‘No, indeed,’ was my reply to this; but I secretly marvelled at this piece of intelligence, and there was no time to ask any questions, for we had reached the cottage, and the next minute I was standing by Susan Locke’s bedside.

There was no need to tell me that poor Susan was in danger; the inflammation ran high; the flushed face, the difficult breathing, the strength and fulness of the rapid pulse, filled me with grave forebodings.  Mr. Hamilton remained with me some time, and when he took his leave he promised to come again as early as possible in the morning.

‘I will stay altogether if you wish it,’ he said kindly, ’if you feel the least uneasiness at being alone.’  But I disclaimed all fear on this score.  I only begged him to remain with the patient a few minutes while I spoke to Phoebe, and he agreed to this.

It was late; but I knew she would not be asleep.  How could she sleep, poor soul, with this fresh stroke threatening her?  As I opened the door I heard her calling to me in a voice broken with sobs.

’Oh, Miss Garston, I have been longing for you to come to me; you have been here for hours.  I have been lying listening to your footsteps overhead.  Do you know, the suspense is killing me?’

’Yes, I am so sorry for you, Phoebe:  it is hard to bear, is it not?  But I could not leave your sister.  We are doing all we can to ease her sufferings, but she is very very ill.’

’Do you think that I do not know that?  She is dying!  My only sister is dying!’ And here her tears burst out again.  ’Ah, Miss Garston, those dreadful words are coming true, after all.’

‘What words, my poor Phoebe?’ And I knelt down by her side and smoothed the hair from her damp forehead.

’Oh, you know what I mean.  I have repeated them before; they haunt me day and night, and you refused to take them back.  “If we will not lie still under His hand, and learn the lesson He would teach us, fresh trials may be sent to humble us,”—­fresh trials; and, oh, my God, Susan is dying!’

’You must not say that to her nurse, Phoebe; you must try and strengthen my hands:  indeed, all hope is not lost:  the inflammation is very high, but who knows if your prayers may not save her?’

‘My prayers! my prayers!’ covering her face while the tears trickled through her wasted fingers; ’as though God would listen to me who have been a rebel all my life.’

’Ah, but you are not rebellious now:  you have fought against Him all these years, but now all His waves and billows have gone over your head, and you cannot breast them alone.’

’No, and I have deserved it all.  I do try to pray, Miss Garston, I do indeed, but the words will not come.  I can only say over and over again, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee,” and then I stop and my heart seems breaking.’

’Well, and what can be better than that cry of your poor despairing heart to your Father!  Do you think that He will not have pity on His suffering child?  Be generous in your penitence, Phoebe, and trust yourself and Susan in His hands.’