing how much the bigger and stronger 
 of the two the flower-girl was, she 
 dreaded having her prize taken from 
 her by violence. It was a relief when 
 the door opened. The flower-girl saw 
 her opportunity, and took advantage 
 of it. 
 
 ^' The lady dropped a purse," she said ; 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ''' we've picked it up and brought it back 
 tober." 
 
 Fib scorned to correct this version of 
 the tale. She only placed the purse in 
 the servant's hand, raised her basket, and 
 said with a bright smile, — 
 
 ^' They're sweet and fresh, my cresses; 
 will you buy ? " 
 
 The servant, a staid elderly' woman, 
 bade the two girls wait a moment, and 
 closed the door, while she went upstairs. 
 
 **Well, you are soft," the eldest girl 
 said, disdainfully. 
 
 ^^ I do hope she's a mind to have water- 
 cress for tea ; it'll be a stroke of luck for 
 me if she has," Fib answered coolly. 
 
 ^' I ain't no patience with you ! " 
 
 *^ Couldn't do it, yer know," Fib said. 
 
 ''Couldn't! what was to prevent you!" 
 
 *' We've got to be honest." 
 
 That was all the answer ; the other 
 might make of it what she liked. Fib
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 83 
 
 had no more to say. If lier little candle 
 was to shine in this naughty world it 
 would be by example only, with no 
 breath of argument to fan the flame. 
 
 Her example was not quite lost now, 
 when she ran off so happy and light- 
 hearted with a sixpence tight clutched 
 in one hand as being too precious to 
 mix with her hoard of copper coin, the 
 hoard increased by the price of a whole 
 dozen of bunches of her cress, paid for 
 in pennies because they were the joint 
 purchase of nearly every member of 
 the household, all anxious to reward an 
 honest child. 
 
 *' This has been a good time and a rim 
 of luck anyways, and I'll afford myseK 
 a roll, being so rich just now," Fib said, 
 laughing in the glee of her heart as she 
 went off, leaving her companion with a 
 dim sense that perhaps a clear conscience 
 ivas worth something and not only ^' talk
 
 84 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and stuff;" perhaps even it might be 
 real, a possession worth having, instead 
 of nothing hut a fanciful idea, good to 
 think about on Sundays, but quite out of 
 keeping with the work, and toil, and 
 struggle for daily bread of every other 
 day in the week. For though she herself 
 also had a sixpence, and had sold nearly 
 all her flowers, she could neither feel nor 
 look so light-hearted as honest Fib. 
 
 In the afternoon. Fib, getting towards 
 home now, was overtaken by a sudden 
 shower, rain and hail mixed, which wet 
 her to the skin. Bravely she turned into 
 one more street, however, determined to 
 pass down that only, and then go at 
 once to Nicholl's Eow. Still crying her 
 "Cresses! fresh cresses!" the little 
 shivering figure kept on its way. A 
 woman here and there came to the area 
 gates and bought of her ; a man with a 
 paper bag in his hand and a bundle of
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 85 
 
 rhubarb under Ms arm, stopped lier to 
 
 say,— 
 
 . "If they ^as only shrimps, now ? " 
 
 But they were not shrimps, unfor- 
 tunately for Fib, "who prepared to face 
 Mrs. Gripps with ^\% bunches still un- 
 sold, but having done so good a day's 
 work, not to mention the reward of six- 
 pence, that she did not much fear the 
 reception she would meet with. 
 
 By this time the shower was over. If 
 it had chilled Fib to the bone, it had 
 washed Nicholl's Kow clean; as the 
 cold sharp wind swept down it, the j)lace 
 seemed fresher and less stuffy than usual. 
 Turning into the familiar street, tired as 
 she was, the child quickened her steps, 
 and at last fairly set off running. 
 
 Children swarmed here as they always 
 did and had done since she knew the 
 place. Little toddles of two and three 
 years old tumbling about upon the grimy
 
 86 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 pavement ; babies younger still being 
 nursed in the arms of nurses wbo were 
 themselves children ; bigger urchins play- 
 ing in the roadway, darting under the 
 noses of cab-horses, driving hard bargains 
 with one another for marbles or sticky 
 lumps of toffy ; girls skipping in the open 
 doorways, quarrelling or romping as the 
 case might be — children everywhere, but 
 no trace of Don. 
 
 Hurrying up the street, her run degene- 
 rated into a shambling trot, only glancing 
 from right to left to make sure that the 
 little figure she sought was nowhere to 
 be seen. Fib reached the few steep steps 
 leading to the fi^ont kitchen and stimibled 
 down them. 
 
 The fi'ont kitchen was empty. The 
 sewing-machine stood idle, the coarse, 
 dirty garments upon which Mrs. Gripps, 
 who got her living by ^^ tailoring jobs," 
 had been at w^ork, lay in an untidy heap
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD, 87 
 
 upon the floor. A stale loaf, a bit of 
 Ciieese, a red herring half folded in a 
 scrap of newspaper, and some milk in a 
 broken jug, were set out, or rather stood, 
 in confused disorder upon the table. 
 The bed was unmade still, but tliat was 
 nothing new ; neither was the close, 
 unwholesome odour which struck Fib 
 freshly coming in from the keen outer 
 air. 
 
 *^ Tea ready," she said to herself, " and 
 there was milk : she said their should 
 be." 
 
 It struck a pang to her heart to find 
 the back kitchen empty too. It was 
 hardly lighter there, in the fast falling 
 twilight of the cold, grey unsp ringlike 
 spring day, than it had been when Fib 
 last saw it in the dim dawn of early 
 morning, but it was light enough to see 
 that Don was not there. 
 
 ^' Gone out, and took him with her,"
 
 88 PIKEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 the child exclaimed ; ^* I might have 
 knowed it, coming home too early. I 
 might have sold off them last bunches 
 after all." 
 
 She gave an impatient kick to the 
 basket at her feet, for she had thrown it 
 down in her weariness and disappoint- 
 ment, then lifted it again and carried it 
 into the domain of Mrs. Gripps ; but 
 being far two wise to leave there the 
 money she had earned, or to put it any- 
 where until she put it into Mrs. Gripps' 
 own hands, took that, and tying it up 
 in a corner of her frock, even then keep- 
 ing one small hand over it, went out 
 into the street to stand there and watch 
 for Don's return. 
 
 Her watch was a long one. The 
 evening shadows were falling, and still 
 Mrs. Gripps had not come home, and 
 still the child stood there, all her heart 
 in the pale, patient little face, and the
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 89 
 
 wide eyes looking so stedfastly for 
 Don. 
 
 A neighbour spoke to her now and 
 then, but none of them seemed to know^ 
 or care for that matter, whither the 
 woman and the child had gone. 
 
 At last, while Fib's face was turned 
 the other way, a hasty step came up 
 behind her, and a hand was laid upon 
 her arm. It was Mrs. Gripps — but Mrs. 
 Gripps was alone. 
 
 '^Lor, Fib, ain't you heard?" she 
 said; ^' ain't no one told you?" 
 
 *'Don! oh, Donny!" 
 
 The words came like a cry, no other 
 words would come at all ; only the httle 
 fellow's name, repeated in a tone that made 
 those within hearing turn to look at Fib. 
 
 **' Don't stare like that, child. Turn 
 your eyes away, I tell yez. J ain't done 
 nothin' to him. He got away to play, 
 and I never seed him c^o."
 
 90 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 "• Is he lost ? " said Fib, drawing a 
 deep breath of relief, for there was no- 
 thing so very terrible in that. In 
 NichoU's Eow children were lost and 
 found again most weeks in the year, 
 and not much harm came to them in 
 consequence. Stray children, stray dogs, 
 lost property of every kind might be 
 heard of at the police station. 
 
 Mrs. Gripps nodded. 
 
 *' I've been to the police, and they'd 
 two come in this very day, and one was 
 Moses Burr, and lie' s home again, and 
 what's more, his mammy hadn't missed 
 him when they brought him back." 
 
 ^' And Don?" 
 
 Fib spoke in a sharp, hard voice, not 
 like a child's voice at all. 
 
 '''- Yer see, Moses knowed his name, 
 and I'm doubting whether Don did. 
 You've been and kept him so babyish 
 like "
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 91 
 
 '^ Yoli said as there was two ? " Fib 
 interrupted lier. 
 
 ^' Well, the other one — ain't you seen 
 Meg Burr, she promised for to keep a 
 look out for you ? — the other one had 
 got knocked down and they took him to 
 the 'ospital ; they didn't think as he was 
 killed, Fib, indeed, they thought most 
 
 likely he warn't dead Stop, child ! 
 
 Where's the good! " for Fib had turned 
 to run she hardly knew where, knew only 
 that wherever he might be, and whether 
 he was alive or dead, she must see Don 
 with her own eyes. 
 
 " They'll do well by him where he is, 
 and you can go round in the morning," 
 said Mrs. Gripps, catching hold of Fib's 
 rags in her strong grasp. 
 
 The child shook herself fi'ee. She did 
 not cry, nor speak again, but the old 
 woman, as she afterwards told a neigh- 
 bour, was frightened at her looks.
 
 92 PHCEBE'S FORTUXES. 
 
 *' Give us the money anyways," said 
 ]\Irs. Gripps, not unkindly, and not 
 because she was indifferent to this sad 
 trouble, but only because money was 
 more important in her eyes than trouble 
 or joy either, for folks must hve and eat 
 whether heaiis break or no. 
 
 Shaking the coins fi-om the corner of 
 her frock into the extended hands of Mrs. 
 Gripps, Fib, still without a word, went 
 quickly up the street and out of sight. 
 
 Half-blind with fatigue, and wondering 
 at herself for feeling so sick and faint, 
 and very foot-sore from her long day's 
 tramp, she still had sense enough to find 
 her way to the police-station first and 
 inquhe where it was her brother had been 
 taken — if her brother it was, and Fib felt 
 so sure of that. They were sorry for her 
 there, tried to persuade her it might be 
 some other child, and fijially sent her on 
 her way with something like a ray of hope.
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 93 
 
 A hope that vanished at the last, when 
 through the long ward of the hospital, 
 between the rows of beds, each tenanted 
 by some poor sufferers, a kind hand led 
 the trembling child to a quiet corner 
 where a cot stood, and on it, quite 
 motionless, his pretty curls all tumbled, 
 his wee face pale, lay Don, her Don, 
 whom she had never left before in all her 
 Hfe. 
 
 Fib sank down by the little bed. 
 
 ^'I didn't ought for to have left him," 
 she repeated over and over again pite- 
 ously. 
 
 ^' Child, you take on too hard : we may 
 bring him round yet," said the nurse. 
 
 But that Fib scarcely even heard, 
 being fairly stupefied with grief and 
 fatigue, and almost past hearing any- 
 thing at all just then, almost as uncon- 
 scious as little Don himself. 
 
 They were very kind to her, soothed
 
 94 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 her and comforted her as Lest they could, 
 and let her stay until the boy's eyes 
 opened at last, so that the first sight he 
 saw was his Fib's ragged figure and rough 
 head. He smiled then, and tried to hold 
 out his arms, repeating her name eagerly, 
 but the smile faded directly, as the little 
 head turned uneasily upon the pillow, 
 and the child grew frightened and be- 
 wildered at this new pain he felt, and at 
 the strange place in which he found 
 himseK. 
 
 It half broke Fib's heart to leave him 
 there. But they could not let her stay, 
 so they told her when she might come 
 again, and she went away crying, and 
 walked slowly back to Nicholl's Eow. 
 
 It was characteristic of the child that 
 she did not blame Mrs. Gripps, except 
 for having persuaded her to leave Don at 
 all, not for her neglect of him when left 
 — tliat seemed only natural. The small
 
 GOOD TIMES AND BAD. 95 
 
 patient face had no cross or angry look 
 upon it as Fib replied to tlie many ques- 
 tions of the old woman, and was grateful 
 for the meal she found prepared for her. 
 But if there was a heavy heart in London 
 it was poor Fib's that night when she 
 stretched herself upon the heap of rags 
 in the back kitchen, and lay there sob- 
 bing, even in her sleep, for Don.
 
 IV. — FELLOW-TKAVELLEES. 
 
 (t,^(^ j(,^ T was a wet evening. The air 
 .^^,^ was chilly, for rain had fallen 
 at intervals all day. When 
 the down train steamed into Calminster 
 it was impossible to read the name of 
 the station through the carriage windows, 
 all closed and rain-bespattered ; and of 
 course no one could distinguish what 
 word it was the porters shouted as they 
 hurried along the platform. 
 
 Phoebe, occupying a corner seat in 
 a third-class carriage, peered anxiously 
 through the misty glass beside her. Her 
 shy, frightened manner showed that she 
 was not used to being alone : for the
 
 FELLO W- TRA VELLERS. 97 
 
 She held her ticket in her hand as if to 
 make sure she had it safe. The wistful 
 look in the eyes — heavy with weeping — 
 made the young face touching, all the 
 more touching that the look of peace 
 was there still, the look that seemed to 
 promise the head bowed in sorrow now 
 would lift itself up again hy-and-by. 
 
 She had not spoken during the journey, 
 though other travellers had come in and 
 out, and the carriage was crowded now, 
 and Phoebe had inherited her father's 
 habit of being ready to talk to every 
 one. Third-class passengers, too, are 
 generally very friendly and sociable with 
 one another — it is only in the cushioned 
 first-class compartments that English 
 taciturnity prevails ; and many a kind 
 glance was turned towards her, as if 
 seeking an opening for conversation. 
 
 But Phoebe had spoken to no one, only 
 gazed steadily out of the window at corn- 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 fields, green and springing now, villages 
 nestled among trees, pleasant country 
 homes by tlie wayside, and all the 
 familiar features of an English land- 
 scape. Overhead clouds had drifted 
 across the sky, now and then pale 
 watery sunshine lit up the world, heavy 
 showers fell from time to time, until, as 
 towards evening the rain grew more per- 
 sistent, some one asked her to pull up 
 the glass. After that there was nothing 
 more to be seen but the drops outside 
 chasing each other down the window-pane. 
 And now they were at Calminster at 
 last. But in spite of her anxiety to make 
 sure whether she had or had not reached 
 her destination, Phcebe seemed afraid to 
 let down the window she had been re- 
 quested to close. She could only peer 
 through it, and say nervously, '' Is this 
 Calminster? I wonder whether there 
 are flies here ? "
 
 FELL O J J '- T/^A VELLERS. 99 
 
 Since the qnestion was addressed to no 
 one in particular, and she did not even 
 turn her head towards her fellow-travellers, 
 if would scarcely have been wonderful 
 had the question remained unanswered. 
 It did not, however. An old man, carry- 
 ing a bundle tied up in a handher chief, 
 pushed his way across the carriage to her 
 corner. 
 
 ^' It's Calminster, sure enough, and 
 flies is plenty — leastways if they ain't 
 all drownded," he said, as he opened the 
 door and stepped cautiously out. " Now 
 then, miss, give us a hold of youi' hand, 
 and here we be." 
 
 He helped her to the platform, and 
 then stood watching her, a look of 
 curiosity and interest depicted upon the 
 shrewd, weather-beaten old face. For 
 reasons best known to himself, he was 
 not content with watching ; but when she 
 turned towards the van in order to claim
 
 loo PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 her luggage, he followed, although he 
 had no luggage of his own to claim ; his 
 red handkerchief served him for portman- 
 teau and carpet bag in one. 
 
 Perhaps his curiosity had been excited 
 because third-class passengers do not, 
 as a rule, ask for flies at a journey's end, 
 but more often patronise some humbler 
 mode of conveyance. Perhaps he may 
 really have followed the girl only because, 
 seeing her alone and nervous, he wished 
 to be at hand to help her should help be 
 needed. Certain it is that the train, as 
 it invariably did at Calminster, in wet 
 weather, having pulled up beyond the 
 sheltered portion of the platform, and the 
 porters being engaged in piling heaps of 
 luggage upon the wet gravel in a perfect 
 down-pour of rain, Phoebe found herself 
 shielded by an umbrella, which if it was 
 rusty and faded, with brass points, and of 
 gingham instead of silk, she did not at
 
 FELLOW-TRA VELLERS. loi 
 
 all feel inclined to criticise. On the con- 
 trary, she turned towards its owner with 
 a grateful '^ Thank you," adding frankly, 
 *' Could you do one more kind thing, and 
 make them give me my box ? It is that 
 little one. They keep burying it under 
 other people's things, and will not listen 
 to me." 
 
 ^^ Behind time," said a porter, gruffly, 
 as he overheard the remark. 
 Phoebe's friend explained, — 
 ^^ They be bound to unload and let her 
 go on, you see, elsewise they'd be forced 
 to tempt Providence by putting on too 
 much steam to make up. I'm thinking 
 you wouldn't wish to be the means of a 
 collision along of that there little box of 
 yours, which it is a little one, — I'm most 
 feared there ain't a fly in Calminster as 
 could carry that amount of baggage ; we 
 have a 'bus as might be equal to it," 
 with a comical twinkle in his eye.
 
 I02 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 ^^ Oh, an omnibus. I daresay that 
 would be cheaper." 
 
 '' I daresay it would," replied the old 
 man dryly. 
 
 '' But would it set me down at the 
 door ? It is so wet, you see." 
 
 '^ 'Bus goes right through the town; it 
 would set you down anywheres between 
 here and Meadowthorn House," he said, 
 looking at her a httle strangely, the 
 blended curiosity and interest in his 
 face more marked than ever. 
 
 She did not observe it in the least as 
 she replied, — 
 
 ** Meadowthorn House ! why, that is 
 exactly where I am going. Do you know 
 it?" 
 
 *' Most in Calminster know Blunt of 
 Meadowthorn, and them who don't is 
 well acquainted with Blunt of Grove 
 Street, and them two being one and the 
 same man, it would be odd if I didn't
 
 FELLO IV- TRA VELLERS. 103 
 
 know Mr. Edmund — and Mr. Har'ld too," 
 lie added in a lower tone, as he swung 
 Plioebe's little box off the ground with 
 his disengaged hand, still contriving with 
 the other to hold the umbrella over her 
 head. 
 
 '' My father," Phoehe began with a little 
 accent of surprise ; ''I am not astonished 
 that Calminster people know my uncle, 
 
 but that they should remember " she 
 
 broke off here, partly because she began 
 to wonder who her companion was, partly 
 because they had now passed through the 
 ticket office and she saw the omnibus 
 before her. 
 
 She had been much obliged for the 
 suggestion with regard to the omnibus, 
 for very few shillings remained in her 
 slender purse, and Phoebe had no mind 
 to alight utterly destitute at her uncle's 
 door, or be compelled to ask him to 
 defray any, even the least part, of her
 
 I04 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 travelling expenses. And now, thongh 
 she had grown accustomed to consider 
 herself a very capable and independent 
 little person, she began to be painfully- 
 aware how much she had always really 
 depended upon her father. Her mind was 
 troubled about her trunk, about speaking 
 to the conductor, about securing a place, 
 which, as the vehicle was as yet quite 
 empty, need not have troubled her, about 
 the many trifling matters that do agitate 
 the minds of unaccustomed travellers at 
 each new stage of a journey. Her com- 
 panion, however, took excellent care of 
 her, and when her little box was lifted 
 to the roof and she had taken her seat, 
 Phoebe timidly offered her new friend 
 sixpence. 
 
 He looked at it for a moment fixedly, 
 as though a specimen of the current coin 
 of the realm was a strange sight ; then 
 laughed a little and shook his head.
 
 FELL W- TEA VELLERS. 105 
 
 ^^ No, no, thank you kindly all tlie 
 same ; it's not for sixpence as Gideon 
 Fagge does a civil turn to a fellow- 
 traveller." 
 
 ^' Then you must let me come and see 
 you," said Phoebe, feeling more at her 
 ease now, and used to talking to poor 
 people all her life. '^I am to live here 
 with my uncle, and you must let me pay 
 you a visit. 
 
 '-^ Ay, do now. I'd like it rarely. You 
 just come some one while, that is if Mr. 
 Edmund hasn't no objections. He may 
 have, you know, and then again he may 
 not." 
 
 <-<- Why should he object — or have the 
 right to ? " 
 
 ^^ You ain't got no one else in Cal- 
 minster, I suppose — no one to look 
 to?" 
 
