Mrs. Colston found Phebe seated at her books, where she had been ever since Stephen had left. A brighter look came into her face when she saw her old friend than had been there since Ralph's disappearance, but it was the brightness of the rainbow, for in a minute or two she was seated on a stool at Mrs. Colston's feet sobbing bitterly.

"Poor lamb! You precious dear!" murmured the old friend, gently stroking the brown bowed head and putting her arm lovingly round her neck. She never sought to check the tears, knowing what a safety-valve they are. And who can say tears are either weak or wicked, since "Jesus wept"?

"I am so glad to see you; I did so want you to come, but did not like to send for you," Phebe managed at length to say.

"I came off the first minute I knew you were in trouble. I only wish I had known before," and she put both arms round her then, and kissed her—just like a mother would have done.

"Stephen Collins told me, so I may as well tell you. Do you see these hands?" spreading them out before her. "There's a good deal of strength in them yet. No harm shall come near you that I can keep off. You're not alone in the world, thank God; there's one friend who'll stand by you if no one else does, and her name's Susan Colston!"

Phebe looked up with quite a smiling face. "That does sound nice!" she exclaimed. "You are a dear. I cannot tell you how lonely I have been since Ralph went—just as if I were living in a desert; but such a load seems gone now you have come."

Then Phebe told her story. Sometimes the words would hardly come for a choking sob; but at last it was spread out before her childhood's friend in all its grim, unromantic baldness.

When it was finished Mrs. Colston said: "Well, dearie, I'm not going to say one word against Ralph; I hope I never shall. We will pray for him, that is all: he must just be left to God's dealings."

"But he could not have loved me, could he?" sighed Phebe. Mrs. Colston wisely did not answer. Then Phebe spoke of her fresh trouble: "The world will blame me, won't it? People will say I was a dreadful sort of woman that Ralph could not live with."

"I dare say they will, but what will that matter? Lots of people are wrongly judged and wrongly punished. All this goes into the making of a Christian. You know Job stood the trials of loss and bereavement, but he could not stand the trial of the loss of his good name. It was then he opened his mouth and used bad language. Up to that time he had blessed the Lord—a pretty good difference. Suppose they do take away your good name, the Lord will give it back to you again. Don't try to vindicate yourself: you just leave all that to Him, and He'll make all come out clear. People think it was the washing of those men's feet that showed how humble Jesus was. I don't think so. I think it was when He 'made Himself of no reputation'—just calmly let people take His character away. Don't you see, Miss Phebe, dear, that your life is getting a little bit more like the life of Jesus. Just a little step more, and, like Paul, you'll glory in tribulation."

"I'm afraid I'm a long way from doing that."

"No doubt you think so. But there now, I'm afraid my tongue is going on too fast. What I particularly want to know is how you are going to manage this business?"

"I think I can manage very well if I have a little more capital, and if no other way opens up I can have my sister's money."

"Will you let me ask a favour?"

"Of course I will. You know that."

"And won't be offended?"

"How could I be?"

"I want you to let me open the way for you. You have asked God to open up the way for you, let God answer your prayer through me."

"Do you mean it?" in great astonishment.

"Yes. Perhaps you think a poor old mangle-woman could not have a banking-account, but I have"—this with a pleasant ring of laughter. "There now, what do you think of that? I've just got three hundred pounds in the savings bank. Will that be enough?"

Three hundred pounds!—just the amount Stephen said she would need. Phebe stood speechless.

"Say, dear, won't you?" repeated Mrs. Colston.

"Why, of course I will; am only too delighted. It is the wonder of it that made me quiet. You are good—so very good—and I'll see to it you shall never lose the money," lifting up a face full of love-light.

"You are not to trouble about that. If it is lost it is lost; I shall not mind so long as we're partners. But there is something else I want to ask you, and this you may not grant because it is asking so much."

"I am sure you cannot ask anything I should not be only too happy to grant."

"If you are going to manage the business, who is going to look after the housekeeping and the children? You cannot do all."

"No, I cannot." Then after a pause: "God, who has helped me thus far so wondrously, in such an unexpected way, will certainly make that clear also."

"So He will!" jubilantly exclaimed the dear old body. "So He will, only He will let me do it for Him. It's just splendid to be on errands like this!"

"Whatever do you mean?" Phebe was bewildered.

"I mean this: let me come and live with you and be your housekeeper and nurse! I am tired of living alone, tired of my musical-box, and tired of having no one to show bits of love to when I've a mind to. Will you let me? I'll be so good if you will."

