Miss Lizzie Lawson soon found that the trouble which had befallen her sister Phebe was one which, at least for a time, could not be talked about.

"What is the matter with you, Phebe?" she asked anxiously, as she caught sight of the weary-looking face.

"I have had a very bad night."

"Where is Ralph?"

"I do not know." Then suddenly throwing her arms round her sister's neck and kissing her, Phebe said, "Lizzie, dear, I'll tell you all in a day or two, but I cannot now. You'll trust me, won't you? And do not say anything to father."

"God bless and help you, Sis, darling."

Of course the only conclusion the sister could come to was that husband and wife had quarrelled. "He will soon get over his sulks and come back," she said to herself.

All that day Phebe watched minute by minute for postman or telegraph boy, but no message came. Even the shopmen went about on tip-toe, feeling that something strange was in the atmosphere, but the white set face of the mistress kept them from asking any questions.

Sharp-witted Bessie for once was at a loss to know what to do. Should she show any sympathy? Should she go in, or stay away? Should she seem to know nothing, or all? These were the questions she weighed over and over. At last this little note was sent:

"Dear Mrs. Waring,

"Please ask me to come in to tea, or I shall go perfectly blue and never get a right colour again.

"Neighbour Bessie."

Just a wee bit of a smile crept into Phebe's face as she read it, and the thought came, "What would she do if she had troubles like mine to face?"

Bessie's blueness seemed to have quite vanished by tea-time. During the meal she kept up a lively chatter, and Phebe came to the conclusion that Bessie was not aware that anything unusual had happened. I don't know if Bessie had ever read that the way to cheer people who are down is not by bidding them count the blessings still remaining, for they are sure to sink still lower if you do that, but by counting up to them the blessings they have conferred on others. It has certainly a wonderful effect; and that was just what Bessie did.

After she had helped Janie to clear the table she sat down for a minute or two on the rug at Phebe's feet, and then said, "When I began to write you that cheeky little note this morning I wanted to say something—I've wanted to say something for weeks, but don't know how."

"Just tell me straight out," said Phebe gently, stroking her tangled hair, thinking it was some confession she wanted to make or to ask advice how to get out of a scrape.

"It's only that I wanted to tell you how much I love you and what a help you have been to me. Do you remember telling me that story Jesus told about the woman who would have her way, and how it taught us how to pray? Well, last night, for the first time in my life, I really prayed. I felt quite sure Jesus was listening. Things have been so different since you have been here. I never had anybody to talk to as I can to you; you understand me, and don't scold me."

"But I think I often scold you."

"Bless you, that's not scolding."

Phebe bent down and kissed her, saying in a low voice, "God bless you, Bessie, darling. I cannot tell you how your words have comforted me, just as though an angel had helped you to say them. Perhaps some day you will understand what I mean." Bessie thought she understood even now, but did not say so.

"And I may love you just as much as ever I like, may I not?"

"Of course you may, there is room in my life for a lot of love," and Phebe had suddenly to rise and go into the shop, but Bessie knew it was only that she might not see her tears.

Next morning came, still no message. The day passed to Phebe as the previous one had done—she had been ever on the watch, a feeling of dumb despair taking possession of her. In the evening she had a visitor; no other than Stephen Collins, who asked if he might see her alone.

After the first greetings were over there was an awkward silence, and then Stephen said, "Mrs. Waring, you are in trouble. I cannot tell you exactly now how I know, but will you not as an old friend confide in me?"

No answer. Poor Phebe could not think what to say; she could only look up into his kind face and as suddenly let her glance fall again to hide her tears.

But the look gave Stephen courage to go on. "Ralph has left you, has he not? Did he leave no message behind?"

"I can find none," she replied frankly, "and I have searched everywhere." Quite unconsciously she thus for the first time revealed the secret trouble which was so crushing her.

"Do not think me rude or interfering, dear Mrs. Waring" (how the name seemed to choke him!), "but are you left in difficulties?"

"I don't think so—besides, he will come back soon. But why do you ask? Have you any reason?"

"I am afraid people will think it is business difficulties that have made him go."

"But the business is prospering."

"Still you need some capital to go on with."

"The business, I am sure, is all right, besides if I were pressed I have a little of my own." That morning she had found the key of Ralph's desk in her pocket. It had startled her at the time, for Ralph must have placed it there; and now, taking it from her pocket, she rose, went to the high desk standing in the corner, and unlocking it produced the bank book. She opened it quickly, took one glance and then closed it with a sob. Ralph had drawn the whole of the money out as recently as the previous Monday. She put the book from her with a shudder; it was like the death certificate of her husband's honour.

A paper had fallen out of the desk, and mechanically she stooped to pick it up, praying as she did so for strength to appear calm.

Stephen was watching her closely, a struggle going on in his own heart too.

"Is the account all right?" he asked.

