Early the next morning, as soon as the shutters were down, Phebe was in the shop taking a general look round, and examining the stock. With the help of Reynolds, the shopman who gave her the roses, she got a very good grasp of the state of things. "The stock is very low indeed," said Reynolds; "some things we are out of altogether. It's not my fault, for I told master a fortnight ago, and again last week, but he took no notice—said it was not my business."

"PHEBE WAS IN THE SHOP TAKING A GENERAL LOOK ROUND."

Phebe only replied, "We must see to these things as soon as possible; thank you for helping me," and then went in to breakfast.

She had got a clear view of the situation as far as the business was concerned, but all else was in a mist. When she tried to analyse her own feelings with regard to Ralph's conduct, what exactly it was that had prompted him to such a course, how it would appear to outsiders, what steps she was to take to secure capital to work the business, all seemed chaos.

Breakfast over, she picked up a little Revised Bible from her book-corner, and went out into the arbour for a few minutes' quiet, hoping she might gain a little light. She had only just bought this Revised Bible, indeed it had not been out long. Opening it at random, her eyes fell on these words, from the prayer of Asa, "We rely on Thee." A feeling of awe crept over her. Surely an angel must have opened the Book! The sign she had prayed for last night had come. Scanning the page to find out all the story, the leaf was turned over, and then she caught sight of this description: "The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth to show Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards Him."

"I must pray for the perfect heart," she said to herself, "and I shall just rely on God, and I am now going to watch how He will show Himself strong for me. I feel sure He will, for He knows I am relying on Him."

But the angel's work was not over yet. Just then there dropped out of the Bible a little New Year's card which she had never carefully read as yet. Picking it up she looked at it in an absent sort of way, and then feeling that it was in some way specially meant for her she read:

"For He hath said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' I took it as His word of honour."—David Livingstone.

"And so will I," she said fervently. Just then there was a call from the shop, and all at once, with hardly a moment's warning, she went from the golden gate to the busy mart.

A commercial traveller was waiting to see her, presenting an account for twenty-five pounds.

With all a woman's wits about her she stood where her face was in the shadow. "I am sorry that Mr. Waring is not at home," she answered, "he is out of town. Can the account stand over till your next visit?" Her voice was quite steady. The traveller looked fixedly at her, but was quite unrewarded for his trouble, through her face being in the shadow. She however saw his uncertainty, but he answered suavely, "Certainly, madam, Mr. Waring's credit has always been good." Then added, after another moment's reflection, "Can I have another order to-day? I have some very cheap lines."

Turning to Reynolds, she said, "You know better than I do what we are wanting; just make a list of what we usually have from this gentleman's firm," and she stood quietly by while this was done.

"I hope Mr. Waring is well," remarked the traveller.

"He was quite well when he left home."

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting him the next time I call."

"I hope so, but, if possible, your cheque shall be sent on before then."

When he had gone she said to the shopman, "Reynolds, I think I can trust you." The man nodded; he wanted to say "Yes," but could not for a lump in his throat. "I do not know where Mr. Waring is, except that he has gone abroad. If anybody asks you where he is, you had better say frankly you do not know." It was hard work to keep the voice steady.

"Mrs. Waring," said Reynolds, huskily, "I'll stand by you to the best of my ability," and he put out his hand, which she took in both of hers.

"I feel sure you will," she said with a choking sob.

The thought which was uppermost in her mind that day was how she could explain her position to any one. Some report must be given to the outside world—what should that report be?—what could it be? If she did not give one the world would soon make one. She determined to go that evening and seek her sister's advice.

The first thing on arriving at the old home was to show her sister Ralph's letter. They were alone in the sister's bedroom. After it had been read twice over the sister threw her arms round Phebe's neck, exclaiming, "You poor child! you poor child!" and then they sobbed together as they had never done since the time when they were first motherless.

"What am I to do? What am I to tell people?" asked the deserted young wife.

"I don't know; I must think," was the sister's answer, who was usually so clearbrained. "Will you come home to live? I wish you would. Father wouldn't object to it if I coax him."

"No, I am not coming to be a burden on him. I must work for the children. But, oh, Lizzie, you don't know all. He has left me deeply in debt, and taken all my own money, and the stock is so low. But don't tell father!"

"Left you in debt!—the rascal!"

"No, no, don't say that; he asked me to go with him two months ago, and I would not consent. So you see it's partly my own fault. But I never thought he would go without me."