 Phoebe thought him a curious old man, 
 and wonderfully interested in her and
 
 io6 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 her belongings. But slie was used to 
 all sorts of 23eople, and did not think 
 much either of his rather familiar 
 manner, or his question, which she left 
 unanswered, only saying, '-' I sliall come 
 and see you anyway. Now thafc I know 
 your name, I daresay they can tell me 
 at Meadowthorn House where you are 
 to be found ; and then a stout woman 
 got into the omnibus, and was followed 
 by a man with a bag in his hand, and 
 he again by a cherry-cheeked damsel, 
 evidently a servant going to a new place, 
 and by the time they were all settled 
 Gideon Fagge had taken himself off. 
 
 A few minutes later the omnibus, with 
 an uncomfortable heave and jerk, got 
 under way, and rumbled slowly out of 
 the station yard, and in another minute 
 or two Phoebe, leaning back in her corner, 
 became aware that they were passing 
 her old fellow-traveller. She waved her
 
 FELLO IV. TRA VELLERS. 107 
 
 hand to him as they went by, but in 
 the fast gathering twilight it was doubt- 
 ful whether he saw her. Gideon seemed 
 to have forgotten to unfurl again the 
 venerable gingham umbrella, which he 
 had closed as he stood by the omnibus 
 talking to Phoebe, for he carried it under 
 his arm, and was stepping out along the 
 muddy road quite regardless of the fast- 
 falhng chilly rain. 
 
 '' Your friend don't appear to make no 
 account of weather," the stout woman 
 observed, noticing Phoebe's sign. 
 
 After that no one spoke again, and 
 Phoebe, tired now, and nervous in spite 
 of herself as to her reception at her 
 journey's end, felt as if she were in a 
 dream, from which she must surely wake, 
 not here in unfamiliar Calminster, but in 
 the old London lodgings. 
 
 It seemed a long way, first from the 
 station into the town itself, then all
 
 io8 PHCEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 throTigh the High Street, where they 
 stopped once to set down the man with 
 the hag, and out on the high road heyond 
 — a road hordered on either side with 
 comfort ahle mansions, and villa resi- 
 dences more comfortable still. 
 
 It was to one of these that Phcebe was 
 going, almost the last of them all; a 
 neat, substantial, red-brick house, built 
 by Edmund Blunt when he married his 
 young wife. Every one thought he 
 would retire from business when that 
 event took place and when Meadowthorn 
 House was finished and ready to retire 
 into. But either Mr. Blunt dreaded the 
 loss of occupation, or he had a mind to 
 make more money still, for every day 
 saw him at the shop in Grove Street. 
 To be sure his old friends and customers 
 would have sorely missed him from 
 behind the counter, yet his presence 
 there was the only drawback to the
 
 FELLO IV- TRA VELLERS. 109 
 
 feKcity of his wife. It was certainly 
 something not to be expected to live in 
 the rooms over the shop, those quaint 
 old rooms looking on to the walled-in 
 old-fashioned garden on one side, and 
 the narrow busy street in front, which 
 Harold had re-called so vividly. She 
 was delighted with her new house, her 
 conservatory, her pretty furniture , and 
 the position all these things gave her in 
 the eyes of her neighbours, but secretly 
 aggrieved that her husband would not 
 give up business entirely. 
 
 ^^ Yon could have done so at your 
 father's death, as well as your brother. 
 Your share was the same as his, and 
 that realised enough to enable him to 
 live the life of a gentleman, and have 
 done with trade," she once said. 
 
 '' Harold never took to the business. 
 He married young, too. On the whole, 
 as matters turned out, I think he did less
 
 no PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 mischief away from Grove Street than if 
 he had remained there," said Mr. Blunt, 
 and that was the substance of all he said, 
 or could be persuaded to say, of his 
 younger and only brother, about whom 
 Mrs. Blunt had so much curiosity. 
 
 It was owing to her that there had 
 ever been any intercourse at all between 
 the Httle house at Clapham and the shop 
 in Calminster. Eumour, always busy in 
 that first-rate field for rumour, a small 
 country town, declared that Harold Blunt 
 was living amongst gentlemen, and was 
 ashamed of his own relations. This took 
 the fancy of Mrs. Blunt. A brother-in- 
 law who looked down upon trade, and 
 knew how to make a position in society, 
 and live handsomely upon an income 
 trade had given him, must be, she 
 thought, a brother-in-law after her own 
 heart. She persuaded her husband to 
 write to him, even to ask him down to
 
 FELL IV- TRA VELLERS. 1 1 1 
 
 Meadowthom House. The answer, when 
 it came, vexed and annoyed Edmund, 
 who would not show it to his wife, and 
 from that time seldom mentioned his 
 brother's name at all, till one morning 
 he silently handed her Harold's last 
 letter, with a hasty line from Phoebe, 
 explaining that her father had not lived 
 to finish it. 
 
 It was a great shock to Mrs. Blunt. 
 The fashionable connections, on whom 
 she had rather prided herseK, had 
 suddenly disappeared, leaving only the 
 memory of a ruined man, and an oi-phan 
 niece working for her daily bread, Still 
 she consoled herself by thinking that 
 Phoebe must be able to tell her much 
 of a world unfamiliar to her, must even 
 have friends who would by-and-by look 
 her up, and whose acquaintance would 
 be an advantage to her young cousins. 
 At the very least her dresses, if a year
 
 112 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 old, would be fashionably made, and 
 might serve as patterns. 
 
 ^' Of course she must come here," she 
 exclaimed warmly ; ^' and we were speak- 
 ing of a governess for Avice — don't you 
 think that might answer ? " 
 
 " We have decided upon it, I thought," 
 said her husband, affecting to misunder- 
 stand her. 
 
 '' Upon my word, Mr. Blunt, it is 
 necessary to explain every syllable one 
 utters ! Don't you think it would answer 
 to make use of your niece as a teacher 
 for the child ? She is to be ' no burden,' 
 her father says, and an arrangement of 
 that kind would make us comfortable all 
 round." 
 
 ^^ Time enough," said her husband; 
 '' there are drawbacks to her remaining 
 in Calminster at all, still more to her 
 living with us. However, if you think it 
 would suit you, I may see my way to it."
 
 FELLOW-TRA VELLERS. 113 
 
 The stationer had an eye to the main 
 chance, as he was fond of saying. It 
 would suit him very well that his niece 
 should give her services in return for 
 her board only, whereas a stranger would 
 look for salary as well. 
 
 So he went to London to make the 
 needful arrangements for his brother's 
 funeral and Phoebe's futm-e. 
 
 Somehow or other the very atmos- 
 phere of those poor small rooms seemed 
 to change the man and soften him. The 
 certainty of the desolate girl that he 
 shared her grief, and was sorry too, 
 actually made him imagine that it was 
 so. Perhaps too the sight of Harold's 
 dead face touched his heart, or recalled 
 old days. It relieved him, moreover, to 
 find that all expenses were provided for, 
 and that if his niece was to come to him 
 penniless, he had at all events nothing to 
 pay until she came. Of course it was an 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 unbusiness-like arrangement that the 
 landlady should have the furniture. It 
 should by right have been sold for 
 Phoebe's benefit, Mr. Blunt said pom- 
 pously, looking round upon three or four 
 second-hand chairs, one deal table, rather 
 shaky on its legs, and other such-like 
 articles. 
 
 It made Phoebe smile. ^^ They v^ould 
 not have benefited me much," she said, 
 *^ not more than a few shillings, and 
 they will be of real use to Mrs. Blundell, 
 who has been very kind in her way." 
 
 The funeral over, Phoebe was left to 
 herself at her own request, for two more 
 quiet, sad days. The week had been paid, 
 as usual, in advance, and she had a right 
 to those two days longer. Before he went 
 her uncle questioned her as to her father's 
 last wishes. 
 
 " He bade me look to you. I can 
 work, you know; I shall be no burden,
 
 FELLO W- TRA VELLERS. 1 1 5 
 
 as he told you in the letter," Phoebe 
 said. 
 
 ** There was no other message then, 
 no other plain direction to yon, or request 
 to me ? " 
 
 ^' None. He hid me give dutiful affec- 
 tion where I owed it; and once, just 
 before the last, he said, 'Well, I send 
 him rtiy Phoebe in exchange,' " — and as 
 she repeated the words, the girl lifted her 
 uncle's hand to her lips. 
 
 '' There, there!" he said hastily, giving 
 her a kiss, and with a strong misgiving in 
 his mind as to whether those last words 
 Jiad been meant for him at all, — ''you 
 are a good little girl, I can see that. 
 Come down to Calminster at yom- own 
 time. We must get on together as well 
 as we can. By the way, what does it 
 strike you your father meant by this 
 expression, about a more humble way of 
 life being open to you ? "
 
 ii6 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^^ Perhaps he thought me capable of 
 being a housemaid, uncle, should all 
 trades fail ; and so I am, and will be 
 one, too, if I turn out fit for nothing 
 else," she said smiLing. 
 
 *^ He brought you up as a lady." 
 Looking at her as he spoke, Mr. Blunt 
 felt the remark was superfluous. 
 
 *' Yes, but I have hands and arms like 
 other girls ; and since we have been here, 
 have learnt to scrub and clean ; cook I 
 always could," said Phoebe, bravely; **by 
 the way, he 77iay have thought — do girls 
 serve in your shop, uncle ? ' ' 
 
 ^^ Nonsense ! he meant nothing of the 
 kind." 
 
 Mr. Blunt turned to go. 
 
 '^ My grandfather " began Phoebe. 
 
 *^ What about your grandfather ! " 
 
 Her uncle spoke sharply, almost as 
 she had displeased him, the girl thought. 
 
 *^ Nothing ; I am delaying you," she^
 
 FELLOW-TRA VELLERS. 117 
 
 said, timidly ; ^* I was only remembering 
 that my father told me once when he 
 was young, there was a girl — a ^ yonng 
 lady,' I suppose I ought to say," Phoebe 
 corrected herself with a passing thought 
 to her friend, Belinda — ^' serving in the 
 shop. I would do that or anything else 
 if teaching fails me." 
 
 In the two days that followed Phoebe 
 was surprised to find how dear the dull 
 street, the shabby lodgings, Mrs. Blundell, 
 her former pupils, were to her faithful 
 little heart. Yery sadly she took leave 
 of them all. Belinda wept at parting 
 fi'om her, and was consoled only by her 
 teacher's promise that they should corre- 
 spond regularly. The greengrocer came 
 to the shop-door, as she passed, to offer 
 her the choicest bunch of flowers just 
 then in stock; and the little shop-boy, 
 to whose mother Phoebe had been good, 
 rubbed his knuckles in his eyes as she
 
 ii8 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 gave him a new penny and said good-bye 
 to him, bidding him not forget his prayers, 
 and think of her sometimes when he said 
 them. 
 
 When the last moment really came, 
 Mrs. Blundell's feelings were quite too 
 much for her. She took Phoebe in her 
 arms and kissed her heartily. 
 
 ^* Which, if it is a Hberty, miss, dear, 
 you will forgive it fi'om one as will re- 
 member the words of your good father all 
 her days ; and, indeed, it will be odd if I 
 don't, with the sight of them sticks of 
 furniture he left to me. That there table 
 — it don't wobble muchj not if you prop 
 up the leg — will seem to be telling over 
 again the things he said to me, not 
 above a week ago, as he was sitting by 
 it talking beautiful of death; which I 
 never did understand till that very day 
 as it were death and solemn thoughts fit 
 to scare most of us as made Imn that
 
 FELLO W- TRA VELLERS. 1 19 
 
 cheerful and content, and you too, miss, 
 as was strange to see." 
 
 ^^ Be content and cheerful too, dear 
 Mrs. Blundell," Phoebe said, her sweet, 
 patient little face lit up with one of her 
 old smiles, ^^ and for the same reason that 
 my father always was, and that I, if God 
 will help me, mean to be." And so she 
 went away to her new life bravely enough, 
 though no one knew how her heart sank 
 now and then at the thought of fche lonely 
 years before her. 
 
 It sank lower than ever when with a 
 jerk that sent her, now the only occupant 
 of the vehicle, on to the opposite seat, 
 the omnibus pulled up at last. The con- 
 ductor opened the door, swung the little 
 box down from the top and set it on the 
 ground, then stood waiting for Phoebe to 
 alight. She did so, paid her sixpence, 
 and tried to see where she was. 
 
 It was still raining fast. A gravel
 
 I20 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 drive apparently led up to the house, 
 but a mass of evergreens impeded her 
 view through the bars of the great gate, 
 near which there was no bell, so evi- 
 dently new-comers were expected to pass 
 through it and go up to the door-bell at 
 once. She asked the conductor if he 
 would carry her box up to the house, and 
 when he shouldered it, followed him with 
 her heart in her mouth. 
 
 Why did he give such a pull at the 
 bell? The sound seemed to echo and 
 re-echo through the house. And not 
 content with that, he raised his hand 
 to the knocker and gave a thundering 
 double knock, after which he turned 
 away, leaving her and her very modest 
 amount of luggage on the steps, and she 
 heard his footsteps crunching the wet 
 gravel as he went back to the omnibus. 
 Probably, seeing how wet it was, the 
 man thought to hurry the people of the
 
 FELL W- TEA VELLERS. 1 2 1 
 
 house into admitting their guest at once, 
 but Phoebe wished he had not made 
 quite so noisy an announcement of her 
 coming. 
 
 At that very moment Gideon Fagge 
 pushed open the wicket gate leading to 
 his home, and walked slowly up the path 
 through the beautifully kept little garden. 
 As he went he paused every now and 
 then to take note of the harm the wet 
 had done, or might do, to his beloved 
 and carefully tended plants. Seeing him 
 stand about thus in the rain, a woman 
 called to him from the doorway of the 
 house, — 
 
 *' Ain't you wet enough a'ready? " 
 ''- You've got no call to worrit : I took 
 the big umbrella this time, I did," he 
 answered, apparently in blissful ignorance 
 of the fact that he held that valuable 
 article under his arm instead of over his 
 head.
 
 122 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 Tlie woman jerked it from him as he 
 passed her. 
 
 *' Well, I never ! see to that now ! " he 
 exclaimed; ^^ I do suppose I'm that used 
 to weather as I couldn't take no heed 
 to it if I tried ever so much. After all, 
 'twon't do me nor the plants more harm 
 than is good for us. The Lord sends it, 
 if it do come untimely — like sorrow to 
 the young." 
 
 The woman looked at him sharply. 
 
 '' What be talking of ? " she said. 
 
 Gideon stood for a minute or two 
 silently watching the fast falling drops 
 which, aided by the gloom of a cold 
 evening in spring, hid the garden like a 
 veil, behind which budding lilac bushes 
 and slender-armed laburnums moved and 
 swayed mysteriously. He did not answer 
 the question till it was repeated, then he 
 said, — 
 
 '' Har'ld Blunt's daughter be here."
 
 FELLOW-TRA VELLERS. 123 
 
 The woman gave a great start and 
 looked round. 
 
 "- Lor' now, how you terrified me ! 
 She's in Calminster, you mean?" 
 
 Gideon nodded. 
 
 '-'- And the man hisself ? " 
 
 *^ Dead; leastways her frock was black, 
 and she was alone, and be come to live 
 along of Blunt of Grove Street." 
 
 ^* How do you know who 'twas ? You 
 ain't never set eyes on her before." 
 
 ^'I knowed her. She's as like as two 
 peas." 
 
 There was a pause, and then the woman 
 said, thoughtfully, — 
 
 " She may come here some one time 
 or 'nother. What be you thinking of 
 doing?" 
 
 ^^ I be thinking of having a bit of 
 supper, and after that of seeing to them 
 'ere nets, though they'll never be wanted 
 this year if the flood is coming, as seems
 
 124 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 likely. If the garden's washed clean 
 away in spring, it ain't likely there'll be 
 no summer fruit to speak of. All the 
 same, I'll see to them nets in case they 
 do be wanted." 
 
 ^^ You be a queer one," the woman 
 said, shrugging her shoulders, as she left 
 him, and began to prepare the evening 
 meal.
 
 V. FIEST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 S the sound of tlie bell that 
 had made poor Phoebe's cheeks 
 tingle while it rang died away 
 at last, the door of Meadowthorn House 
 flew open in a manner more in harmony 
 with the imperative summons that had 
 been made than with the appearance of 
 the humble guest upon the threshold, 
 but only a boy came forward, peering 
 out into the rain, and manifesting 
 much pantomimic surprise at the sight 
 of Phoebe. 
 
 ^' Naturally I thought it was a ' county 
 family,'" he said, at last, suffering the 
 girl to pass him and get into shelter.
 
 126 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 << Why ? " asked Phoebe, rather aston- 
 ished. 
 
 "And it's a young woman with a box ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry to have disappointed you," 
 she said, laughing a little, and, truth to 
 tell, feeling relieved her summons had 
 produced no one more formidable than 
 this oddity; " it was the conductor rang, 
 and not I. I assure you, J know exactly 
 the sort of ring that ought to be given by 
 ^ a young woman and a box ? ' " 
 
 "No, do you? You don't mean it! 
 Now that comes of having lived in 
 London. We poor country folk couldn't 
 give a guess how a box ought to ring a 
 bell." 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Tim — you are Tim, 
 of course? " 
 
 For all answer the boy darted upon the 
 little trunk, and having dragged it in, sat 
 down upon it coolly and stared up in 
 Phoebe's face.
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 127 
 
 '^ WeU?" 
 
 ''You've guessed me," said the boy; 
 *' now let's see if I can guess you." 
 
 ''It is not a very hard riddle," Phoebe 
 began, and at the moment the riddle was 
 answered in a child's voice, as a httle 
 figure all in white came down the stairs 
 and through the darkened entrance hall, 
 where evening shadows prevailed now. 
 
 " Cousin Phoebe," Avice said, " don't 
 mind Tim ; mother sent him to the door 
 because Jane is busy, and she said it 
 must be only you, though there was 
 noise enough to wake the dead." 
 
 The child held up her face for a kiss. 
 She had evidently repeated more than 
 was intended of her mother's words, but 
 seemed quite unconscious of the impres- 
 sion they must needs convey to the new- 
 comer. Master Timothy was not uncou; 
 scious of it. He chuckled with mis- 
 chievous delight as he sat upon the trunk
 
 128 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and took a knife and a bit of wood from 
 liis pocket and began to shape a little 
 boat, as tbongb he meant to pass the 
 evening where he was. 
 
 *^ Never yon say anything to Avice that 
 all Calminster is not to hear," he remarked. 
 *' And you're to come upstairs and get 
 tidy," Avice went on, slipping a hand 
 into one of Phoebe's, and pulling her 
 towards the stahs. 
 
 "• I must have my things," Phoebe said, 
 Ungering to look back. 
 Tim jumped up at once. 
 *' Lend a hand, then. It's not heavy, 
 and if you wait till Jane is ready to 
 carry it up, you ')nay wait ; sorry we 
 don't keep a footman. Where's father ? " 
 he added abruptly, as he drove his cousin 
 upstairs backwards rather faster than 
 was pleasant, it not having occurred 
 to him to give her the easier task of 
 walking forwards.
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 129 
 
 *^ Eeading tlie paper," Avice answered. 
 
 Tim shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Anxious the family should make a 
 good impression, it's a way of theirs to 
 put 7)ie in the foreground," he observed, 
 but Phoebe only smiled in answer. 
 
 Perhaps she was too much out of breath 
 to speak ; perhaps she would not see the 
 point of Tim's remark. In another mo- 
 ment the children had shown her into 
 a room at the head of the stahs, and she 
 found herself alone. 
 
 '^ I will not think, '^ she said to herself, 
 *^ I must not think ! " And she resolutely 
 forced back her wonderings that neither 
 uncle nor aunt had come to bid her wel- 
 come. The aching void at her heart 
 warned her to watch herself. It is so 
 easy to place oneself too prominently in 
 the foreground, and a coiTCct idea of 
 mental perspective is a great gift, teach- 
 ing one to consider the Hne of sight 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 I30 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 of other people, and preventing much 
 touchiness and oyer - sensitiveness of 
 spiiit. 
 
