He stood still a moment, looking full at her.  It was wonderful how resolute and firm and yet brave and gentle too those merry brown eyes of his could become.  Soeur Angelique sighed and shook her head softly.  He stooped and kissed her, then turned away saying:  “Now that chapter has been read through to the end.  Woe be to him who turns back the page!  And it is time I went to call on poor Widow Brown.”

Soeur Angelique stood in the window as a moment later he passed by.  He kissed his hand to her with a gay smile and went on.  But she still stood there with the tears welling and welling in her eyes till they fell gently over upon her cheeks.  She did not heed them, she was so busy with her thoughts.  “Poor Phebe,” she said softly to herself.  “My poor little Phebe!  But perhaps,—­with time—­”

CHAPTER XIV.

PHEBE’S GOOD-BY.

When was it Phebe first fell ill?  No one knew.  Mr. Hardcastle had kept cautiously out of her way this long time past, but nobody else suspected that the brilliant cheeks and eyes which shone like stars were telltales of a hidden fire burning her life away.  The fever was abating in the village.  The doctors declared the epidemic virtually over, and mutually congratulated each other upon the success of their measures.  Mr. Hardcastle returned to the sidewalks; Mr. Upjohn brought back Maria; Miss Lydia said death had spared her this once, but next time it would be her turn to go; Mrs. Lane said she needn’t make her will yet for all that; and everybody said how very much worse the fever would have been in any less peculiarly healthy spot than Joppa.  How was it that at the very last, when there was no reason at all, when she had been apparently so perfectly well all along, Phebe Lane should suddenly take to her bed?  Not only one doctor was called in, but both, and when they saw her they said the fever had been running a long time already, and then they looked very grave and shook their heads.  She did not seem so ill.  Most of their patients had had far more aggravated symptoms yet still they shook their heads as they looked at her, and murmured something about lake of vitality, a general giving way, a complete want of will power, etc.  People looked at each other aghast.  Was it possible that little Phebe Lane was really going to die?  Nobody really believed it could be, excepting only Soeur Angelique.  “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she cried out when she first heard of it, and then she instantly went over and installed herself in Phebe’s room.  And there she sat the slow days through, waiting and waiting with a breaking heart.  Phebe suffered very little.  She lay generally perfectly still, too weak to move, too weak to care to speak.  People came and went noiselessly below, but no one was admitted to her room save her step-mother and Mrs. Whittridge.  Mrs. Lane watched her with growing anxiety.  The fever was so slight, why did she not rally from it?  How was it credible she could fail so rapidly and so causelessly?  And Mrs. Whittridge sat by with despair in her heart.