"Well, you will just have to tell anybody that asks that he has gone to start a business abroad, and that you may be joining him later. It will be best to be straight about it."

"If he sent for me, should I have to go?"

"I expect you would. You had better tell father all about it, or he will be dreadfully angry if he hears of it from anybody else."

The old father was sitting by the fire reading his paper. He was good at heart, and thought no end of his "girls," but he had always considered it would never do to let them know this, that it was a parent's duty to do a certain amount of scolding.

"How's Ralph?" was his first question. "He's not been to see me for an age."

"He was quite well when I saw him last."

"Saw him last? Why, is he away from home?"

"Yes."

"Where has he gone?"

"Abroad," in a very low voice.

"What did you say?" wheeling his chair round towards her in quite a fierce way. "Why can't you speak out properly?"

"Ralph has gone abroad."

"Gone abroad! Whatever for?"

"To start a business, I suppose."

"Well, you do astonish me. I think he might have come up to bid me 'good-bye,' that I do. And what part has he gone to?"

"To Australia, I think."

"You 'think'! Really, Phebe, you are most exasperating. What are you keeping back?"

"Look here, father," put in Lizzie, "it is like this: Ralph wanted Phebe to go to Australia and she objected. She didn't want to leave you, for one thing, so he's gone without her, and the worst of it is, he did not tell her he was going."

"Didn't want to leave me! that's all fiddle-sticks. She ought to have gone with him. It serves her just right he has left her. Look here, Phebe," putting his hand sharply on her knee, "I consider you have brought disgrace upon me. A wife's place is by her husband's side. A nice talk the town will make of it."

"Father! father!" exclaimed Lizzie, "do not be so hard on Phebe. You know very well you wouldn't let anybody else say a word against her. Of course it is the way of the world to put all the blame upon the woman, but it is rather hard if her own friends do not stand up for her."

"If she had got any fault to find with Ralph she should have come up and told me all about it."

"What! get a wife to tell tales about her husband!"

"Well, it is no good talking anything more about it at present. It came so suddenly upon me. It's a good thing, Phebe, my girl, he's left the business behind him, he couldn't take that with him very well. Of course he could have sold it, but then if he had done so the cat would have been out of the bag. You must just tackle things with a brave hand."

"Yes, I mean to do so, father," was all Phebe could manage to say.

Presently she bade him "good-bye" in her usual manner, though her heart was very full.

It was getting late, and there was a lonely bit of road to traverse, but the two sisters lingered at the garden gate, each loth to part from the other.

"You said, Phebe, darling," the elder sister whispered, "your stock was low and there were debts. What are you going to do for money?"

"I do not know. But I feel sure God will help me in some way or other. I am relying on Him."

"Bless you! you were always a good girl. I wish I had your faith."

"Don't say that, for you don't know how often my faith fails me. I am often ashamed of myself. But I feel sure the business will go on right enough." Just now the monetary difficulty seemed a very small one compared with the fresh shadow which had just fallen on her.

"Well, look here, dearie, let me help you. Take my money and put it in the business. You know how welcome you are to it. And if I never have it back, it will not matter; I should not make any trouble of it."

"You are good, but you know father would not like that, and we should be obliged to tell him;" then she added, as her sister was about to remonstrate, "I'll tell you what I'll do: if no other way is shown me, I will accept your loving offer."

"That's right, darling. And now good-night, and may God bless and comfort you."

All the way home her sister's words kept ringing in her ears, "It is the way of the world to put all the blame upon the woman." She had thought the world would wonder, and would doubtless pity her, but it had never dawned upon her before that the world might throw the blame of the present position upon her. Considering how she had suffered and patiently endured it was a bitter, galling thought. And how could she overcome it? how could she vindicate herself in the eyes of the world? What a stain would rest on the lives of her children! She had thought it would be a hard battle to shield them from poverty. Now she had in some way or other to fight a still harder battle—to shield them from dishonour.

Did Stephen Collins think she was to blame? He surely could not have done so, or he would not have looked so pityingly at her.

Neighbour Bessie was waiting when she arrived home. "I am so glad you have come," exclaimed the impetuous girl; "you have just saved me from such a sad fate."

"Whatever do you mean?" and Phebe, in spite of her heartache, was obliged to smile at Bessie's dramatic attitude.

"Mother thinks I am soundly asleep under the blankets by now. But how could I sleep without one sight of you?—haven't caught a glimpse of you all day. Mother will lock the door at ten o'clock, and if I am not in before then I shall have to sleep on the clothes line in the back yard. It is all up ready."