 ^^ Of course / think a great deal of 
 myself and my own fortunes," the girl 
 told herself (as if Phoebe ever did exag- 
 gerate her own importance !) ; ^^ but to 
 them it is, as Tim remarked, only the 
 arrival of a young woman and a box. I 
 must try to behave * as such,' as Mrs. 
 Blundell would say, and play the part 
 properly 
 
 And yet there was something in the 
 very atmosphere of the house that seemed 
 uncongenial to her. The fanciful notion 
 flitted through her brain, that the life 
 lived in them might affect the aspect of 
 the rooms themselves, and give a tone 
 and colour to them. There was some- 
 thing hard here, she thought, something 
 wanting somewhere — some blank that 
 had seemed to strike her with a chill
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 131 
 
 when first the door had opened and the 
 odd face of Tim presented itself. 
 
 She looked round. True, her posses- 
 sions were small, but the room, Phcebe 
 quaintly thought, was small enough to 
 hold them. It held nothing else be- 
 sides, save an hon bed, a table, wash- 
 stand, diminutive chest of drawers, and 
 one cane chair. There were no curtains 
 to the window, and the blind drawn 
 half-way down had an impossible land- 
 scape painted upon it in gaudy colom's 
 that set her teeth on edge. There was 
 a second door, leading, Phoebe discovered 
 later, to her little cousin's room. 
 
 Eemoving her cloak and shaking the 
 rain-drops from it, Phcebe next bestowed 
 a httle tender care upon her bonnet, for 
 it must serve her until she had earned 
 the money for another ; then, unlocking 
 her trunk, she busied herself with im- 
 packing, refreshed her thed eyes and
 
 132 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 throbbing head with cold water, with 
 movements more hurried than was usual 
 with her made arrangements for the 
 neat disposal of her scanty wardrobe, and, 
 when there remained nothing else to do, 
 went to the window and drew up the 
 blind. 
 
 The outer prospect was dismal enough. 
 Grey sky, and falhng rain, and evening 
 closing in. The window looked upon a 
 garden, or, rather, was immediately over 
 the roof of a conservatory, but beyond it 
 Phoebe could see a bank of evergreens, 
 and, beyond that again, some dim shadow 
 rising into the sky far off. 
 
 *' Oh, how dreary ! as dreary as my 
 welcome — or no welcome — here, and as 
 my life must be without him." 
 
 Sorrow had the upper hand for a while. 
 Tears within kept comjDany with rain- 
 drops without. But soon came a rent in 
 the clouds, hteral and figurative. In the
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 133 -. 
 
 sky they drifted apart for a moment, and, 
 shadowy and mysterious, the towers of 
 the cathedral showed themselves, seem- 
 ing to dwarf all else ; while in Phcehe's 
 heart, as she gazed, thoughts arose hat 
 dwarfed all earthly troubles. The words, 
 ^^ in quietness and in confidence shall be 
 your strength," seemed to sound in her 
 ears, the hurry of her spirit w^as stayed, 
 her face wore its own look once more. 
 
 Mrs. Blunt had no intention of being 
 unkind, but if one is to stand upon cere- 
 mony with one's niece, where is the com- 
 fortable ease of family ties ? Her nerves, 
 too, had undergone a shock from that 
 loudly-pealing bell and thundering ap- 
 plication of the knocker. If that was 
 Phoebe's estimation of herself, — Mrs. 
 Blunt was now and then vague in her 
 expressions, — it would be as well to show 
 her at once that in Calminster she would 
 be valued exactly according to her pre-
 
 134 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 sent position, and no higher. All she 
 had gathered from her hushand of the 
 state of absolute peniuy in which his 
 brother's daughter had been left was not 
 in keeping with any reception more cor- 
 dial than had been vouchsafed her, or 
 with any but the most modest pull at 
 the door bell. 
 
 *' Make yourself at home, Phoebe," her 
 aunt said, when they met at last in the 
 parlour, to which a bright fire gave an air 
 of comfort on that chilly evening, while 
 the small greenhouse, on to which the 
 window opened, was decidedly a taste- 
 ful addition, but wliere Phoebe was still 
 haunted by the fancy that there was 
 something wanting. Her uncle had 
 greeted her very much as if he already 
 looked upon her as part and parcel of his 
 belongings, and had then relapsed into 
 his newspaper. 
 
 '' Make yom'self at home, Phoebe,'*
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 135 
 
 Mrs. Blunt said ; ^' you have no otlier 
 home than us now, and I am sure we 
 are glad to take you in. Meadowthorn 
 House must seem more like what you 
 have been accustomed to than those 
 dreadful lodgings where your uncle found 
 you." 
 
 ** We were very happy in the dread- 
 ful lodgings," answered Phoebe ; " and I 
 don't think the house at Clapham was 
 quite so large as this is." 
 
 " But you were quite in genteel society 
 there, were you not, and had everything 
 handsome about you ? " 
 
 Phoebe could hardly refrain from a 
 smile as she caught Tim's eye, and re- 
 called his witticism with regard to a 
 *' county family ; " she replied merely to 
 the latter part of his mother's speech. 
 
 *' Not so handsome as you have, I 
 imagine." 
 
 And, indeed, at Clapham there had
 
 136 PIICEBE'S fortunes: 
 
 been no room as fine as the parlour in 
 whicli they were assembled, with its 
 bright carpet and heavy curtains. Even 
 the tea-table, loaded with good things, 
 did not much remind her of the simple 
 meals she and her father had shared 
 together. 
 
 ** We had all we wanted," she said, 
 '' every comfort, and there was only 
 one luxury my father ever cared for." 
 
 ^' And what might that have been ? " 
 
 ^^ The power of giving," said Phoebe, 
 with a sob in her voice, as she remem- 
 bered how faithfully that power had 
 been exercised. 
 
 ^'Eh?" 
 
 Mrs. Blunt could only exclaim, and 
 fancy she had misunderstood. 
 
 *^ My brother always was an unprac- 
 tical man," her husband observed, with 
 an angry crackle of his paper. 
 
 He spoke with a kind of horror, think-
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 137 
 
 ing how true it was that, as he had once 
 remarked, Harold probably did less mis- 
 chief out of Grove Street than if he had 
 remained in it, for what business, how- 
 ever flourishing, could stand indulgence 
 in the luxury Phoebe had spoken of ? 
 
 *^ Unpractical, indeed," repeated Mrs. 
 Blunt ; " a fine pass he brought you to 
 at last ! Were there no friends to come 
 forward when the crash came ? 
 
 ^<- Why should they have come forward ? 
 We did very well, would have done 
 better still in time, and worked our way 
 up again ; you know they say, ^ learning is 
 better than house and land ; ' but my 
 father," — her voice failed her for an 
 instant, — ''his illness began long before 
 we left Clapham," she resumed. '' I 
 have not the added pain of thinking 
 poverty caused that, so you see I owe no 
 grudge to poverty at all. I've seen both 
 sides of the medal, aunt, in a small way,
 
 138 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 and have found out Low little the im- 
 pression on either side can touch real 
 happiness." 
 
 *' I am sure I don't know what you 
 mean," Mrs. Blunt answered; ''at all 
 events, you see the right side of the 
 medal here, and I hope you'll contrive 
 to be content with it." 
 
 " No doubt of that ! I suspect I am 
 blessed with a contented mind, for I am 
 quite ready to put up with the hest of 
 everything — when I can get it ! But 
 happier I cannot he than when I was 
 working for the bread my father eat." 
 
 *' Such w^ork ! ' ' Mrs. Blunt spoke with 
 emphasis. " I don't see that your learn- 
 ing was of much use after all — ' house 
 and land,' or the shop in Grove Street, 
 would have stood you in better stead. 
 You had no engagements worth speak- 
 ing of." 
 
 " I earned five pounds a quarter, and
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIOXS. 139 
 
 was proud of it, but of course tliat was 
 only because nothing better could be 
 got at once J and had he waited while I 
 looked out for something else, we must 
 have starved meanwhile." 
 
 ^^Your father never applied to me/ 
 her uncle exclaimed, almost as if defend- 
 insf himself. 
 
 ^'We were not ohliged to beg of any 
 one — not even of you," she answered, with 
 a look that took all the pride of indepen- 
 dence from her words and left them only 
 its honest com^age. ^' Yes," she repeated, 
 with a Httle nod of her head to her aunt, 
 whose eyebrows were lifted in rather 
 scornful surprise, '^ what i^ it hut begging 
 to ask others for anything that you can 
 either get for yourself or — manage to do 
 mthout?" 
 
 Her uncle thoroughly approved of the 
 sentiment. 
 
 *' Eight," he said warmly; '^however.
 
 I40 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 all your troubles are over now. I have 
 no doubt we shall be able to find a good 
 engagement for you here, and meantime 
 your home is with us." 
 
 Mrs. Blunt, accustomed to interpret 
 the tone of her husband's speeches, said 
 nothing just then about Avice's education, 
 and was not a little disconcerted at a 
 remark of the child herself when the time 
 came for her to be sent to bed. She 
 hung about Phoebe caressingly, — 
 
 ^' Come too. Cousin Phoebe. You've 
 got the little room next mine on purpose 
 to be handy. If you wash and dress me 
 it will take a deal off Jane, and make you 
 comfortable about board. But it's a 
 carpet in yom' room — do you liJce boards 
 best ? I don't think they are comfort- 
 able," she concluded in a puzzled tone. 
 
 It was impossible to prevent laugh- 
 ing. Mrs. Blunt affected not to hear, but 
 Phoebe, as she went off with the little
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 141 
 
 gii'l, glad to liave come to the end of this 
 strange long day, felt great sympathy 
 with Tim's burst of merriment, and 
 joined in it heartily. 
 
 *^ You're not half a bad sort, cousin. 
 I'll trot you all over Calminster to- 
 morrow," the boy said, as they wished 
 each other good-night." 
 
 ^' Trot me to Grove Street," was the 
 reply; ^^I shall not feel really at home 
 until I have been there and looked up at 
 the cathedral from the shop window." 
 
 Accordingly, next didij when the sun 
 was shining, and the leaves still glisten- 
 ing with the rain of yesterday, and the 
 lilac trees coming into flower, and the 
 pink blossoms of the almond trees re- 
 joicing in the warmth, Tim fulfilled his 
 promise. Mindful of what was so evi- 
 dently expected of her, Phoebe dressed 
 Avice in her little coat and hat, and took 
 the child with her.
 
 142 PH(EBE>S FORTUNES. 
 
 '^ She looks elegant, just as 1 should 
 like my girl to look by- and- by," Mrs. 
 Blunt remarked, as she watched the 
 trio set off down the drive, between the 
 masses of rhododendrons now coming 
 into flower; *^ you would never suppose 
 her mother had been nothing but a cot- 
 tage girl. It may stand in Phcsbe's light 
 though." 
 
 /^ Calminster is a large place. The 
 people amongst whom Phoebe will, I 
 hope, find pupils will not trouble them- 
 selves to ask who her mother was. My 
 recommendation of my niece will be suffi- 
 cient," Mr. Blunt answered, as he took 
 his hat to overtake the young people and 
 walk vdth them to the shop. 
 
 Phoebe seemed to know her way there 
 by instinct. She recognised the narrow 
 street at once ; her uncle was pleased at 
 her pleasure as they all entered the shop 
 together, passing through the door so
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 143 
 
 sheltered by tlie far-projecting upper 
 storey of the quaint old house, that you 
 might stand there through the heaviest 
 of showers and never feel a di'op. 
 
 In the garden at the back the same 
 old plants were blooming that her father 
 had spoken of. Her eyes filled with tears 
 as she stood there in the sunshine, while 
 Tim pointed out the beauties of the place, 
 and Avice filled her httle hands with 
 crocuses and anemones. The scent of 
 the wall-flower was there too, and sud- 
 denly Phoebe remembered her poor little 
 proteges of Nicholl's Eow. 
 
 " Oh, Fib ! " she cried.' 
 
 So much had come and gone, it felt 
 years since she had seen Fib last, or since 
 the '^ wall-flower man " had driven his 
 fragrant load doT^Ti theii' own dull street. 
 
 '' Who is Fib ? " the children asked. 
 
 She told them, and said she feared the 
 child must have broken her heart, think-
 
 144 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 ing herself forgotten, for Fib was a 
 faithful little creature herself. 
 
 ^'And I did forget her, too," Phoebe 
 owned, remorsefully, ''but there was so 
 much to think of. And now, perhaps, I 
 shall never see her again. Have you no 
 poor people here ? You must take me to 
 see them, and make friends." 
 
 '' Why should we have poor people ? " 
 Avice asked, while Tim shrugged his 
 shoulders and made a grimace, thinking 
 his cousin had much to learn of Cal- 
 minster notions, or rather of those that 
 prevailed at Meadowthorn House. 
 
 '' We must hold up our heads," he 
 said, with an absurd imitation of his 
 mother's manner ; *' we thought you 
 would be too fine for us ; and, behold ! 
 your friends are a costermonger and his 
 children, and live — where did you say ? " 
 
 '' Tim, I fear you are a bad boy," said 
 Phoebe, shaking her head gravely; ''and
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS, 145 
 
 I have other friends, too, of course, but 
 one's life does not seem filled without 
 some poorer than oneself to help and 
 comfort if we can." 
 
 And then, with a sudden recollection 
 of the first friead she had made in Cal- 
 minster, she asked, — 
 
 ^^By the way, who is Gideon Fagge ? " 
 
 Before Tim could answer, his father's 
 voice called to them from within. They 
 had been standing at the open door of 
 the passage leading to the shop, and t 
 appeared that he had heard the question. 
 
 ^' What was that you said ? " he asked, 
 sharply ; ^' what do you know or did you 
 ever hear of Gideon Fagge ? " 
 
 *^We travelled together, uncle — he 
 helped me to get my box; and, moreover, 
 saved me from the mistake of taking a 
 fly when the omnibus would set me down 
 for sixpence. He seemed a funny old 
 man, and I promised to go and see him." 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 PHCEBBS FORTUNES, 
 
 ^^ Did he ask you to do so ? " Her 
 uncle looked at her gloomily. 
 
 What had she done now? Phoebe 
 thought ; what mistake had she made ? 
 
 ^' Yes — no," she hesitated in her 
 answer ; ^ ' now I think of it, it was I 
 who offered to go and pay him a visit. 
 Who is he?" 
 
 ^^ A madman," said Tim, coolly. 
 
 ^' A gardener," corrected the matter-of- 
 fact Avice, proceeding kindly to explain 
 that the madmen lived in the great house 
 on the hill, and there were lots of them 
 all together, but they could not get out., 
 so Phoebe need not be afraid, and indica- 
 ting with a tiny finger the County Luna- 
 tic Asylum as she spoke. 
 
 *' He is a respectable man who gets 
 his living by going round to the gardens 
 in the neighbourhood, and by selling the 
 produce of his own. That you should 
 have met him, of all people in this wide
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 147 
 
 world on your first arrival here, is odd," 
 said Mr. Blunt. 
 
 ^^Why?" asked Phoebe, innocently; 
 '^he knew you, uncle, and told me he 
 had known my father too." 
 
 " He did, did he ? What next ? " 
 
 Mr. Blunt spoke with a strange irrita- 
 tion of manner, Phoebe thought. 
 
 " Nothing else. I think that was all 
 he said." 
 
 ^'Enough, too," remarked Tim; ^^ I 
 told you he was mad." 
 
 ^* What do you know about him ? " His 
 father, never apt to speak very suavely to 
 his son, spoke quite angrily now, but it 
 was Avice who replied, — 
 
 "Why, we go and see him, and De- 
 borah gives us tea, and I smashed the 
 glass turned over something growing, 
 and Gideon didn't scold, but gave me 
 strawberries, and strawberries are not 
 ripe yet, or else I'd go again.
 
 148 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^^ A]id smash another glass," suggested 
 Tim ; '^ father, there's the dean." 
 
 Mr. Blunt turned back into the shop. 
 He shut the door behind him, but 
 through the half-glazed top Phoebe could 
 see him receive his customer, and could 
 see that the dean was chatting to him, 
 and that to do so appeared to be liis 
 chief object in turning in at all. 
 
 Mr. Blunt was busy after that, and the 
 children took Phoebe upstairs into what 
 Avice called the ''dear little rooms " 
 over the shop, and introduced her to 
 Mrs. Simmons, the shopman's wife, who 
 lived there in the rooms the Blunts 
 themselves had found quite good enough 
 to live in for two generations, and before 
 Harold's fortune had been made and lost, 
 or Meadowthorn House existed. 
 
 Phoebe did not mean to let the grass 
 grow under her feet. She asked for pen 
 and ink, and sent Tim down for a large
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 149 
 
 blank card, on which she set forth her 
 raodest attainments, and the situation 
 she wished for, and by-and-by, when her 
 uncle was at liberty, begged him to let 
 it lie on his counter and recommend her 
 to his customers. 
 
 ''You are in a great hmiy, PhoBbe," 
 he said. 
 
 '' It may be long before I hear of any- 
 thing even so," she answered; '' but it is 
 a very good idea of my aunt's, that 
 until I do I should take care of Avice — it 
 will make me ' comfortable about board,' 
 though Avice does not understand it," 
 and she gave one of those laughs that it 
 did her uncle's heart good to hear. 
 
 Phoebe saw no reason at all why an 
 honest bargain should not be struck be- 
 tween relations, or a business matter he 
 a business matter with them as well as 
 with strangers. 
 
 *' She has no false pride or nonsense
 
 ISO PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 about her," Mr. Blunt said later to his 
 wife, feeling secretly that the girl had a 
 clear head and a reasonable sense of her 
 own value, for which he could not but 
 respect her. 
 
 ^* Why should she have any pride ? 
 But she must hold up her head if she 
 lives with us. It must be either one 
 thing or the other, and if she does know 
 she must act as if she did not, or it will 
 stand in her light, for all you may think, 
 Mr. Blunt," was the answer, which it 
 may be supposed her husband under- 
 stood, for he asked for no explanation of 
 it, merely giving an impatient ^^ Pshaw " 
 as he settled to his evening paper. 
 
 Phoebe had been interested and amused 
 all day. She had enjoyed seeing her 
 uncle in Grove Street, where he^ was 
 proud of his position, as one of the most 
 respected tradesmen in the town, and 
 noticing how his customers seemed to
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 151 
 
 like a talk with him, and how many 
 pleasant words were exchanged over the 
 comiter, where the pretty and tasteful 
 articles of the ^* fancy deposit oiy " branch 
 of the business were an endless source 
 of admiration to little Avice. She came 
 home tu*ed out certainly, for Tim had 
 Hterally fulfilled his trust, and trotted her 
 about tiU her feet ached, but bright and 
 happy. They had left Avice in charge 
 of Mrs. Simmons, and Tim had shown 
 Phoebe the great gate of the grammar 
 school, in connection with the cathe- 
 dral, — he was being educated there, — and 
 later, in the Cathedral' Close, they had 
 met the head master, when it was a sight 
 to see Tim take off his cap, so steady 
 and respectful did the monkey of a boy 
 .become in one moment. 
 
 They went to the public gardens, 
 empty and deserted always, so Tim said, 
 excepting of a summer evening, or when
 
 152 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 a band played there, as it occasionally 
 did, and looked down from them upon 
 the cattle market. They looked in at the 
 windows of the principal shops in High 
 Street, and Tim pointed out to her the 
 celebrities of the place. 
 
 A green barouche drove by, splashing 
 them with mud as it passed; in it was 
 Lady Bartram, and a few minutes after 
 they saw Sir John ride by with his 
 daughter. Other ladies living in the neigh- 
 bourhood drove in, as they did nearly 
 every fine afternoon ; the High Street 
 was gay with carriages. Mrs. Dawes, the 
 wife of the cheesemonger, stopped Tim 
 and was introduced to Phoebe, 
 
 *^ They live out of town,'' the boy 
 explained, afterwards. ^^By the way, 
 PhcBbe, * town ' means Calminster, re- 
 member that. I've noticed your educa- 
 cation has been so far neglected that 
 you seem to think it can mean only the
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 153 
 
 little village you have just left. Old 
 Dawes lias bought the Oaks, and a jolly 
 place it is. The Jackdaw and I are 
 chums ; now shouldn't you have thought 
 they might have known better than to call 
 a boy Jack when that was his surname ? 
 of course it makes a bird of him at 
 once." 
 