"No," then another sob. Oh, for strength! Why could she not make herself be calm? She looked at the paper in her hand, and more because she thought it might give her time to master her feelings than for anything else, she said, "Can you tell me what all these figures are about?"

Stephen took the paper and looked at it for a long time and then said, in a strained voice, "It is a statement Ralph has drawn out showing exactly how the business stands, with a list of all debtors and creditors. If you could get most of the debts in you would still need three hundred pounds to keep affairs going."

"I cannot tell how it is; everything is so dark."

"But if you will let me help you," he pleaded, "all will come right. I can easily lend you what you need."

For an instant, like a vision, there came to her a feeling of restfulness, and she looked up to his face, bending over her, with eager trustfulness. What a safe strong arm his would be to lean on! But instantly she put the temptation from her; it would not be right to accept his help remembering what Mrs. Colston had said, and the sweet light which had arisen went suddenly out, leaving the darkness deeper than before.

"No," she said firmly, "I cannot accept your help."

"But what will you do?"

"I cannot tell, but in some way God will help me. And surely Ralph will come back soon!"

"I do not think so."

"Why?" It was Stephen's turn to be silent this time; how could he tell her all he knew? How could he explain how evident it was that Ralph had drained all the money he possibly could from the business?

"Do you know where Ralph is?" she asked suddenly.

"No, I do not."

After another pause Stephen said, "Perhaps I had better leave you now. When you have had time to think things over, you will trust me more."

A minute ago she would have urged it was not for want of trust, but now her mind, all so confused, could not rid itself of the idea that he knew something about Ralph which he had not told her. When he had gone the idea gave rise to two questions, "What had first made Stephen think Ralph had left her when not even Bessie knew how he had gone away?" and "What had given him the idea Ralph had left her in difficulties when the success of the business had been so widely talked about?" But though she asked the questions over and over again, no answer would come. "Could Stephen have had any share in persuading Ralph to go away? had he tempted him away?" But the remembrance of the tender, true face made such thoughts seem wicked.

Going to the desk for the paper which Stephen had replaced there she took it out to study it for herself, and with it, lying just beneath, she drew out a folded paper, and opening it found it to be—a letter from Ralph! How had it got there? Had Stephen placed it there?—but she was in too much of a hurry to read it to pause to reply.

"My Dear Wife,

"I know this letter will pain you, it cannot help but do so, and for this I am very sorry. I would not willingly grieve you, but it all arises from the painful fact that you have always failed to understand me. You know that for a long time I have had a great desire for a larger sphere. You thought this was because my love to God had grown cold and the love of the world crept into my heart. I assured you this was not so, but that it was only a leading into other service. If I can make money and devote it to God's work, am I not still one of God's servants? I am now with my face set towards a foreign land, where I hope to win a fortune. I feel no remorse at the step I have taken, since I asked you to agree to emigrate and you would not. I know you will get on pretty well without me, because, if you fail in the business you can return to your father. The sale of the business will cover all liabilities and more. I shall let you know from time to time how I get on: it will always be a great pleasure to report progress to you. Never doubt but that all I make, which I do not return to God, I shall hasten home with one day to lay at your feet. Tell my dear children their father heard a call like Abraham did, and has gone out to seek a name and a fortune to enrich them with. I know I have no need to assure you that I shall always remain,

"Your own faithful, loving husband,

"Ralph Waring."

"P.S.—I did not say 'good-bye' to you for fear you should succeed in persuading me to stay with you. Some day soon, I will send you an address where you can write to, as I shall be anxious to hear how you are getting on."

It was strange, but the reading of that letter gave her the calm she had been struggling to obtain. After reading it a second time, she went out into the garden, named in the summer-time "Sunshine Patch." How long ago that seemed! Where was the sunshine now? But the stars shone down on it if the sun did not, and it was refreshing to feel the cool breezes on her face, and to be alone under the pitying skies.

Now that she had read this letter a burden of uncertainty had gone; she knew now something of what she had to face.

Surely Stephen had not been the bearer of that open letter; it must have been in the desk before! But the very doubt about it made it more easy to resist Stephen's offer.

It was impossible for her to return to her father; how could she burden him with herself and two children when even now he could only just manage comfortably? But how could she get the three hundred pounds Stephen said she would need? She had no earthly friend she could go to and had nothing she could sell or mortgage. But, ah, there was always one source of help she could go to! There was one way still open—the upward way! Sitting down in the desolate little arbour, she buried her face in her hands and prayed, "Dear Lord, I have no one to help me but Thee. Please open up my way! Show me how I can continue the business. Give me also business ability. Show me my way very clearly. I know Thou art listening to me. I feel sure of it, just as Bessie did. And now I am going to carefully watch for the sign that Thou art going to help me. Oh, strengthen me; I feel so lonely!" A flood of tears came, but she could let them flow unhindered now.