"Let you! Why, it fairly takes away my breath. But I don't know if I ought to let you. It is taking too much from you. You would have to give up your own little home, and then there's the children——"

"I know what you are going to say: that old folks don't want to be bothered with children. Perhaps some don't, but what would my life be worth now if I'd never had anything to do with children?"

"Ah! but that was when you were younger."

"I'm not old yet," drawing herself up with laughable dignity; "no, not yet, thank you. But now to business. As far as you yourself are concerned, have you any objection to my plan?"

"None whatever, none. There's nothing you could have thought of that would give me greater joy."

"Then it's settled," and a kiss—no, it was more than one—sealed the bargain. And then those two women involuntarily knelt down, and the elder one in a quavering voice prayed: "Father, I have followed Your directions, which You whispered to me as I came along the road to-night. Miss Phebe and I love each other, we are going to help each other; do bless us both. Let us feel just now You are blessing us." A pause. "Thank You. The peace in our hearts is the token. We love each other. Tighten with Your own hand, dear Father, the knot. From this moment may this business prosper. May the business be altogether Yours. And bless the two dear bairns. Help me to be another Hannah."

When they rose from their feet Mrs. Colston said: "Before I go I must just have a peep at my charges."

"Of course you shall," said Phebe, beginning at once to lead the way. "How I wish you were not going away from me to-night. I wish you could stay right off."

"I must go to-night, dearie; but I shall not be very long before I'm back, bag and baggage. Janie won't mind me coming, I know."

"She will be delighted."

The two children were in Phebe's bedroom, Queenie in a little cot to herself. They were both asleep. The sight of a sleeping infant always suggests the thought of angels. It is not always the fear of waking a sleeping child that makes the heaviest feet go on tip-toe, but the awe which comes from the near presence of heavenly visitants. To be near a sleeping child is to be near Heaven.

Jack was a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, chubby child. One little arm lay under his head, and a smile seemed playing round his lips. He seemed almost like a picture of sunshine asleep. Mrs. Colston stooped down and kissed him—what woman could have helped doing so? She had once said she believed Jesus kissed His disciples, because Mark used the words, "When He had taken leave of them"—and Easterns took leave by kissing.

Then she went to look at Queenie. Poor little Queenie! A dark-haired, sad-faced darling. Mrs. Colston could hardly have explained how it was she turned so quickly away from the little crib after ever such a hurried kiss. Perhaps it was because she had seen a mark on the child. Her father had been a forester, and often when out walking with him along the forest pathways she had seen a mark on some of the trees and knew by that sign they would soon be lying prostrate, stripped of all their green grandeur. It was not so much of the child she was thinking as of the child's mother.

But when she reached the little parlour again, her face was as bright as ever. "I want you," she said to Phebe, "to let me teach the children to call me 'Nanna.' I had a friend once who was called 'Nanna.' Nothing could make me more proud than to think I was a second 'Nanna.'"

"On certain conditions," said Phebe. "You are having it all your own way to-night. Now it is my turn."

"What are they?"

"That you call me Phebe, and that I call you 'Nanna,' too. I do so want to be mothered, and no one can do it but you." The little speech began with a laugh, but ended with something like a sob. How many there are who want "mothering," and how many could do "mothering" if they chose!

"That's another bargain."

"May I come in?" It was Neighbour Bessie's voice.

"Bessie comes in each night to bid me good-night," explained Phebe. "You couldn't guess what good news I have to tell you," she continued, turning to Bessie.

"Not that——" stammered Bessie.

"Nothing about Mr. Waring!" quickly put in Phebe; and then Bessie was told the whole story. She was sitting on a little stool near the fire by the side of Mrs. Colston.

"I am downright glad for your sake, Mrs. Waring," she exclaimed heartily. "It's just what you were wanting; but, oh dear," resting her chin on her hands, "there's lots of good times a-going, but I'm never in them."

"Why, my dear child, you are always in them," exclaimed Mrs. Colston, patting her head.

"Well, I should like very much to know how you reckon that sum up."

"I reckon it up out of the Bible. You are one of those who have a continual feast."

"A continual pickle, you should say, to be correct."

"No, 'feast.' I know one riddle—and only one. Can you guess it? What is the longest feast mentioned in the Bible?"

"I know," answered Bessie, laughing, "because you've done as good as tell it already: 'A merry heart is a continual feast.' But I haven't got the merry heart, you see. Now, why couldn't it have been arranged for me to be Mrs. Waring's partner?"

"That I cannot tell. That's the Sunshine Patch meant for me. Your Sunshine Patch is all round you already, only you are given to looking too much over the fence."

Thus, without any pillar of cloud, or shining light, or glittering gems, guidance came.