 With pride in his native town Tim 
 exhibited the principal churches, the 
 curious old gateway, the handsome Me- 
 thodist chapel, the bank, and other pub- 
 he buildings, not forgetting the lock-up. 
 After that Phoebe declared she had 
 seen enough, and they reclaimed A vice, 
 and trudged hdtoe again. 
 
 In the comfortable parlour in the 
 evening, when her uncle had fallen asleep 
 over the Tiuies, and her aunt was ab- 
 sorbed in her house accounts, and Tim 
 devoted to the preparation of his lessons 
 for the next day, Phoebe leaning back
 
 154 PHCEBES FORTUNES, 
 
 in a low chair, and just tired enongh to 
 make laziness a luxury, felt already more 
 at home in Calminster than she had 
 only the day before thought it would 
 ever be possible to feel. Everything 
 round her was in striking contrast with 
 her surroundings latterly, and it was not 
 possible to be quite indifferent to comfort 
 and freedom from care. Moreover, some 
 people — generally those on the look-out 
 for good and not evil, and quick to re- 
 cognize it — seem to have the faculty of 
 making those they are with show the 
 best side of their characters, and friendly 
 Phoebe was abeady winning her way 
 into the hearts of her-* new relations. 
 But soon the very sense of comfort and 
 kindliness, in which she could not help 
 rejoicing, reminded her of the home 
 where, if comfort had been sometimes 
 absent, love was never wanting. Her 
 eyes filled with tears till she could
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 155 
 
 scarcely see the wMte frock of Avice, 
 showing amongst the plants in the green- 
 house, as she moved softly from one to 
 another, standing opposite each in turn, 
 her hands clasped behind her back in 
 order to be out of temptation. Catching 
 Phoebe's eyes the child made an implor- 
 ing sign for her to come, and she went. 
 Soon her low soft tones were audible, 
 speaking to her httle cousin ; Tim, with 
 a curious look at his mother, dropped his 
 book to listen. Phoebe had been speaking 
 as it was natural to her to speak, as she 
 spoke to Httle Fib, as she and her father 
 used to speak together often. 
 
 *^ It is like watching creation," she was 
 saying at that moment. 
 
 " That's in the Bible, and it means 
 making the world," said a small, deter- 
 mined voice. 
 
 ^^ And is not our Father making these 
 lovely things grow now ? See, this bud
 
 156 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 was not open yesterday. Don't you 
 know the hymn that says, — 
 
 " The bright flowers in the garden, 
 God made them every one ? " 
 
 ^' It is not Sunday," said Avice. 
 
 Tim gave a silent chuckle. His 
 mother paused for a moment in her 
 writing, to look up and say, — 
 
 ^' I did not know she was one of that 
 sort. To my mind religion is a thing 
 to he kept sacred, and talked of in its 
 proper time and place." 
 
 Phoebe overheard the remark. As she 
 stood in the doorway of the greenhouse, 
 framed in the garland of ivy hanging 
 round it, there was a pretty flush on her 
 cheeks, and a great look of wonder in 
 her eyes. Was tliis the shadow, and 
 the want, of which she had felt dimly 
 conscious? This separation of religion 
 from life, this hard and fast line
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 157 
 
 between things sacred and secular ? She 
 was a little hurt that Avice, shrug- 
 ging her fat shoulders and standing 
 uneasily first on one foot then on the 
 other, seemed half frightened at her, as 
 though she had introduced some gloomy 
 notion that checked their former merry 
 intercourse. It would not do to leave 
 the child with such a false impression. 
 
 " Not Sunday ! " Phoebe said, smiHng ; 
 ^'no, dear, but I never heard of flowers 
 that bloom on Sunday only ! Our 
 Father gives them to us every day in 
 the week, and surely we may think of 
 Him and praise Him when we see 
 them." 
 
 She spoke cheerfully, but there was 
 a shadow on her brow for the rest 
 of the evening, though a moment after 
 she was laughing at Tim's audacious 
 whisper, — 
 
 ** Cousin, couldn't you help a fellow
 
 158 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 with Ms Latin now and then ? It 
 might help to make you comfortable. " 
 
 Phoebe laid her hand upon his lips, 
 but she did — rather to his surprise, 
 though he was beginning to think her 
 capable of anything — help him with his 
 construing. 
 
 ^' I wonder whether you are a hum- 
 bug," the boy said, as he wished her 
 good-night, with a more earnest look 
 in those roguish eyes of his than she 
 had seen there yet.
 
 VI. — FIB DECIDES UPON A JOUENEY I 
 
 AM far from saying that a 
 children's hospital is not a 
 good thing, and thankful I 
 am there are such, but what I do say 
 is, that httle Don has been a bless- 
 ing to the ward. We shall miss him 
 sorely ; he has done us good, and I don't 
 see that we have done him harm, or 
 that he could have got over his troubles 
 better anywhere else ; " and the nurse 
 smoothed the fair hair for the last time, 
 and buttoned the band of the stout 
 holland pinafore, her own gift, and the 
 pride of Fib's heart. 
 
 There was a murmured response
 
 i6o PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 from tlie occupant of every bed witliin 
 healing. 
 
 '-^ You may say tliat ! It has brightened 
 us up, and been pleasant Hke, to have a 
 child about." 
 
 ^* He looks but weakly," said one. 
 
 The nurse shook her head. She 
 looked after the little fellow, very pale, 
 and walking with a sad limp, as, hold- 
 ing his Fib's hand, he made slow pro- 
 gress down the ward, stopping every 
 now and then to take leave of one or 
 another amongst his many hiends. As 
 he had grown better, and able to be 
 dressed and move about, they had all 
 liked to have him sit by the bed to say 
 his hymns, or to hear his childish 
 prattle, or the childish laugh, often 
 more pathetic in the children of the 
 very poor than are the tears of their 
 richer brothers and sisters. And little 
 Don was leaving them at last. Much
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. i6i 
 
 sunshine would go with him; but, it 
 was to be hoped, some sunshiny memo- 
 ries of his four weeks' sojourn there 
 might linger amongst those his inno- 
 cent presence had helped to cheer. 
 
 *'He will never be strong, — not as 
 he should be, — and he needs fresh air 
 and good living," said the nurse. 
 
 **A convulsive 'orspital now, what 
 would you think of that for the httle 
 chap ? I've heard of a man who was 
 took in by one, and come out that 
 strong and hearty as was pretty nigh 
 ruin to his family, along of his appetite 
 being so good," suggested a patient 
 with whom Don had been a prime 
 favourite. 
 
 The nurse needed no interpreter in 
 her ward. Nothing her patients said, 
 and no queer language in which they 
 might express theh meaning, was unin- 
 telligible to her. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 i62 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 " A convalescent hospital," she an- 
 swered now, *^is a fine following np 
 of the treatment here, but it needs 
 friends to take an interest in a person 
 before they can get in, and those chil- 
 dren, bless their little hearts ! seem to 
 have no friends — none but the best 
 Friend of all," she added in a lower 
 voice, her eyes still following Don and 
 Fib until the little figures reached the 
 door, turned round to w^ave a last fare- 
 well, then passed through it, and out 
 of the life in the hospital altogether. 
 Those left behind felt as if some good 
 had vanished from their world and left 
 a blank there. 
 
 The two children once more in the 
 streets together as in old days. Fib 
 could not refrain from a little caper of 
 delight. Don was her own again. A 
 very pale Don, not hearty and ro'sy as 
 when last they wandered about hand
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 163 
 
 in hand, but hers only now, and hers 
 for every day, and all day long. 
 
 ^^ Them ^ visitin' days' loas trying," 
 Fib began, at once resuming her old 
 habit of doing the talking for them 
 both; ^^ it did seem hard as I wasn't 
 to come in and out to you when I 
 could, and not just at certain times. 
 I fi'etted for you, I did, and prayed too, 
 hard. God was good to us to let you 
 get well, and I won't never leave you no 
 more." 
 
 ^^ Never no more," echoed Don, stumb- 
 ling cheerfully along beside her. 
 
 ^^I've not seen father since. Mother 
 Gripps she thinks he's forgot us out 
 and out — leastways, that he don't mean 
 to come again, for I don't see as how 
 he could forget^ we being his own chil- 
 dren, Don." 
 
 *^ Couldn't forget," chirped Don. 
 
 He had grown older fast in those four
 
 i64 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 weeks, and was able to contribute bis 
 sbare to tbe conversation. 
 
 Poor Fib was sadly conscious of tbe 
 contrast between tbe back kitcben in 
 Nicboll's Kow and tbe bospital ward. 
 Sbe bad done ber very best to tidy up 
 tbe place, and bad spent ber last fartbing 
 in preparations for a festive meal on 
 Don's first evening, but bad a secret 
 misgiving tbat after all tbe good tbings 
 be bad been accustomed to of late, even 
 a feast of sprats migbt scarcely be appre- 
 ciated as tbey once would bave been. 
 However, tbe cbild was bungry after 
 bis first long walk in tbe fresb air, and 
 did fall justice to bis sister's prepara- 
 tions. 
 
 *' And after all it is bome," said Fib, 
 as sbe gazed witb pride and deligbt 
 upon ber recovered treasure, and seemed 
 as if sbe could not look at bim enougb, 
 or satisfy berself witb kissing bim; ^'it
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 165 
 
 is home, — leastways, I don't see as we 
 shall have none other till Oiu' Father 
 sends for us home to heaven. Oh, my ! 
 I hope He'll send for ns both at once. 
 Whatever would you do muddUng along 
 by yom*self, and whatever should I do 
 without you to muddle for ? It was bad 
 enough when you was in 'ospital, and 
 I knowed you was well done by ; but I 
 might know that much, if you was took 
 and me left behind. I didn't somehow 
 think of that when I see'd you lying like 
 dead." 
 
 ^^Don not dead, dead peoples is up in 
 the sky," said the boy, pointing with the 
 tail of a sprat to the one strip of light 
 dimly seen through the grimy square of 
 glass high in the wall, the glass that no 
 pains of Fib's could contrive to keep 
 clean. It was a long speech for him. 
 Fib clapped her hands. 
 
 ^^ I don't seem to know how to bear
 
 i66 PHCEBES FORTUNES, 
 
 myself, I'm so pleased to see you sitting 
 there, eating of sprats, and talking so 
 sensible and wise," slie cried; ^^ we are 
 very well as we are, ain't we, Don ? 
 Some has to sleep in the streets, and I 
 s'pose you and me might be content with 
 a kitchen, which, if it ain't handsome, 
 has a roof to it. There's nothing about 
 the Lord Jesus Hving in a fine house that 
 ever I heard of, and there is something 
 about Him not having where to lay His 
 head ; now ive have, if it ^5 only rags. I 
 spect it's a deal better to be bad off when 
 you come to think that He was poor." 
 Fib's eyes shone with a thought that 
 never fails to lighten the load of poverty 
 patiently borne. Her religion did not 
 lie apart from her daily life, but Ht it up 
 and beautified it all day long. 
 
 There was nothing else to beautify 
 it. But the grandest of all themes gains 
 rather than loses anything of its subhmity
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 167 
 
 fi'om being embodied in a poor and 
 commonplace existence, wliicli without 
 it would be sordid and miserable indeed. 
 Where there is no false glitter one's eyes 
 may be better able to behold the true 
 light. 
 
 While she spoke the child was feeding 
 Don, leaving him every now and then 
 to peep into the front kitchen, and see 
 whether Mrs. Giipps had come back — 
 for she had been out since early morning, 
 and the fact of Don's return had still to 
 be announced to her — coming back again 
 to move briskly here and there about the 
 dark stuffy den, whose only pleasantness 
 came from Fib's sweet patience and con- 
 tent, and the atmosphere of affection the 
 children had created for each other. Don 
 followed her with his eyes, munching his 
 supper happily enough, though to wiser 
 heads than his sister's the wan face and 
 feeble limbs might have suggested that.
 
 i68 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 unless help came speedily, the Heavenly 
 Home would surely open to him before 
 long, and Fib be left alone. 
 
 ^'I don't know if she'll be pleased to 
 see you back," Fib said, a little anxiously, 
 when Mrs. Gripps was heard at last, 
 coming with heavy tread down the steps, 
 and knocking things about in the front 
 kitchen in a manner that betokened 
 something had occurred to put her out 
 of temper. 
 
 Truth to say, her temper had not im- 
 proved of late. Fib having, during Don's 
 absence, made the discovery that she was 
 capable of earning her own living, and 
 his, too, when he should come back, 
 asserted her right to do so. In all the 
 honest pride of independence she now 
 '*paid her own way," as she expressed 
 it. Part of the money earned by selling 
 trifles in the street the child made over 
 at once to Mrs. Gripps, but enough re-
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY, 169 
 
 mained to provide such food as Fib had 
 been accustomed to consider sufficient, 
 and she did her own marketing now. 
 That this an^angement was distasteful 
 to the woman of the house was proof 
 enough how little her care of the chil- 
 di'en had been disinterested. It was 
 only in the hope of coming across their 
 father before long, and obtaining money 
 from him, that she allowed them still the 
 poor shelter of the back kitchen. 
 
 '^ There is not one that would pay rent 
 for it, more than the shilling a week we 
 give — I'm sure there ain't, or she'd have 
 turned us out before now," Fib said. 
 
 The child was to learn that Mrs. 
 Gripps could do worse than turn them 
 out. 
 
 When she came home at last, it 
 appeared she was not glad to see Don 
 back again. The search for the chil- 
 dren's father, which was every day
 
 I70 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 enjoined on Fib, would be hindered 
 instead of helped by the tottering little 
 feet, to whose steps the elder child must 
 henceforth accommodate her own. Fib 
 considered that fact accounted for the 
 black looks with which the boy was 
 received, but perhaps conscience had 
 m 010 do with it. The white cheeks 
 and slightly halting step of the once 
 hardy child were a reproach to Mrs. 
 Gripps. She could not bear the sight 
 of him. 
 
 '^ There ! Get back to your own place 
 with you, and keep him out of harm's 
 way now you've got him. He ain't none 
 of my business, since you've took to 
 doing for yourself and being stuck up 
 and ungrateful after all I done for you, 
 which might have been done for vipers, 
 and they not as thankless as other folks' 
 children. Get back to your room, I say," 
 she said, pushing the boy before her with
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 171 
 
 no gentle hand, and shutting the door of 
 her own apai^tment with a bang. 
 
 " I don't love her ! " said Don, angrily. 
 Thanks to Fib's care and the constant 
 presence of the almost motherly love 
 which had shielded his infancy from evil 
 to an extent Fib did not dream of her- 
 self, Don knew no bad words, and could 
 say nothing more cutting than that ^ ' I 
 don't love her ! " 
 
 He stamped his feet and battered mth 
 his fist on the closed door. Fib drew him 
 away. 
 
 "Lor, why not?" she said; "we've 
 got to love 'em, whether they be bad or 
 good to us. They was very bad to the 
 Lord Jesus, and He loved 'em, Don." 
 
 " She pushed me and she shut me 
 out," said Don, who, after all, not being 
 an angel, but only a neglected child, 
 with no other teacher than this friendless 
 girl, could be naughty when he hked.
 
 172 PHCEBE-'S FORTUNES. 
 
 He liad been nsed to kindness lately, and 
 felt indignant now. 
 
 But no naughtiness could long with- 
 stand Fib's unfailing good temper. Every- 
 thing was bright in the back kitchen 
 before long, and Don fell asleep there 
 with a smile upon his lips. As for Fib, 
 she bore no malice, hard words counted 
 for very little in her summing up of the 
 day's share of good and evil. She was 
 quite ready to run on the errands of Mrs. 
 Gripps next morning before starting on 
 her own day's work, and when she and 
 Don set out at last, called to her brightly 
 that she felt sure she would see her father 
 before night. 
 
 ^' Whatever makes you think it ? " said 
 the woman, suspicious at once that Fib 
 knew where the costermonger was to be 
 found and kept the secret from her. 
 
 "Just because we ain't seen him for 
 so long. There do mostly come a run of
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 173 
 
 luck after a bad spell, and this last have 
 been a precious bad one," answered Fib, 
 with a queer philosophy of her own, 
 deduced from a large experience of the 
 alternations of bad times with good. 
 
 It was sad to see how weak Don was, 
 how altered from when he trotted by her 
 side a month ago, sad to hear how often 
 came the patient, "May we rest now? 
 Don is very tired." 
 
 Fib's one comfort was, that the nurse 
 had told her fresh air was good for him. 
 She knew he was better out in the May 
 sunshine than in the close confinement 
 of their wretched home. Moreover, she 
 was her own mistress now. She might 
 perhaps do a bad day's work, but that 
 was no one's affair but her own ; Don 
 should not be hurried. And, indeed, 
 they did not do so very badly. Perhaps 
 the little fellow attracted people, or they 
 were won by Fib's motherly care for him,
 
 174 PHCEBES FORTUNES, 
 
 for many bonght her flowers, and her 
 little heap of pence grew heavy. Her 
 faith too in the turn of Fortune's wheel, 
 and the relenting, after long sternness, 
 of that capricious goddess was verified, 
 for late in the afternoon, as she leant 
 against the railing of one of the city 
 churches, supporting herself in an un- 
 comfortable position and afraid to stir, — 
 for Don, curled up beside her, had fallen 
 heavily asleep, — something touched her 
 lightly on the cheek. 
 
 She looked up and saw her father 
 gesticulating to her from the box of a 
 cab, — such a disreputable, dirty-looking 
 cab, drawn . by a broken- winded horse. 
 But she was surprised to see him driving 
 one at all : it was in her estimation a 
 decided rise in life. He had flicked the 
 lash of his long whip against her face, 
 and was lauo^hino^ at her start of recog- 
 nition.
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 175 
 
 Mindfal of Don, even though startled 
 herself, she woke him gently, and let him 
 sit up and rub his eyes and collect his 
 scattered senses before she took his hand 
 and led him within speaking distance of 
 his father. 
 
 '' What's up now ? Never seed him 
 look hke that before," the man asked, 
 gazing down upon the atom of a boy, 
 whose pinched face was radiant with 
 smiles at the sight of him; ^'he's lame 
 too, ain't he ? What's been amiss ? " 
 
 ^^ He have been runned over, and in 
 'ospital, and he'll never be strong again, 
 not as he should be, without fresh air 
 and good living, and it's so long since 
 you've been nigh us to give Mother 
 Gripps a shilling or two, that she's worse 
 than ever, and it's hard to get along, 
 though I am in business for myself, and 
 she don't be at no expense for us, least- 
 ways only for rent, and that hadn't ought
 
 176 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 to be above a shilling a week, not for the 
 place we lives in, ought it, father ? " 
 
 Fib tumbled her words over one 
 another, and crammed into one sentence 
 all she wished her father to know, for 
 might he not get a fare, and vanish from 
 before her eyes at once — the eyes that 
 had looked for him so eagerly at every 
 public house she had passed that day ? 
 
 He seemed in no hm-ry himseK, but sat 
 idly on the box still, looking down at 
 Don. 
 
 *^ How come he to get knocked over ? " 
 he said at last. 
 
 Fib explained. 
 
 ^^ I thought you never left him." 
 
 ''I hadn't ought to have done it," with 
 a pitiful humility, and a loving look at 
 Don, and not one syllable of self-defence. 
 
 " Mother Gripps is a bad one," re- 
 marked her father. 
 
 ^' Not particular," said Fib.
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 177 
 
 ^^ Father," slie began, when there had 
 been a moment of silence, during which 
 the man had pulled out a canvas bag, 
 counted the coins in it, and shook his 
 head to see how few they were. 
 
 "Father, what's a convulsive 'ospital?" 
 
 " What's how much ? " 
 
 Fib repeated her question. She had 
 overheard the mention of this unknown 
 remedy by the sympathizing patient, and 
 if it w^as to do Don good he must have 
 it, somehow. 
 
 " It's a place where well folks are sent 
 to make 'em better." 
 
 " Down in the country ? " 
 
 Her father nodded. "Fresh air, good 
 living, green fields, daisies, all them sort 
 of things is what Don wants, I take 
 it." 
 
 "Yes," said Don, emphatically. 
 
 " I know a better way of getting 'em 
 than a 'ospital, convulsive , or otherwise." 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 ^'Oh, father, how?" 
 
 Fib felt she would do anything in all 
 the world to get for Don such pleasant 
 things as her father had enumerated. 
 
 ^^ You've got a grandfather." 
 
 ^^ Lor, now, have we ? never knowed 
 it," Fib remarked. 
 
 ''- You have, then. And now, mind me, 
 I'm coming round your way some one 
 time very soon ; hut if things get too bad 
 to be borne before I do come, you take 
 and call in at the Three Crowns, — at 
 evening, when he's like to be there, you 
 know, — and ask to see Luke Sims, and 
 tell him as how I said you was to go to 
 grandfather, you and Don. He'll do the 
 rest." 
 
 " Are you certain sure as grandfather 
 will be there. 
 
 '' Where ? " asked her father, as he 
 gathered up the reins, and jerked the 
 mouth of the wretched horse.
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 179 
 
 ^' Wherever it is we are to go." 
 
 ^^ He'll be there, sure enough. He's 
 waitin'," — the man gave an odd laugh. 
 
 '' Waitin'," repeated Fib. 
 
 ^'' Yes, I tell you. Waitin' for me the 
 old chap is. You'll find him. Fib ; there 
 ain't no fear of his not being there. 
 
 ^^ Come with us, father ! " 
 
 Perhaps the cry was lost in the clatter 
 of an omnibus that passed in the noisy 
 street just then, perhaps he only affected 
 not to hear it, for he made no reply, only 
 calling to the children as he slashed the 
 horse to make it move. 
 
 ^' Hold on if you can till I look in ; but 
 if you can't, or Don gets worse, you go to 
 the Three Crowns. Luke Sims will do 
 the rest." 
 
 He turned the cab round then, and 
 went away, leaving Fib hardly able to 
 decide whether she were dissatisfied or 
 not. In the first place, she did not lik<=^
 
 i8o PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 Luke Sims. He and her father were 
 friends she knew, and had both come 
 from the same part of the country when 
 first they came to London at all. But 
 their friendship principally showed itseK 
 in drinking bouts together at the Three 
 Crowns, and in one of these, when the 
 children had ventured there, urged on by 
 Mrs. Gripps, the man Sims had struck 
 Httle Don. 
 
 Fib never could bear to recall that day, 
 though her father had taken the child's 
 part, and fought with his friend on ac- 
 count of the di'unken blow, and Sims had 
 been as good-tempered as usual when 
 they saw him next, and appeared to have 
 forgotten the matter entirely. Then, too, 
 how were they to ^' go to grandfather ? " 
 After all, London had been Fib's home 
 all her life : the idea of any other place, 
 to which, moreover, she must find her 
 way alone, was strange to her, and rather
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. i8i 
 
 alarming. As she puzzled over this dim, 
 unknown prospect suddenly unfolded to 
 her, Don, clinging to her hand as they 
 crossed over a crowded street, looked up 
 at her to exclaim, — 
 
 *^ Daisies, Fih ! and green fields ! " 
 *' You ain't never seen no daisies," 
 Fib said, when they were safe on the 
 other side. 
 
 But it turned out that Don had seen 
 some at the hospital, and knew quite well 
 what he was talking about, though no one 
 but Fib would have arrived at that con- 
 clusion from his babble of incoherent 
 words. Fib understood him, however, 
 and made up her mind on the spot to 
 take Don to daisies and green fields, and 
 sweet country air that was to make him 
 well and strong. Of course she must 
 obey her father by a few days' delay, but 
 she had not much expectation of seeing 
 him in NichoU's Eow, knowing too well
 
 i82 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 that his promises could never be de- 
 pended on. 
 
 Mrs. Gripps depended on them no 
 more than Fib herself did. She was very 
 angry when the children returned, having 
 actually seen their father, and yet bring- 
 ing to her greedy hands nothing from 
 him. All Fib's earnings for that day 
 were confiscated on the spot, and had 
 she not had the foresight to spend part 
 of them as they went home, the little 
 ones must have gone supperless to bed. 
 
 Lovely as the evening was, Mrs. Gripps 
 thrust her young lodgers into the back 
 kitchen, and ordered them to stay there. 
 She could not have them coming in and 
 out, she declared, for she had company. 
 Fib, having rashly mentioned that she 
 ^'paid honest" for the place they lived 
 in, was rudely bidden to remain there ; for 
 Mrs. Gripps had never been anything but 
 honest herself, for that matter ; and what
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 1^3 
 
 Fib had paid for Fib should have — and 
 ILothing else. 
 
 Some instinct she could not account 
 for had kept the child silent with regard 
 to her new plans — perhaps, who knows ? 
 the same instinct that teaches an ill- 
 treated animal to be secretive and cun- 
 ning in its ways. Fib was fast growing 
 a more distrustful and a shai-per child, 
 beginning to understand they never 
 would have been sheltered here so long, 
 unless, in some way or other, it had been 
 convenient to the mistress of the house. 
 However, with her accustomed patient 
 submission, she made the best of matters 
 that evening, as she had made the best of 
 them many a time before. 
 
 ^^ It's lucky we didn't get nothing 
 that wanted cooking to-night," she said 
 cheerily, ''for I ain't had the wit to get 
 a bit of candle, not thinking we should 
 want it neither. It don't take much
 
 i84 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 light for to eat a little white loaf, Don, 
 and that's what I got for you, and — what 
 else do you think ? Smell to it. Now, 
 what's that?" 
 
 She held the paper it was wrapped in 
 towards him, and the boy's hungry eyes 
 lit up at once. 
 
 ^' Meat ! " he said, with a chuckle, and 
 did not say, as an older child might have 
 done, that he had had meat every day in 
 hospital. Fib was full of pride in her 
 purchase. 
 
 ^^Yes, a cut of boiled beef. Strikes 
 me I know what's what, better than 
 Mother Gripps. She never give us meat, 
 not when she did for us with father's 
 money ; but perhaps he did not give her 
 enough. And yet — " Fib shook her 
 wise little head meditatively, she began 
 to have her suspicions as to whether the 
 honesty of Mrs. Gripps tvas unimpeach- 
 able.
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 185 
 
 Supper eaten, and there being notliing 
 else to do, or light to do it by, if there 
 had been, and Don being quite tired 
 out by this time, and indeed more than 
 half asleep already, it seemed the wisest 
 thing to go at once to bed. So the two 
 lay down together ; the boy said his 
 prayers, as he lay curled up in his sister's 
 arms, and went off at once into the sound 
 sleep of childhood. Fib lay awake, 
 watching the fading strip of hght in the 
 dirty window pane, then starting to see 
 it flash out brighter than ever, as the 
 gas lamp in the street was ht at last. 
 Mrs. Gripps' company were noisy. Loud 
 voices, hoarse laughter, came to the 
 child's ears, and for some time kept her 
 from sleeping, minghng horribly in her 
 dreams too when she did sleep, and 
 when she woke once, with a start, it 
 seemed as though the dreams had taken 
 visible shape, and the laughter and
 
 1 86 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 the loud voices were here in the back 
 kitchen. 
 
 So they were. The child sat up in the 
 corner on her heap of rags, rubbing her 
 eyes, and fancied she must be sleeping 
 still. The long strip of light, cast by 
 the lamp without through the narrow 
 dirty pane, lay bright upon the floor ; all 
 else was dark, but forms were moving in 
 the darkness, and there was a noise and 
 commotion in the place. Then came 
 a flaring candle. The unwonted light 
 at that hour woke Don at once, though 
 noise, not being unwonted, had left him 
 sleeping still. 
 
 Mrs. Gripps stood in the doorway : it 
 was she who held the candle. Just as 
 she appeared, something, or some one, 
 came down heavily upon the children's 
 bed. Don gave a frightened cry. Fib, 
 as was the custom in Nicholl's Kow, if 
 any one was unexpectedly touched, hit
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 187 
 
 out at once, and a girl's voice ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 *^ Lor, whatever is it ! I've been and 
 sat down on something alive ! " 
 
 '' I told you the brats were there," 
 said Mrs. Gripps, crossly; ^^ that's their 
 bed you're on. Get off it at once, d'ye 
 hear ? The girl * pays honest ' for that 
 corner, and I'm bound to let her have it. 
 You just puU yom' sack over there where 
 the other be." 
 
 ^' I pays for the kitchen!" Fib cried 
 indignantly, as it dawned upon her that 
 no less than three other lodgers were 
 to be admitted into the miserable space, 
 really only large enough for her and 
 Don, — three girls, young women almost, 
 ragged, dirty, loud-tongued, somo of the 
 worst specimens of those she met daily 
 in Nicholl's Eow, and had lived amongst 
 all her life, yet taken no harm from, her 
 care of her little brother having been, in
 
 1 88 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 more ways than one, as great a protection 
 to herseK as to Mm. 
 
 ^' Pay for the Mtclien!'' Mrs. Gripps 
 ejaculated scornfully, and holding up her 
 flaring candle till the light flickered in 
 every corner, waving it over the walls, 
 throwing the flame towards the ceiling, 
 as though to exhibit the beauties and 
 grand proportions of the place Fib dared 
 to say she paid for, but using no other 
 words at all. Her gesture was signifi- 
 cant enough. One of the girls laughed 
 loudly, another had already taken posses- 
 sion of the corner opposite to Fib's, and 
 lay there on a sack she had dragged in 
 with her. This one was quite silent, 
 though when the light was turned upon 
 her, a pair of wide open eyes showed that 
 she had not settled yet to sleep, but was 
 observant still of all that was going on. 
 
 The third girl, taking advantage of the 
 light as Mrs. Gripps held it in the door-
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 189 
 
 way, spread her poor bed close to that of 
 the children, and, talking loudly all the 
 time, pulled her sister, for sisters they 
 were, off Fib's heap of rags, and bid her 
 come and lie down beside her. 
 
 In another moment darkness resumed 
 its place, only the long strip of lamplight 
 fell across the floor, but silence was 
 banished for some hours to come. Fib 
 kaew that. Not even the hitherto silent 
 girl was silent now, and the bad words 
 from which Fib had tried to shield Don 
 ever since he could speak at all were 
 poured into his ears, as he lay frightened 
 still, and restless in her arms. 
 
 i^'Tain't faii^," poor Fib said to herself, 
 — " 'tain't fair, tod I'm sure things is as 
 bad as they can be now. I'll not wait 
 till father calls in — I'll go to-morrow, 
 leastway, if this isn't spite, and for one 
 night only." 
 
 She spoke about it to Mrs. Gripps in
 
 I90 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 the morning, and found her in rather a 
 better humour then, but though she con- 
 descended to explanation, she maintained 
 her right to get as much rent as she was 
 able. 
 
 ** While your father paid as he ought, 
 I let you be ; but yoii^ you don't pay for 
 the whole kitchen ; and if you stand up 
 for doing for yourself, and I ain't no one 
 else to look to for the rent, you must 
 just take your chance and live like your 
 neighbours." 
 
 *^ All as father gives me I'll give to 
 you," Fib said. 
 
 ^^Much that'll be," said Mrs. Gripps, 
 who felt sure in her own mind — more 
 sure than ever, fi^om the fact that Fib 
 had brought no money from her father 
 the day before — that the children were 
 utterly deserted now. 
 
 ^« Why should he not leave them to shift 
 for themselves, when Fib had been fool
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 191 
 
 enough to show she could do so ? " thought 
 Mrs. Gri^ps, judging others by herself. 
 
 She may have been a Httle ashamed 
 of herself, however, for she actually be- 
 stowed a meal upon Fib and Don, know- 
 ing that she had not left them a penny 
 with which to provide one for themselves. 
 The taking of their earnings at all was 
 plausibly enough accounted for, — 
 
 " If you loill do for yourself instead of 
 being glad to be done for, you ain't no 
 choice but to pay in advance the same 
 as others do. Your bed is your own now 
 for a week to come," said the woman, con- 
 gratulating herself that, for that space 
 of time, she would not be losing by the 
 deserted httle ones, for as such she really 
 did now consider them. 
 
 With a very serious face, indeed, Fib 
 stood in the morning sunshine, and 
 looked up and down the familiar street. 
 Don prattled merrily beside her.
 
 192 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 '^ Are we going to the daisies to-day ? " 
 lie said, and talked of green fields and 
 posies, and would Fib tell him about 
 lions? he had seen pictures of them in 
 that wonderful new world to which his 
 accident had been the means of intro- 
 ducing him. His little mind was opening 
 fast to receive all impressions, whether 
 for good or evil ; and Fib told the story 
 he wished for, told it with much graphic 
 power of narration, much imitation of 
 the roaring of wild beasts, and the 
 dauntless bravery of Daniel, who 
 '^ wasn't never afraid of nothing, because 
 God loved him," so that Don hstened 
 entranced. Fib did not recognise now, 
 though she duly propounded the moral 
 at the end of her tale, that just when it 
 had grown past her feeble power to shield 
 Don from the lion of evil lurking in his 
 path, a Fatherly hand was leading him 
 and herself away into a safer place.
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 193 
 
 ''We're going wanderin' now, Don, 
 you and I," slie said, at last, '' like them 
 children in the wilderness, who didn't 
 come to no harm ' 'cause God led them 
 by the hand of Moses and Aaron.' " 
 
 '' Was they little 'uns ? " Don asked. 
 
 Fib answered confidently, ''Yes, little 
 *uns like us," entertaining no manner of 
 doubt that that description of the chil- 
 dren of Israel was correct. 
 
 She had learnt little — or rather been 
 taught little, for it was wonderful how 
 much she learnt, and how eagerly she 
 fed upon it — of all the inner meaning of 
 the lessons Hstened to at the Bagged 
 School, or fi'om Phoebe's hps. Facts, of 
 course, she only understood just so far as 
 her own experience furnished some con- 
 necting link with them, and very often 
 Fib put a rather odd interpretation upon 
 the Bible tales she loved. 
 
 She was quite sure now that some kind 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 PHCEBBS FORTUNES. 
 
 hand would lead her and Don upon their 
 wanderings, and if the hand was to he 
 that of Luke Sims, she would he content 
 and not afraid of him. Only, one thing 
 was certain : she and Don would never 
 go hack to Mrs. Gripps again. 
 
 '^Leastways, not if we can help it," 
 said wise Fib ; ^^ if so he Luke Sims isn't 
 at the public to-night, and we have to 
 call again, why, Don mus'n't sleep in the 
 street, and my bed's our own for a week 
 to come." 
 
 ^* A land flowing with milk and honey, 
 Don," — Fib's thoughts went on side by 
 side with her talk to the little boy; 
 "' s'pose we could take what we want 
 and no one hinder ; " and then she 
 bethought her of Moggs the butterman. 
 She did not intend to wander farther 
 than Nicholl's Eow that day, half hoping 
 her father might after all make his ap- 
 pearance, and as it was necessary to earn
 
 FIB DECIDES UPON A JOURNEY. 195 
 
 at least enough to feed them — if it were 
 possible to do so — they would try, Fib 
 settled, whether Moggs had not, as some- 
 times happened, an errand to be run, or 
 some small job for her to do. She had 
 cleaned out his back-yard once and got a 
 sixpence for it, and moreover had had her 
 tea there afterwards — one of those meals 
 that represented to her imagination the 
 luxury, and consequent temptation to 
 forget duty, of the Babylonish court ! 
 
 Phoebe's Sunday lessons had been very 
 practical.
 
 €zLf^ 
 
 VII. — GOING TO GKANDFATHER. 
 
 UKE SIMS leant up against the 
 door-post and laughed. Oppo- 
 site him stood Fib, her child's 
 face puckered into a frown, her eyes 
 flashing. It apparently took very Kttle 
 to amuse Mr. Sims ; Fib could not see 
 what there was to laugh at herself. 
 
 ^' To go to grandfather, be you ? " Luke 
 said, chuckling stiU, and looking down at 
 Don, who, tired out, — he was so easily 
 tired now, — sat down upon the curb- stone 
 to rest. 
 
 '^ Father said so," answered Fib. 
 
 ^^ Ain't got no letter for him, I 
 suppose ? "
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 197 
 
 *'No," said Fib. 
 
 ^' Nor no money ? " 
 
 '' No/' Fib said again. 
 
 '*Nor don't know where be be, nor 
 the road there, nor whether it's far off 
 or nigh at hand, nor nothing ? " 
 
 Fib shook her head, with an uneasy 
 feeling that her father might have been 
 mistaken, and this man would not *^ do 
 the rest," or speed them on the way to 
 the daisies Don had set bis heart upon. 
 
 Laughing still, and still leaning back 
 against the door-post, Luke Sims called 
 to a fiiend within, who presently came 
 out, and, after a word or two, stood look- 
 ing ^t the children, and seemed as much 
 amused at them as the other man. 
 
 ^^ Druv to it," be said. 
 
 " Ay, and may-be he'll be druv home 
 bisself. He's a queer one." 
 
 "It's easy enough to set 'em on their 
 way, ain't it ? "
 
 198 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 Fib was glad to hear that, and to hear 
 the answer to it. 
 
 u There ain't no difficulty about it. 
 Lumber goes down the road most weeks, 
 but it's odd starting o£f with never a 
 penny in their pockets — odd and just like 
 him too." 
 
 By ^^ him " was meant not '' Lumber," 
 whoever that might be, but the children's 
 father. 
 
 " How can he tell the old chap will 
 take 'em in ? " asked this friend of 
 Luke's. 
 
 Fib understood that, and put in her 
 word eagerly, — 
 
 " Grandfather's waiting," she said. 
 
 '-'- Ay, that's about it," Luke Sims ob- 
 served, after indulging in another silent 
 laugh; ^'he's waitin', true enough, — 
 scarce for you two young ones though, 
 I'm thinking. Well, it's a queer start ; 
 but look here, and see you do as I tell 
 you."
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 199 
 
 ''Yes," said Fib, with eager expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 But Luke Sims set about lighting his 
 pipe at that monent, and was so long in 
 telling her anything at all, that she ven- 
 tured to remind him she was '' looking " 
 stiU. 
 
 '' What is it we are to do ? " asked 
 Fib. 
 
 *' You know the market, child ? " 
 
 Fib nodded. 
 
 '' To-morrow morning you be there 
 betimes, and look out for Lumber." 
 
 ''How?" she asked. Luke Sims' 
 directions promised to be slightly vague 
 and difficult to follow, but the child's 
 heart did not fail her yet — could not fail 
 her while Don's feeble grasp was on her 
 ragged skirt, and Don's pale face lifted 
 up to her own rosy one. 
 
 " How ? why, you can read, can't yer ? " 
 
 Fib shook her head. " Not to say well.
 
 200 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 I knows Lumber wonld have a hel to it, 
 but I don't know what else, and I can't 
 never go through the market a looking 
 for a hel." 
 
 '' 'Tain't writ on him neither," Luke's 
 friend said, langhing. 
 
 ^^ Of course it's his cart as I'm to look 
 for, but it may be a job to find that, and 
 I'd like to know clearer what to do, and 
 perhaps we'd best wait for father, after 
 all," poor Fib replied despondingly, as 
 she thought of the crowded kitchen, 
 Don's failing appetite, and the loud 
 angry voice of Mrs. Gripps. She soon 
 cheered up, however. 
 
 '^ There ain't no difficulty at all about 
 it," Luke resumed; '^ and yer father 
 knowed there warn't when he sent yer 
 to me. Any one in the market wiU point 
 out Lumber to yer, and yer might 
 know him easy if yer never seed him 
 before, yer might. If he's a man with
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 201 
 
 cabbages and rhubarb in his cart, and a 
 grey horse — it's Lumber. If he's a man 
 as wears a coachman's cape over his 
 shoulders, and a pipe in his mouth, and 
 don't say nothing to nobody — it's Lum- 
 ber. If he's a man as stands apart, and 
 does his business out of hand, and gets 
 out of the market before ever another, 
 and starts for home earher than anybody 
 there — it's Lumber ; and if he's a man as 
 won't answer when he's spoke to — why, 
 tliafs Lumber." 
 
 ^^ What am I to say to him? " asked 
 Fib when the laugh from both men, 
 which followed this description of their 
 mutual friend, had ceased. 
 
 " As little as ever yer can," said Luke. 
 
 '^The less the better," said his friend, 
 and then they both laughed again. 
 
 ^' ShaU we have to tramp it?" Fib 
 asked, with an anxious look at her little 
 brother.
 
 202 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^^No, no, ye're swells now; yon'U 
 drive, same as carridge folk. See here," 
 Luke went on, for lie was a good-natured 
 man enough, and touched by brave Fib 
 and the small pale boy setting off alone 
 to seek a new home thus, — ^^ I'll take yer 
 to the market now myself, the pair of 
 you, and find you a bed too, and a person 
 as will show you Lumber in the morning 
 and see you off. You ain't got no lug- 
 gage, I take it." 
 
 Fib laughed in her turn now, the pro- 
 spect had brightened so much, and it 
 took so very little sunshine to cheer her 
 on the darkest day. 
 
 ^^ There ain't no call to wait for 
 nothing," she answered ; *' and I'm 
 obliged to you, for it did seem strange- 
 like to set off alone, and not know where. 
 I'd like to have said good-bye to Mother 
 Gripps — but that don't matter much." 
 
 ** Not matter ! the old woman will
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 203 
 
 break her heart to find you gone without 
 a word. The tender, good, kind old girl, 
 as has done for you so long ! Just think, 
 you may never see her again." 
 
 Luke was laughing once more, and his 
 friend also — they knew well how wi'etched 
 had been the home, how hard the fare, 
 how scant the kindness shown to the 
 childi^en ; but Fib answered seriously, 
 and with a wistful look down Nicholl's 
 Kow, where the dirty children where at 
 play, and squalor reigned, as it had 
 always done, — 
 
 ^'- May-be I won't never see her in this 
 world; but there's Heaven." 
 
 ^' There 25," Luke said, after a second's 
 pause, in which his eyes had rested with 
 some surprise upon the child's thoughtful 
 face : '* you don't expect to see Mother 
 Gripps there, do you ? nor " he hesi- 
 tated, then added, with a look half- 
 ashamed, half-earnest, ^'nor me either.
 
 204 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES, 
 
 There's a good few of your friends, Fib, 
 as you must say good-bye to on this 'ere 
 side of the churchyard." 
 
 ^^ Lor, now, why ? " exclaimed Fib ; 
 ^' ain't we all going to the same place at 
 last ? We're all a-journeyin' through the 
 wilderness, and have to get to Canaan 
 somewlien. Perhaps Mother Gripps '11 
 have to live a bit longer before she gets 
 quite good, but the home's ready for her 
 too — and for you, and all on us. I don't 
 want to say good-bye to no one, and not 
 look to seein' of 'em again in Heaven," 
 she concluded sorrowfully. 
 
 " Well, if we're to go journeyin' through 
 this 'ere wilderness to any purpose, we 
 must see about settin' off," Luke ans- 
 wered, catching up little Don, and hfting 
 him to his shoulder ; ^^ this young one 
 ain't fit to tramp it, so it's lucky as 
 Lumber keeps a coach." 
 
 He strode off at a great pace then,
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 205 
 
 Don's countenance wore its broadest 
 smile, Fib pattered along by his side, 
 chattering as she ran. 
 
 '•'• If it's a wilderness — why, that's 
 what Don and me was saying " — (I)on 
 had not said much, by the way) — ^' we 
 are like the children what Moses led 
 through it ; and if it's a new home, and 
 we not knowin' where it is — why, Abra- 
 ham, he started off Hke that, and no 
 harm come to him.'* 
 
 ^^How yer do run on! Abraham and 
 all that mixed up with what we're about 
 down here — why, lie's in the Bible, 
 child." 
 
 ^' I know ; and ain't it good he is there, 
 and all them stories, telling how our 
 Father looks after us, and showing just 
 what will happen, and why we needn't 
 never be afraid ? The lady larnt me a 
 lot — and, oh!" — Fib stood still for a 
 moment, — ^* if she ever thinks to come to
 
 2o6 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 Nicholl's Eow again, we shall be gone, 
 and she won't know as how I waited 
 patient, and did want to see her, and 
 have minded what she told me always, 
 tliat I have, and lamed it to Don, 
 too." 
 
 ^^ Come on, come on," Luke cried, 
 impatiently, and Fib shuffled after him, 
 consohng herself with one thought, for 
 at least she and her teacher might hope 
 to meet in heaven someivhen, as Fib 
 said. 
 
 Luke Sims was as good as his word. 
 The motherly elder sister warned Don 
 that the ^' day of prosperity" must be 
 come, and he must be more careful than 
 ever to try and keep good, when she sat 
 in a very humble room truly, but a palace 
 compared to that of Mrs. Gripps, and 
 partook of a substantial meal with an 
 old woman, who turned out to be the 
 first person with whom Luke Sims had
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 207 
 
 lodged when he came to London long 
 ago, and who had had a kindness for him 
 ever since. 
 
 This woman lived in one small room, 
 in a dingy street near Co vent Garden 
 market. But the room was clean and 
 bright, and the woman herself neat and 
 trim. Lnke, who befriended every one 
 except himself, — poor Luke ! — had once 
 done a good turn to this woman's son, 
 and she had never forgotten it, and had 
 a kind welcome for him whenever he 
 came, just as kind a welcome to-night, 
 when he brought two hungry, homeless 
 children with him, as when he came, 
 which he sometimes did, alone, and with 
 some small gift to offer. The hospitahty 
 of the poor is truly hospitable, — the 
 generous giving, hoping for nothing in 
 return. The word is a little misapplied 
 perhaps in some other homes — the thing 
 itself a little splendidly burlesqued.
 
 2o8 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 There was a real feast in tlie humble 
 room. Fresh herrings, which were cheap 
 just then, and as much stale bread as 
 ever one liked to eat ; a bit of butter 
 too, very strong smelling, — you or I 
 might have found it difficult to decide 
 whether it was butter at all, or some 
 stale end of rancid cheese. Such as it 
 was, however, Fib accounted it so great 
 a dehcacy that, mindful of her manners, 
 she refused it for herself until it was 
 pressed upon her, and only allowed Don 
 a taste. The weak tea was delicious, 
 although they drank it without milk, 
 which the hostess of the feast regretted. 
 
 ^^ Milk is the thing for him, he'll fatten 
 upon it like pigs," she said, beaming upon 
 Don as she filled up a cracked cup 
 with the straw-coloured liquid, and held 
 it to the child's thirsty hps. '^ You'll 
 find milk in the country, dear, and mind 
 he has just as much as ever you can get
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 209 
 
 for him ; if he has to run barefoot for it, 
 never mind so as good milk goes down 
 his throat." 
 
 *^And honey," said Don, mindful of 
 Fib's description of this land of Canaan 
 to which they are journeying, and re- 
 membering the taste of that luxury in the 
 hospital, where he had been introduced 
 to so many dainties. 
 
 ''Don't go addling his brain," the 
 woman said to Fib ; '' them notions ain't 
 common sense, they're religion, and you 
 hadn't ought to mix things. The land of 
 Canaan was a 'promised land, and means 
 Heaven, and not j^er ' grandfather.' " 
 
 '' I know," Fib said humbly ; and far 
 fi'om leaving her '' notions " in abeyance, 
 the woman could hear her low talk of all 
 these things, of Heaven, and home, and 
 the Father's hand that would lead them 
 safe, and of the footsteps of the Lord 
 Jesus, who had trod the path of Hfe 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2IO PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 before them, long after she and Don had 
 been bidden to lie down (which they did, 
 with great content, upon a pile of old 
 rugs), and try to sleep, that they might 
 be fresh and wakeful in the morning. 
 
 '^ They do be young to go off like 
 this," the woman said to Luke Sims, ^'and 
 you may be sure I'll start 'em safe. But 
 it seems odd the girl isn't scared, and she 
 not knowing where she's going to, and 
 not been there before, nor out of London 
 streets, which, to my mind, come more 
 homelike than any place in all the world. 
 In country places, just the place you live 
 in may be yom's, and its bit of garden, 
 say, or may be an acre or so of field ; but 
 in town — why, bless you ! it's all ours, and 
 so long as there's a shelter for our heads 
 at night, London itself belongs to us by 
 day. The child don't see^n afraid to start 
 off so." 
 
 *' It's Abraham, and that settles her
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 211 
 
 mind. You'd be surprised to hear her 
 talk. Them notions seems to be as real 
 to her as if Bible folk was alive and 
 walking about now. I've heard tell of 
 faith now and again, but it comes 
 different where yer see a thing, and 
 I'm thinking I've seen it now," said 
 Luke ; and moved by some strong soften- 
 ing influence, the rough man went over 
 to the corner where the childi'en lay to 
 say good-bye to them, and as he did so 
 he remembered Fib's words, that she 
 " didn't want to say good-bye to no one, 
 and not look to seein' on 'em again in 
 Heaven," and no doubt the remem- 
 brance did him good. 
 
 Though he only touched her uncere- 
 moniously with his foot to attract her 
 attention, and though aU he said was, 
 
 Good-bye, Httle lass, keep up yer pluck, 
 and you'll do finely," Fib took it very 
 kind of him, and said so.
 
 212 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 The next morning there was no diffi- 
 culty at all ahout finding the man Lumber, 
 and consigning the little ones to his care. 
 Indeed, Fib had nothing at all to do with 
 it. All she knew was, that Don had 
 passed a pleasant time wandering with 
 her through the market, that he had 
 laughed and played almost in his old 
 way, and seemed altogether more like 
 his old self, that the woman who had 
 taken them in had given them both 
 breakfast and dinner, and though too 
 busy to attend much to them through 
 the day, had kept her eye upon them, 
 and towards eyening summoned them at 
 last to set off upon their journey. 
 
 They found themselves perched up in 
 a cart soon after that, and sure enough 
 the horse in the shafts was grey, — ends 
 of red rhubarb stalks, and stray leaves of 
 cabbage, showed what the load had been, 
 — and the driver did wear both the pipe
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 213 
 
 and the coachman's cape that Luke Sims 
 had spoken of — the one seeming as much 
 to fit him and make part of his costume 
 as the other. 
 
 *^ Good-bye, and thank you kindly, and 
 if ever I can do the Hke for you, I will. 
 Don, kiss yer little hand and call out, 
 * Thank you,' for she's been that kind to 
 us as Mother Gripps never was, though 
 I'd liked to have said good-bye to her too, 
 I would. There ! look again, and kiss 
 yer hand again; and Luke Sims ain't half 
 so bad as I took him to be, which was 
 along of his laughing when I didn't see 
 no call for it, and a person don't hke to 
 be laughed at. He was very kind, Luke 
 Sims was. There, Don ! once more, and 
 now round the corner and she can't see 
 us no more : " thus Fib, standing up in 
 the cart for one last look, and stumbling 
 forward upon the driver, and clutching 
 his great cape to recover her balance, and
 
 214 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 wifcL lier arm tightly round Don shaking 
 into her place, and getting breath, only 
 to begin again : '^ My, what a fine horse ! 
 See ! Don ! and did we ever think to go 
 riding ? 'Tain't a carridge, nor yet a cab, 
 such as father drove the other day, but 
 it's gi'and for the likes of us, and it's good 
 of Mr. Lumber to be taking us ; and is 
 it far off, now, could you tell us ? Shall 
 we be there by night ? " 
 
 The man did not even look at her, only 
 stared straight before him between his 
 horse's ears, as they jogged on steadily 
 through the crowded traffic of the streets 
 near the market. 
 
 The traffic grew less and less crowded, 
 the streets quite strange to Don and Fib, 
 and still the girl chatted on, being, truth 
 to say, excited with the novelty of this 
 proceeding, excited with the hope of a 
 brighter life before her, excited alto- 
 gether, and not quite herself.
 
 GOIXG TO GRANDFATHER. 215 
 
 '' Did yoii know father ? Were you a 
 mate of his, now ? that would be it, I'm 
 thinking. And how far will you take us, 
 Don and me ? We ain't got no money ; 
 if you are a giving of us this 'ere ride for 
 nothing, it's very good of you; but I'd 
 like to know when we'll get there." 
 
 To this string of questions Mr. Lumber 
 did think fit to make some kind of reply 
 at last. 
 
 '^ I ain't undertook to talk to yer ; I've 
 undertook to hand you over at the farm, 
 but not to talk. Shut up." 
 
 Upon this broad hint fi'om '' silent 
 Lumber," as the man was called by those 
 who knew him well, Fib did ^' shut up." 
 Holding Don in her arms, and her busy, 
 restless eyes seeing everything there was 
 to be seen, the child sat patiently beside 
 the diiver as one by one the familiar 
 streets were left behind, and the road 
 grew wider, and gardens were before the
 
 2i6 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 houses on either side, and soon after that 
 the houses themselves became fewer, and 
 so out into country lanes, where the May- 
 was in blossom still, and the air fresh and 
 sweet and warm in the quiet evening, for 
 it would soon be June now. Dog-roses 
 began to show themselves in hedgerows ; 
 green apples loaded the branches of the 
 apple-trees ; by-and-by they passed cherry 
 orchards, with the fruit beginning to 
 form among the dark green leaves : but 
 charming as it all was, and unHke any- 
 thing in all Fib's experience, there was 
 one drawback to the pleasure of it, and 
 that drawback was, alas ! familiar enough 
 to Fib. 
 
 ; Though he never spoke, and seemed to 
 remove his pipe only to refill it, — for she 
 never actually saw him without it at any 
 other time, — Fib thought Mr. Lumber 
 must remove it manij other times, or why 
 did he stop at nearly every public-house
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 217 
 
 upon the way, and come out, — the pipe 
 in his mouth then, — each time a little 
 more unsteady on his feet, with a little 
 redder face, and holding the long reins, 
 when he resumed his seat, with a looser 
 and more careless grasp? Even when 
 the moon had risen, and the beautiful, 
 warm summer night had fairly come, he 
 still stopped thus whenever any stopping- 
 place presented itself; and Fib, unac- 
 customed to her position behind a horse, 
 though accustomed to horses of all sorts 
 and kinds when she herself was on her 
 feet, began to hope the grey was very 
 steady and knew the way home by him- 
 self. 
 
 Don, too, to add to her anxieties, was 
 growing weary and fi'etful. There was 
 nothing for it but to tiy and amuse him 
 as best she could. Whether ^^ silent 
 Lumber " liked it or not. Fib's voice was 
 heard again above the monotonous rum-
 
 21 8 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 bling of tlie wheels, as the cart, going 
 now from side to side, — a cart Fib 
 thought more erratic in its movements 
 and less to be depended upon than had 
 been the case earlier in the day, — con- 
 tinued its progress through Kentish lanes, 
 and past the cottages and orchards asleep 
 now beneath the moon, of this '^ garden 
 of England," the sweetest county of all 
 the home counties, the county of cricket 
 and of hop grounds, of independent spirits, 
 shrewd heads, and kindly hearts. 
 
 Lumber took no notice of the children's 
 talk, no notice of the hymns Fib repeated 
 to her brother to keep him quiet, or of 
 the promises she made from time to time 
 of supper and bed soon to come, promises 
 made purposely to catch the ears of their 
 driver, and in the faint hope of winning 
 from him some assenting monosyllable or 
 some other confirmation of them, for Fib 
 beo^an to be a little anxious now.
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 219 
 
 '^ Please don't," she ventured to lay 
 her hand upon the man's arm, as he 
 pulled up again at a roadside inn, where 
 a gi'oup of men stood before the door, 
 and the sign creaked as it moved now 
 and then overhead, and a dog rushed out 
 barking and made the grey horse start, — • 
 ^' Please don't. I'm thinking you'll be 
 home soon now and could take it there ? " 
 
 He took not the shghtest notice of 
 her, and she remarked that he stumbled 
 awkwardly as he touched the ground. 
 However, he went in and came out again, 
 pipe in mouth, as he had done so many 
 times before, and, cHmbing to his seat, 
 never noticed that he had not got the 
 reins at all, but that they lay loose about 
 the legs of the grey horse, which he hit 
 heavily with the whip, and then dropped 
 that. 
 
 Fib was fi'ightened out of her wits. 
 The men at the door of the public-house
 
 220 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 had turned in there when Lumber went 
 in himself. One of them looked out as 
 the cart clattered off noisily, but it was 
 hidden almost immediately in the deep 
 shadow thrown by trees on either side the 
 road, and no one saw that anything was 
 wrong. 
 
 ^' What was it ? " the men asked of 
 their companion. 
 
 *^ Only Lumber. He'll break his neck 
 some of these nights down the Thorntree 
 Hill, or he luoulcl if there was one more 
 pubhc between here and the farm. I 
 wonder she keeps him on." 
 
 ^^ I wonder you're not ashamed to serve 
 him," said a respectable-looking working- 
 man to the landlord. 
 
 *^You can't say you ever saw him 
 the worse for what he took — he's that 
 silent you never know what's up, and he 
 don't favour me with a written list of all 
 the calls he's made on the road down."
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 221 
 
 *' You miglit count those easy," the 
 young man said, shrugging his shoulders ; 
 '' you'd only have to count the publics 
 between here and Covent Garden Market. 
 She ought not to keep him, and that's 
 a fact. On your head be it if he comes 
 to grief." 
 
 The landlord did not seem pleased at 
 that last remark. He stepped out to the 
 door himself, and stood there looking up 
 the road, where broad patches of moon- 
 light and dark shadows alternated ; there 
 was nothing to be seen, and the noise of 
 wheels had died away. . 
 
 Meantime what could Fib do, as the 
 cart swayed from side to side, — for the 
 grey was maddened by the feel of the 
 loose reins about his legs, and by the 
 absence of all control whatever, — what 
 could Fib do but hold Don tightly to her, 
 and chng to the sides of the vehicle as 
 best she could — for Lumber had dropped
 
 222 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 his pipe at last, and looked as frightened 
 as herself ? And by-and-by they came to 
 Thorntree Hill, and plunged down it, and 
 Lumber was thrown out : but Fib held on 
 bravely, she had sHd to the bottom of the 
 cart, which, though she did not know it, 
 was the wisest tiling she could have done, 
 and couched down there now, holding 
 Don to her ; and as they came out into 
 a broad, white patch of moonlight, there 
 was a great crash, the cart overturned ; 
 and with a cry out loud, '^ Oh, Don ! 
 Donny ! " for she had no thought for her- 
 self, Fib felt that, at all events, things 
 had come to a standstill, there was no 
 more motion, they might creep out now 
 and look about them — if they could. 
 
 Yes, Don was quite imhurt. Shaken 
 and terrified, of course, and Fib's own 
 legs were trembling so that she could 
 hardly stand. She did not stand at once, 
 but pulled Don into the hedge, and knelt
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 223 
 
 there while she put his hands together, 
 and held them in her own and said, 
 ^' Thank Gocl," and could not say any- 
 thing else, but burst out crying, which 
 was very unhke Fib, who, however, was 
 too much shaken and alarmed to have all 
 her wits about her yet. 
 
 The shaft was broken, the grey had 
 somehow or other struggled free from his 
 harness, and, with the broken reins still 
 trailing on the ground, stood gravely con- 
 templating the ruin for which lie certainly 
 was not accountable. 
 
 Fib, recovering by degrees, took Don 
 by the hand and went up to speak to 
 their fellow-sufferer, for as such she 
 considered him, knowing very well the 
 accident was no fault of his. At her 
 approach, the sagacious animal turned 
 round and set off soberly for home and 
 stable. Fully understanding his evident 
 intention, and quite agreeing with hira
 
 224 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 that it was the only thing to be done 
 under the circumstances, Fib, always 
 shrewdly ready to do the self- evidently 
 right thing at the right moment, having 
 much common sense of her own, picked 
 up one end — the longest — of the fallen 
 reins, and taking care to keep at a safe 
 distance from his heels, prepared to follow 
 whithersoever the worthy grey might 
 lead. 
 
 *^ Are you going to grandfather now ? '^ 
 Don asked. 
 
 His sister told him yes, and that they 
 would soon be there. She had no doubt 
 herself of finding her grandfather at the 
 farm, and no idea at all that that was 
 but the first stage upon their journey. 
 
 They had not far to go, and that was 
 well, for they met no creature on the 
 moonUt road, and had no other guide 
 than the wise horse, who, feeling Fib's 
 light hand now and then upon his mouth,
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER, 225 
 
 and being used to guidance and control 
 and never used to liberty or self-will, 
 plodded on steadily enough, till, turning 
 up a narrow lane to tbe right, he quick- 
 ened his pace, so that Fib, with poor 
 little Don's limping steps to sustain, had 
 some ado to follow him. A gentle re- 
 minder or two that she gave him in the 
 shape of a stronger pull upon the broken 
 rein was, however, attended to at once, 
 and finally the grey stopped altogether, 
 with his head over a brown door leading 
 to a barn-yard. Eib of course stopped 
 too. 
 
 *^ What next?" 
 
 She patted the old horse as she spoke, 
 and he, turning to look at her and rub- 
 bing his nose upon her shoulder, replied 
 as plainly as though endowed with 
 speech, — 
 
 '^ My stable and my corn, your bed 
 and Don's, and your supper next." 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 So Fib interpreted Ms looks, and be- 
 coming aware of a man's tread behind 
 her, and of figures approaching from 
 round the corner of the farmhouse, 
 cried out in the most friendly manner 
 possible, — 
 
 ''Here we be!" 
 
 ''Lumber, is that you?" a voice said 
 in answer. 
 
 With a sudden thought of the man 
 lying dead, perhaps, where he had fallen, 
 while she and Don and the old horse 
 were here at home and safe. Fib began to 
 cry. 
 
 "He's throwed out," she said, "and 
 oh, please, is grandfather here ? We're 
 come." 
 
 "So it appears," said the man who 
 had spoken before, coming up to the grey 
 and patting him on the shoulder, while 
 a woman who had followed him exclaimed 
 quickly,—
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 227 
 
 ^' Come ! where fi'om ? ^vliere to ? wlio 
 are you — beggars!" she added, as she 
 canght sight of the children. 
 
 ^* They've brought the grey home any- 
 how — or he them," the man said with 
 a smile, as he took from the passive hand 
 of Fib the end of the broken rein which 
 she stiU held ; '^ but I'm feared this time, 
 I am. I've said so before, missis, and 
 now my words is come true. He was not 
 to be trusted." 
 
 "Who more so?" said the woman 
 quickly; "the things sold, the money 
 right — who more to be trusted, ever? " 
 
 "Ay, but not with himself. I must 
 go down the road and have a look." 
 
 He called to a lad to take the horse, 
 and set off with another man who was 
 there, leaving Fib to explain her presence 
 and how the accident happened, as best 
 she could. The latter was the chie 
 source of interest for the first few
 
 228 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 moments, and not till she had slowly 
 gathered such an account of it as the 
 child could give did the mistress of the 
 Thorntree Farm ask Fib any questions 
 about herself and Don. 
 
 *' Please, Mr. Lumber was to take us 
 to grandfather," Fib said then. 
 
 ^* Who's he ? and what's your name ? " 
 
 Fib's answer seemed to satisfy the 
 mistress. She pushed her gently before 
 her into the porch of the farm-house, 
 and then into a passage beyond, and into 
 a bright, cheerful kitchen beyond that, 
 where a blaze of light, the profusion of 
 good things upon a table spread for 
 supper, the presence of a handsome tabby 
 cat upon the hearth, made the whole 
 scene eclipse even the parlour of Moggs 
 the butterman in the simple mind of 
 Fib. 
 
 *^ Is grandfather here?" she ventured 
 to ask once more.
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 229 
 
 The mistress shook her head. 
 
 *^ He's in the old place still. Didn't 
 you know that ? He was a good servant 
 
 once, and I can pass you on " Then 
 
 sharply, *^ Though it's cool to treat me 
 like a parish, and look to me to pass on 
 pauper brats." 
 
 Fib thought the speaker was angry 
 with her, and not knowing where or what 
 **the old place" might be, could only 
 set to work upon the food put before her, 
 a very puzzled and bewildered Fib indeed. 
 
 The woman was kind. She set plenty 
 before the children, and seemed glad to 
 see them eat, but rose every now and 
 then to go to the door, or out into the 
 porch 'to listen. Fib listened too at 
 these times with a choking feeling in her 
 throat, and a dread of she knew not 
 what. But no sound came, and pre- 
 sently she was bidden put Don to bed, 
 and did so in a corner of a loft. She
 
 230 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 stole down herself and watched after that, 
 and by-and-by men came carrying an 
 inanimate form between them, and laid 
 it down in the outer kitchen, and stood 
 romid it talking in low voices. Fib drew 
 near trembling. 
 
 **He's done for hisself this time," one 
 of the men said, and the child broke out 
 into hysterical tears. 
 
 Lumber was not dead, however, only 
 stunned, — sobered, moreover, by the fall. 
 The sound of Fib's crying seemed to 
 rouse him. He opened his eyes and 
 looked at her, but one of the women 
 servants led her away just then, and bade 
 her go to sleep, and comforted her with 
 a rough kindness. Later she forgot 
 everything in the soundest of slumbers, 
 and never woke till a bright sunbeam, 
 finding its way in at the loft window, 
 fell full upon her face. Don was not by 
 her side, and for one moment she felt
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 231 
 
 her heart sink, but in the next she heard 
 the low happy laugh she loved so well, 
 and behold ! there was Don, on the grass 
 beneath the loft, his hands full of daisies, 
 and one of the maids feeding him with 
 bread and milk ! Fib crept down from 
 the loft then, and in passing through 
 the lower floor, in one corner on a bed 
 improvised for the occasion, she saw 
 Lumber lying, and, after a moment's 
 hesitation, went up to him and asked 
 him how he did, and whether he had 
 been much hm-t. Wonderful to relate, 
 he answered her, though only by one 
 word. 
 
 *^ Broke," he said. 
 
 *^0h, my! yoiu' arm?" asked Fib; 
 ^^ that's bad." 
 
 He did not speak, but followed her 
 with his eyes as she moved away, and 
 as she reached the great door called her 
 back.
 
 232 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 *^ Yon was crying, yon was ? " lie said. 
 
 Fib made no reply, bnt only standing 
 with a troubled look upon her childish 
 face, he asked next why she had cried. 
 A fellow-servant came in just then, bring- 
 ing some breakfast, and the maid stood 
 in the doorway watching. 
 
 ** I was afraid," Fib said. 
 
 ^^ There wasn't nothing to hurt you'' 
 
 ** I was afraid, thinking you was dead. 
 When you was took sudden — and you in 
 drink — I thought, may-be you hadn't 
 got to heaven, and " 
 
 *' What then?" 
 
 Ay, what then ? How could they 
 speak to her ? What could they do but 
 be silent, and look gravely at one another ! 
 
 "And I was sorry," the child said, 
 sobbing again now with the recollection 
 of her miserable fear last night. 
 
 " Was you ? " 
 
 That was all Lumber answered, but
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 233 
 
 her words made him feel strangely as his 
 eyes rested on two tear-drops that had 
 fallen on his great hard hand. Fih's 
 '* notions" seemed to have got into the 
 place, and changed its atmosphere ; ma'de 
 it a better, softer, holier atmosphere than 
 before. When she went away, saying 
 brightly she would thank God now that 
 the man was not dead, but had " time to 
 mend, and though she was sorry, very, 
 that his leg was broken" — for it turned 
 out to be that, and not his arm, — " that 
 nothing didn't matter much if only we 
 was good, and she was very much obliged 
 to him for minding of her and Don, and 
 had known all along friends would be 
 raised up to them to lead them safe to 
 grandfather, same as Moses led the sheep 
 in the wilderness, and Don had got his 
 daisies already," — no one noticed the odd 
 jumble in her speech, but thought it 
 only natural, though, as Mrs. Blunt at
 
 234 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 MeadowtlioiTL House, and even Fib's 
 kind friend near Covent Garden, con- 
 sidered, "those sort of things" should 
 be kept sacred, and not mixed up with 
 common things. The " httle leaven" 
 that leavened Fib's, whole Hfe and con- 
 versation seemed at work here too just 
 now, when Fib, kissing her hand to 
 " silent Lumber," passed out at the loft 
 door, and joined Don in the sunshine 
 beyond. 
 
 A little later that forenoon the mistress 
 called the children to her. 
 
 ''You will go on by the carrier's 
 cart," she said; ''you will be quite safe 
 now." 
 
 The carrier's carfc was standing there, 
 at the end of the narrow lane leading 
 to the high road. They saw it filHng 
 up the green vista; one of the farm 
 lads had been sent to stop it, and ex- 
 plain matters. The children ran down
 
 GOING TO GRANDFATHER. 235 
 
 the lane, and the carrier himseK, a man 
 with a grave, kind face, helped them up 
 under the cover, and saw that they 
 were comfortable, and so they set off 
 again upon their way, and left Thorn- 
 tree Farm, and the old horse, and the 
 loft behind them. 
 
 Left, too, a man wondering, in a slow, 
 puzzled way, in his dull, drink-bewildered 
 brain, why an innocent child should cry 
 for Mm^ wondering if he liad been ^^ took 
 sudden, and he in drink " — what then? 
 
 Left, also, a mistress kind, shrewd, 
 honest, but worldly-minded ; wonder- 
 ing whether if Fib could find tears for 
 such as Lumber, she, his mistress, 
 ought not to find thought and care, 
 instead of putting temptation in his 
 way.
 
 VIII. — NEW FEIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 
 
 HO are tliose two old ladies? 
 I see them pass down Grove 
 Street every time I am here 
 myself, I think," said Phoebe, one bright 
 morning as she sat in the room over 
 the shop, and looked out of the quaint 
 old latticed window in the projecting 
 gable. ^' They are dressed exactly 
 alike, from their old-fashioned walking 
 shoes to the colour of their bonnet 
 ribbons. It looks odd." 
 
 *' Sisters so often do dress ahke, 
 Miss Phoebe, don't you think so? " Mrs. 
 Simmons answered, as she rose from
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE, 237 
 
 her chair by the work-table, and came 
 to look over Phoebe's shoulder. 
 
 *^Tes, to be sure they do," the gu"l 
 answered, as she thought of her own 
 pupils in the cathedral close, for she 
 taught the daughters of one of the 
 canons now, and gave music lessons to 
 the dean's own little girl, and was oc- 
 cupied and happy from morning to night, 
 and yet contrived to find time in the 
 evenings to help Tim with his school-work, 
 and a spare hour in the day beside for 
 Avice. *' To be sure, sisters dress alike 
 when they are young, but it never struck 
 me they would go on doing so when they 
 were old, and walk together two-and-two, 
 like school-girls still, so far on in life, 
 when the walk has been so long already, 
 and they must be going down-hill now." 
 
 ''It is well not to go down hill alone. 
 Miss Phcebe," gentle little Mrs. Simmons 
 answered.
 
 238 PHCEBKS FORTUNES. 
 
 ^' Wlio are tlie}^, Tim," asked his 
 cousin, as the boy came into the room, 
 his bag of books over his shoulder, his 
 college cap in his hand, and looking the 
 very picture of the sauciest grammar- 
 school boy in Calminster. 
 
 ^' Who's who ? " quoth this young gram- 
 marian — *' oh, I see ; more mad people ! " 
 
 "What do you mean? Who is it 
 you call mad ? " 
 
 ''People who live under a delusion," 
 said Tim, coolly, "and take the shadow 
 for the substance.'' 
 
 "There are a great many such, I fear," 
 said Phoebe, seriously. 
 
 Tim nodded. 
 
 "And the 'bachelor ladies,' as Avice 
 calls them, are two such people. They 
 don't care for money, or position, or 
 anything else in this world, but live in 
 a dream, and go toddling on together 
 talking ' good ' — quite foolish both of
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 239 
 
 them, but happy and harmless, Phoebe, 
 nothing to be afraid of, I assure you." 
 
 Phoebe shook her head at him. 
 
 ^'Take care! if you don't look out it 
 really will come off some of those days, 
 for you haven't seen the worst of me yet." 
 
 ^'I should like to know them," Phoebe 
 went on, as the two old ladies passed 
 out of sight. 
 
 ^' Ah, you're another— at least I've 
 not decided whether you are mad or 
 only a humbug." 
 
 '' Tim," she said gently, with a look 
 that always brought him to order, ''we 
 will not laugh and joke about such 
 things, or play with edge tools at all. 
 We will try and walk on steadily, and 
 lend each other a helping hand when we 
 can. The delusions you speak of, and 
 I know what you mean, are reahties, 
 Tim, and the world is the shadow." 
 
 They were alone just then. Mrs.
 
 240 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 Simmons had gone out into the passage 
 to meet Avice, who was heard com- 
 ing up the stairs. Her duties over at 
 the canon's house in the Precincts, 
 Phoehe often met her cousins in the 
 parlour over the shop, and lunched with 
 them before giving her music lesson to 
 little Miss Bartram. This had indeed 
 grown into such a fixed habit that her 
 uncle missed her on the days when she 
 was detained by her pupils or otherwise 
 prevented from keeping her tryst. He 
 had never much to say to her when she 
 came in at the shop door, and passed 
 through it after a moment's chat, but 
 he hked to see her and know that, school 
 over, Tim would rush in in his heed- 
 less fashion with the question, *' Phoebe 
 here ? " and that, by-and-by, Avice, with 
 her nurse, would come softly with the 
 same question. Mr. Blunt's home life 
 and business life had, since his marriage,
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 241 
 
 lain wide apart, quite distinct and sepa- 
 rate from one another; and thus they 
 might have continued always hut for 
 Phoebe. It was good for him, and 
 pleasant too, that he should hear 
 Avice's prattle overhead sometimes, or 
 the children's voices in the garden, as 
 he sat at his desk, good for him that 
 the two hves should mingle -now and 
 then, and that " Blunt of Grove Street" 
 and ^' Blunt of Meadowthorn House" 
 should be, as old Fagge said, ^' one and 
 the same man." 
 
 *' The world is the shadow," Tim 
 repeated ; " precious substantial one, 
 Phoebe. I tell you what it is, ITL 
 beheve it — when I see it." 
 
 *^ When you see what ? " 
 
 *^ Any one that thinks so, instead of 
 only saijing they think so." 
 
 '^I thought you told me those old 
 ladies did." 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^' Tlieifre mad," said Tim, '^and they 
 have nothing else. The world has cut 
 iliem., no wonder they cut the world and 
 take up with delusions. The grapes are 
 sour, Phcrbe, and they liave been sour 
 whenever I've heard them cried down." 
 
 Avice joined them at this moment, 
 and the conyersation was cut short. 
 The child came in with her hands full 
 of flowers. She had been rifling the 
 garden below, for the flower-beds at 
 Meadowthorn House were prohibited 
 ground to her. 
 
 '' Is it a music day ? " she asked. 
 
 It was not. Phoebe's afternoon was 
 free, and so was Tim's, for it was a 
 half-holiday. 
 
 ^'I'll take you to see the 'bachelor 
 ladies,' if you like," he suggested. 
 
 >^0h, do!" cried Avice. ''I love them, 
 and they have seed-cake, Phoebe." 
 
 ''Do you know them well enough to
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 243 
 
 take me without leave ? and ivill no one 
 tell me -who they are ? " said Phoebe, 
 speaking in a resigned tone of voice. 
 
 ^'Do I know them?" echoed Tim; 
 ^* why, they adore me ! Come on, they 
 will be only too delighted." 
 
 Phoebe, feehng inclined for adventure 
 and to make new acquaintances, and 
 having been struck by the appearance 
 of the two old sisters, glanced inquir- 
 ingly at Mrs. Simmons — for Tim was 
 not always to be trusted, and had led 
 his unsuspicious cousin into scrapes 
 before now. 
 
 ^* The Miss Freers would be very 
 pleased to see you, miss, I think," said 
 Mrs Simmons; '^they are friends of Mr. 
 Blunt's." 
 
 ^' And you'll be steady, Tim, and not 
 make me look fooHsh, or do anything odd, 
 now, will you ? ' ' 
 
 '* J do anything odd! I'll only make
 
 244 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 every hair on their dear old heads stand 
 on end ; I'll only ' terrify ' them — do you 
 know what ^ terrifying ' means in these 
 parts, Phoehe ? No ; well, come and 
 learn ; " he dashed off before them, and 
 his cousin, with some misgiving, fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 She was a little reassured, as she passed 
 through the shop, to hear her uncle say, 
 in answer to Avice's explanation, that he 
 was glad they were going to call in Eose 
 Street ; indeed, he had intended to take 
 Phoebe there himself on the first oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 " Why not now, uncle ? " she asked. 
 
 But Sir John Bartram came in at that 
 moment, and Phoebe and Avice hurried 
 out into the street. 
 
 On the steps of the Miss Freers' house, 
 just round the corner, Tim was waiting 
 for them, making most absurd antics, 
 ^'behaving hke a lunatic," Avice re-
 
 A'EIV FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 245 
 
 marked, quoting her mother. The Httle 
 girl shook out her skirts, and begged 
 Phoebe to retie her neck ribbon, for were 
 they not going to pay a visit ? Avice 
 had been trained to pay a great deal of 
 attention to her appearance, and pro- 
 mised to do credit to her training. 
 
 Don't be wild, dear," Phoebe said, as 
 they came up with Tim, and she stroked 
 him on the shoulder as one would stroke 
 and pat a fidgety horse into good be- 
 haviour. She was a little dismayed when 
 the boy ran upstairs leaving her to follow. 
 Avice gave her kind encouragement. 
 
 ^^ Don't be shy, cousin. They are not 
 real company — why, I never put on my 
 ' visiting frock ' to come here. It don't 
 signify, mother says, for only the old 
 ladies. And they are so good to me * 
 I'll ask them to love you too, and I hnoio 
 they'U give us a cake." 
 
 This odd jumble of worldliness, childish-
 
 246 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ness, and ^'cupboard love " was comfort- 
 ing. Phoebe gathered from it that she 
 need not be on ceremonious terms with 
 the Miss Freers, and that they were good 
 and kind to children. Neither need she 
 have trembled for Tim's behaviour. He 
 was found in the little parlom^, in his 
 very best frame of mind. Courteous, 
 frank, gentlemanly, just the specimen he 
 sometimes showed himself of a manly 
 English boy. 
 
 The Miss Freers were the daughters 
 of a clergyman, and the only surviving 
 members of a large family. During the 
 lifetime of the father they had been 
 much respected and looked up to — what 
 was more, " visited." Then came trouble, 
 death after death, separation, the break- 
 ing up of a happy circle, poverty, that is 
 to say, comparative poverty, and these 
 two sisters were left alone at last, and, 
 in Mrs. Blunt's phraseology, ^' dropped,"
 
 jXElV FRIEXDS, AXD AX OLD OXE. 247 
 
 in that of Avice they were no longer 
 ^'real company worth dressing for." 
 The family had moved fi'om house to 
 house in Calminster, as diminished num- 
 bers and diminished means had com- 
 pelled, but the old ladies never di'eamed 
 of leaving the town altogether. They 
 had lived there all their lives, the glo- 
 rious old Minster was their real home : 
 under the shadow of its walls, within 
 sight of its towers, they felt safe ; away 
 from it they would be strangers indeed. 
 Day by day they knelt there side by side, 
 and walked down the pictm'esque street, 
 out into the country or in the gardens, 
 as they had walked young girls together, 
 and neither ever saw that the other had 
 grown old. Their dear old patient faces, 
 and quaint figures, — for in their dress 
 they clung still to the bygone fashion 
 of their youth, — were famihar in the 
 poor quarter of the town. They were
 
 248 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 clieerfiil and happy always, having their 
 little jokes together as though they were 
 young girls still, and keeping up the 
 hahit of dressing alike, that had first 
 begun when they wore white frocks and 
 blue sashes in the nursery, and their 
 names were May and Joy ! True, both 
 were abbreviations, the elder had been 
 christened Marion, and her sister Joyce, 
 but all their lives long the abbreviations 
 had been used until the names them- 
 selves were forgotten, and the appellations 
 that had once seemed so suitable to two 
 bright young girls were borne still by two 
 faded, worn old women. 
 
 ** We are glad to see you, my dear, and 
 pleased with Timothy for bringing you 
 over, and it is good of you to come," 
 Miss May said, advancing to meet her 
 visitor, and then stooping to kiss Avice. 
 
 ^^ "We felt sure Mr. Blunt would call 
 soon, and either bring you with him or
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 249 
 
 take us to see you," said Miss Joy. 
 ^' Timothy so often runs in and out, that 
 we began to fear he had forgotten us 
 all this time. You like Calminster, my 
 dear?" 
 
 Phoebe assented warmly. 
 
 Avice had whispered some remark 
 relative to cake into Miss Joy's ear, who 
 opened a small cupboard in the wall and 
 produced the coveted deHcacy. 
 
 '^ We make it ourselves," she said to 
 Phoebe, " and if you would look in now 
 and then of an afternoon, and take a 
 shoe with a cup of tea, we should be 
 very glad. My dear, you are very like 
 your father." 
 
 Phoebe flushed with pleasure. 
 
 *^ I am glad of that," she said; ^^ you 
 remember him, then, Miss Freer?" 
 
 '^ Joy, dear," said the old lady; it 
 sounds strange to be called by our sur- 
 name ; and, to be sure, if there is a Miss
 
 2SO PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 Freer, it would be May, for she is the 
 elder of the two, but it would seem un- 
 natural to hear her called so, for you 
 know, Timothy, we were the youngest." 
 
 Tim, thus appealed to, confirmed the 
 statement, and Miss Joy went on, won 
 to unusual loquaciousness by the sweet 
 face of Phoebe. 
 
 *'Yes, we knew Mr. Harold and Mr. 
 Edmund — your uncle, dear, — Mr, Blunt 
 would seem to us to mean their father 
 always. He, your grandfather, used to 
 sit near the door at the great desk, and 
 his white hair made it easy to see him 
 at once through the window. The young 
 men did most of the shop work, of course, 
 but Mr. Blunt himself would always come 
 to speak to ii8^ and so does Mr. Edmund 
 now. We have lived in Calminster all 
 our lives, you know, and here, in Eose 
 Street, all your life and more — you are so 
 young, my dear."
 
 NEIV FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 251 
 
 ^'- 1 am twenty-three, and feel old 
 enough, Miss Joy, for I have seen the 
 ups and downs of life already," Phoehe 
 said, feehng a great sympathy with these 
 old maidens, whose fortunes had changed 
 like her own, though not quite so sud- 
 denly or thoroughly, perhaps. 
 
 '^ And you have seen, then, how Uttle 
 it matters whether one is ' up ' or ^ down,' 
 — we have found that ourselves," Miss 
 May put in, perhaps detecting in the 
 young face before her that Phoebe had 
 '' delusions" of her own, as Tim would 
 say. 
 
 *^ Was my father ever here — in this 
 house ? " asked Phoebe.' 
 
 ''- Hei^e ! to be sure he was. Your 
 father and your uncle — all your family, 
 have been lifelong friends of ours, ever 
 since we were quite young, and our nurses 
 used to take us to see the miracle below 
 the shop," Miss May said, smiling.
 
 252 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 *' Miracle!" Avice dropped her cake 
 to listen. 
 
 ^'Well, the great printing-press was 
 like a miracle to us. How well we re- 
 member going down there and seeing it 
 all, and holding each other's hands, haK 
 afraid, half delighted. Mr. Blunt 's house- 
 keeper used to give us tea in that pleasant 
 parlour over the shop, we think it still 
 one of the pleasantest rooms in Cal- 
 minster. In those days, Mr. Edmund 
 and his brother were at school, as 
 Timothy is now. Did they take higher 
 places or bring home more prizes than 
 you do, sir ? we wonder, sometimes, how 
 that may be." 
 
 '' My father comes here to grumble, I 
 suppose," Tim said, discontentedly. '^ I 
 don't see the good of all this education, 
 and he might be content with having had 
 one scholar in the family." 
 
 "Ah," said Miss Joy, "Mr. Harold
 
 iVEPV FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 253 
 
 was a scliolar — and you, too, dear — you 
 teacli, we hear. It is very pleasant to 
 be able to do sometliing for ourselves." 
 
 "Indeed it is," said Phoebe, feeling 
 rich and independent ; " and it was the 
 education my father gave me that enables 
 me to do it." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you wouldn't 
 rather do nothing," said Tim, who de- 
 cidedly preferred that line of hfe himself. 
 
 Both the gentle old sisters cried out on 
 him at once. 
 
 " If ive could have worked we should 
 have been too glad," Miss May said; 
 *' but the changes came too gradually." 
 
 "And when we settled here we were 
 too old, or too old-fashioned, to find a 
 place in the busy world, and very thank- 
 ful to have enough to live upon in this 
 small house, and one or two kind friends 
 left," said Miss Joy, turning to Phoebe. 
 
 " I think it is good to work, and plea-
 
 254 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 sant, and I never did dread the bui'den 
 and heat of the day; but it must be good, 
 too, when working days are over and 
 peace and rest come," said Phoebe, with 
 a rather wistful look at the placid faces 
 before her. 
 
 ^^ It is ! it is!" they answered both 
 together and smiling at one another ; 
 ^' but yon must not suppose we are quite 
 idle, dear. There is enough for us to do, 
 as much as we are fit for." 
 
 ^'What?" said Avice, who liked to 
 hear talk even when she could not under- 
 stand it, and who was now sitting at the 
 feet of Miss May, and amusing herself 
 by creating chaos in that lady's work- 
 basket. 
 
 ^' Our friends to visit." Miss May 
 stroked the curly head as she spoke. 
 
 *' The Dawes ? real friends do you 
 mean — company ? " 
 
 *' No, dear," Miss May smiled at
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 255 
 
 Phoebe, " the charwoman, who has six 
 children and not enough to eat ; the 
 tinker, who ivill drink, poor fellow ; 
 the " 
 
 Avice interrupted the list. 
 
 ^' Oh, poor people," she said; ^^what 
 else ? " 
 
 ^' Do you ever go to see — do you know 
 an old man called Gideon Fagge!" asked 
 Phoebe eagerly. 
 
 '^ We can take you there," said Tim. 
 
 *' When ? " 
 
 *^ Any when. Now if you hke. It's 
 not to far for Avice." 
 
 ^' Not too far at all," said Miss May, 
 *^ and a very pleasant walk. But Gideon 
 is not badly off, my child," she added, 
 addressing Phoebe ; "he is quite respect 
 able, — poor, of course, but never in 
 want." 
 
 *'Are the strawberries ripe yet? " asked 
 Avice.
 
 256 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 There was one question Phoebe longed 
 to put to these new friends of hers, but 
 hesitated to put it before the children. 
 She decided she would come by herself 
 soon to see the Miss JFreers again, for if 
 they had lived here all their lives, and 
 known her father's family so well, they 
 would surely be able to speak to her of 
 her mother. 
 
 "Look here," Tim said gloomily, as 
 the cousins took their leave ; " look here, 
 Miss Joy, if father does come grumbling, 
 you might stand up for a fellow. If a 
 fellow has not got brains, how can he do 
 brain work ? My father wouldn't expect 
 me to run if I had only one leg, or to dig 
 with one arm, — why in the world does he 
 expect me to " 
 
 "To do your best, Timothy," Miss 
 Joy cut the tirade short, shaking hands 
 with him and Phoebe, and saying good- 
 bye to Avice with a kiss.
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 257 
 
 *^ What an extraordinary thing!" 
 Phoebe remarked suddenly, as they 
 walked down the shady side of the 
 High Street a few minutes later, ^* they 
 never once said ' I,' either of them, — 
 those dear old ladies, I mean, — it was 
 always ' we.' " 
 
 '' It always is," Tim answered, laugh- 
 ing ; *^ they are a queer old pair." 
 
 ^' Fm glad you took me there," she 
 said; ^'I shall go often." 
 
 In the High Street it was too warm 
 to be pleasant walking ; the little party 
 were glad when their way led them down 
 a quiet by-street to one of the suburbs of 
 the town, where they turned at last into 
 a lane, with five or six red brick cottages, 
 each having a square patch of garden in 
 front and a longer strip behind. Close 
 upon the cottages came streets again, for 
 Calminster was growing and stretching 
 in all directions, as, alas ! even country 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 and cathedral towns have grown and 
 stretched since raihoads first came in. 
 They said the station made the place 
 prosperous, and prosperity is seldom pic- 
 turesque, and the lesser must be sacri- 
 ficed to the greater, and beauty to utility. 
 All very true, only it is well to know 
 exactly what is ** great," and to consider 
 whether ''beauty" has no uses of its own. 
 However, these few cottages stood amidst 
 their gardens, an oasis in the wilderness 
 of brick and scaffolding. No one even 
 threatened to pull them down, as yet, — 
 though builders and contractors kept a 
 sharp eye, ever open, upon that plot of 
 eligible building land. The property was 
 Sir John's, and it was a hobby of his 
 that the comfortable, roomy cottages, and 
 their bits of ground, should remain as 
 they were, if only to show what had been 
 once, and might be again if ever the com- 
 fort of the poor should in some chimerical
 
 .VEIV FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 259 
 
 mind appear a ''great " object, to which 
 in its turn some lesser one might come to 
 be sacrificed. However, man is not im- 
 mortal on earth if mammon is, and Sir 
 John could not live for ever. The 
 builders took comfort in this thought, 
 and kept a careful eye upon the spot 
 meantime. 
 
 One of the wicket-gates opening upon 
 one of the gardens stood ajar. The 
 square patch of garden had not an un- 
 cultivated inch. There was no Httle 
 corner that had not some fresh green 
 lettuce, some choice head of cabbage, or 
 some perfect flower, xl young laburnum, 
 golden now, stood near the gate ; lilac 
 bushes, covered with blossom, half hid 
 the door of the house, which was fm-ther 
 hid and garlanded with roses and ivy 
 mingled. A small, low house, yet with 
 a look of pictm-esque comfort about it, 
 that Phoebe lost her heart to it at once.
 
 26o PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 *^ It is a cottage in a story-book ; can't 
 you fancy life might be good and happy 
 here, Tim ? So peaceful and so quiet, 
 and the cathedral towers in the distance 
 to make it grand, and the busy hum of 
 the town to remind one of one's fellow- 
 creatures. I should like to get up early 
 in the summer mornings, and gather fruit 
 and flowers, and take them into Cal- 
 minster to sell, and come back here at 
 night." 
 
 '^ Cousin, your tastes are low," said 
 Master Tim. 
 
 " That's just what Gideon does," said 
 Avice. 
 
 ^^And a deal else besides," said Tim ; 
 *'he goes out on gardening jobs, and 
 that's not all I meant. There are winter 
 mornings as well as summer ones, and a 
 precious guy you'd look, all over wet 
 and mud, trudging into Calminster and 
 back."
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 261 
 
 He pushed open the gate, went up to 
 the house door, and coolly pushed that 
 open too. 
 
 *^ We don't stand on ceremony with 
 the old fellow," he remarked, in answer 
 to Phoebe's look. 
 
 The open door admitted them to a 
 neat kitchen. A few plates and dishes 
 on a well-scoured dresser, a bright tin 
 saucepan, a round deal table, a neatly- 
 dressed woman sitting sewing near it — 
 nothing to dissipate Phoebe's fancy yet. 
 It was like a cottage in a story-book. 
 
 ^^ There must be younger people than 
 Gideon or this woman living here," she 
 thought, for a little straw hat, with a 
 faded ribbon on it, hung behind the 
 door. 
 
 The woman, who had been working, 
 rose as they entered. Tim merely 
 nodded to her, and passed on through 
 the kitchen to the door at the other
 
 262 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 side, and threw that open too, disclosing 
 the longer strip of garden, with trim 
 rows of peas and beans, a wealth of 
 gooseberry and currant bushes, and a 
 glitter of glass at the foiiher end, under 
 the shelter of the tall hawthorn hedge, 
 so closely cHpped as to make the best 
 shelter possible. 
 
 Now, Mr. Blunt, when he heard 
 whither his children and Phoebe had 
 betaken themselves on that bright day, 
 had fondly imagined the visit to the old 
 ladies would occupy too much of the 
 afternoon to leave time for a longer 
 walk. Therefore he had taken one him- 
 self, and was standing now under the 
 chpped hedge speaking rather earnestly 
 to Gideon. 
 
 '' You won't think of it, then?" he had 
 been saying. 
 
 The old gardener shook his head. 
 
 " The pay may be better, the work
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 263 
 
 lighter, and the house good, and I'm not 
 pretending to care for myself, and Deborah 
 don't care neither, where 'tis we live out 
 the rest of our few days. Yet, move I 
 can't, and I've told you so before now, 
 Mr, Edmund." 
 
 *' You are wrong," said Mr. Blunt. 
 
 '' May-be," — the old man stooped to 
 lift a slug off the path and throw it over 
 the hedge, then looked up again. ^' I be 
 bound to stay here till my boy conies 
 home." 
 
 *' He'U not come now, you may be sure 
 of that." 
 
 '' May-be," Gideon said again. 
 
 " And you would do much better where 
 I suggest." 
 
 ^'I be hound to wait for him. When 
 he does come he'll find a welcome, 
 sir." 
 
 '' Which he don't deserve," Mr. Blimt 
 spoke sharply.
 
 264 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 ^'Whicli on us does deserve it, Mr. 
 Edmund ? We go wanderin' and turnin' 
 every way but the right one, — yet, when 
 we do turn right, the welcome's ready 
 always. I'm thinking if we never turned 
 right at all till the very last, and just 
 went home tlien^ and not before, we 
 wouldn't find the gate of Heaven shut 
 against us — leastways, if we did 'strive 
 to go in' at last." 
 
 Mr. Blunt shrugged his shoulders and 
 looked vexed. 
 
 ^' I'll not stand in no one's light, you 
 know, sir," Gideon Fagge said earnestly ; 
 '^ I ain't done it yet, and I don't mean 
 to do it now. If I'm wanted, why, I'm 
 here. If so be I'm not wanted, it don't 
 matter where I am." 
 
 ^' You must do as you choose, of course 
 — about staying here, I mean," said Mr. 
 Blunt, ^* and as for — well, it ivould stand 
 in the light " he broke off.
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 265 
 
 ^' All right, sir. I understand ; and, 
 when that is so, there ain't no need of 
 explanations, which is waste of breath. 
 Your niece, now, sir, — meaning Mr. 
 Har'ld's daughter, — she teaches, I 
 hear?" 
 
 ^'Yes; the dean's daughter, and the 
 daughters of one of the canons, — Sir 
 John's brother, Mr. Bartram, you 
 know." 
 
 '^ And what might she larn 'em, if I 
 may make so bold as to ask?" 
 
 " Music, French : things of that sort. 
 She is a very accomphshed yoimg lady, 
 and quite a lady, too." 
 
 ^'Ay; I seed her. She is that. So 
 she larns 'em all that sort of thing, do 
 she ? And nothing else — not the cate- 
 chism, or the fifth commandment, say, 
 nothing of that sort ? " 
 
 The old man smiled as he spoke, a 
 slow, shrewd smile, that seemed to
 
 266 PHOEBE'S FORTUNES, 
 
 irritate Mr. Blunt ; lie turned away 
 impatiently. 
 
 '^I must be going," he said, ''and I 
 have had my walk for nothing. Some 
 people might call you ungrateful, Fagge ; 
 this is the second time you have refused 
 a good offer." 
 
 ''It is, sir. The first was nigh upon 
 fom'-and-twenty year ago, when Mr. 
 Har'ld " 
 
 At that moment Phoebe and the chil- 
 dren appeared, coming down the turf 
 path dividing the cultivated ground into 
 two strips. Tim did not seem best 
 pleased at the sight of his father, and, 
 moreover, puzzled at finding him there 
 at all, but Avice ran forward to him 
 and swung upon his hand, chattering of 
 all she had done, and of how "'nice" it 
 was to see him when least they had 
 expected it. Phoebe stood still and 
 looked round her for a moment, then
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 267 
 
 came up to the old gardener and greeted 
 him kindly. 
 
 **What a green, fresh, pretty place; 
 how well your garden looks ; and what 
 a different day it is from the one on 
 which we saw each other first/' she 
 said. 
 
 '' It is that," said Gideon ; '^ there's a 
 deal of difference in weather, same as 
 there is in spirits. Not you, nor the 
 day neither, don't look so downhearted 
 as you did a month ago." 
 
 *^ It is a shame to remind me of 
 how long it is," she said, '^ for I did 
 really mean to come, and here I am at 
 last." 
 
 ^^ril walk back with you," said Mr. 
 Blunt, rather to the dismay of the chil- 
 dren, for that proposal interfered sadly 
 with their plans. 
 
 "VSTiat particular pleasure Avice and 
 Tim took in a visit to Gideon Fagge
 
 268 PHCEBE'S FORTUNES. 
 
 neither Mr. nor Mrs. Blunt could ever 
 quite make out, and yet they did take 
 pleasure in it. Tim was fond of garden- 
 ing, and liked watching the old man at 
 work ; liked listening to his talk, helping 
 or hindering the while as the case might 
 be. Avice enjoyed the perfect liberty, 
 the fruits ripe or unripe, Deborah's 
 strong tea, and, perhaps unconsciously, 
 Deborah's flattery, so that a visit to the 
 cottage, though a rare treat, was counted 
 a great one. They were not disposed to 
 relinquish it now, and finding Phoebe 
 inclined to indulge them, and for some 
 reason or other not feeling at Hberty 
 to press her to alter her decision in 
 their favour, her uncle went away him- 
 seK, but with a fi'own upon his brow 
 which hurt Phcebe's tender conscience, 
 for it was the first she had seen whose 
 presence she thought she could dis- 
 tinctly trace to her own doing. She
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 269 
 
 even called after Mni from the little 
 gate,— 
 
 " Uncle ! could not the children go 
 home alone ? I should enjoy a walk 
 with you." 
 
 He only looked hack, however, to 
 shake his head, and the outcry from 
 Tim and Avice warned her to say no 
 more, hut to give herself up amicably to 
 their enjoyment. 
 
 ** Never you fear, 'taint tjou as has 
 vexed him," Gideon said, almost as if 
 he read her thoughts ; *^ and he ain't no 
 call to he vexed, he ain't, not if he could 
 see things right," the old man added 
 slowly, whereat Phoebe felt somewhat 
 reassured, and fancied it might be some 
 business matter between himself and the 
 gardener which had annoyed her uncle. 
 
 There had been some talk of a half- 
 day's work done lately when a whole 
 one had been expected, and of the high
 
 270 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 price Gideon asked for his green goose- 
 berries, which, however, were so much 
 better, and cheaper too, than those of 
 the greengrocer in the High Street ; and 
 Phoebe had learnt by this time what very 
 trifles were enough to disturb the peace 
 at Meadowthorn House, and what petty 
 grievances could worry her uncle and her 
 aunt for hours together. So she half 
 hoped it might be the gooseberries, or 
 the day's work, and not her own refusal 
 to walk home with him, that had vexed 
 Mr. Blunt now. 
 
 She watched him until he was out of 
 sight, before she turned away from the 
 little gate. Through the open doors of 
 the house a ghmpse could be seen of the 
 children moving in the other garden at 
 the back, of Tim wielding a huge rake, 
 of Avice painfully carrying from the tank 
 under the hedge a watering-can much too 
 heavy for her, and splashing herself from
 
 NEW FRIENDS, AND AN OLD ONE. 271 
 
 head to foot as she staggered beneath its 
 weight. 
 
 Deborah, usually the most attentive of 
 hostesses, was not watching her young 
 guests then. She appeared to have for- 
 gotten them altogether as she stood in 
 the window of the cottage, her eyes fixed 
 upon PhcBhe and old Gideon, and a 
 strangely curious look upon her face. 
 Tim, coming up suddenly behind her, 
 made her jump. The woman called back 
 her attention then from wherever it may 
 have wandered, and hunted Tim and the 
 rake out into the garden, where Avice 
 stood, up to the ankles in wet, as she 
 kindly performed a work of supereroga- 
 tion in deluging the young cress and 
 radishes, which needed no watering at 
 all, and Gideon and Phoebe passed 
 through the kitchen together, Phoebe 
 stopping to say in her pretty way, — 
 
 *'Is this Deborah? I must know her
 
 272 PHCEBES FORTUNES. 
 
 too, and as yet I have only heard her 
 name. You are Gideon's sister, the 
 children tell me," and winning Deborah's 
 heart at once. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Printers, London and Aylesbury. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILUN0I9-URBANA 
 
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