The printed circulars were issued in Phebe's own name. Whether she had the legal right to do this or not she did not know, but knew well enough the moral right was hers.

The very first trial of the new scheme showed that it would prove a success. This was largely attributable to two things; first, to Reynolds' "push": the scheme being largely his own he felt the responsibility of it, and for his own credit's sake determined it should "go"; the other thing was Phebe's good sense; the grocery department she conducted from a housewife's standpoint, the drapery department from a Christian woman's standpoint, and thus in both had a considerable advantage over her husband.

Fellow tradespeople marvelled that in the absence of the husband there should be an extension of the business. Woman is supposed to be conservative, yet at the same time it is acknowledged she quickly sees a point and seizes it while the man is still thinking about it. Each cannot be fully true. Love may make her at times conservative; but if roused to devoted service she cannot be anything but progressive.

But if sunlight was growing in the business department the shadows were deepening in the home department. Sturdy little Jack had been elevated to sleeping in the crib, while frail little Queenie nestled each night to sleep in the mother's arms. Nanna could see that the child was a fading flower, soon to be transplanted to a fairer region, but, strange to say, the mother's eyes only saw the still brilliant tints of the sweet blossom. Very early every morning the child would sit up and stroke the mother's face till she wakened, such a glad light coming into her eyes when she had succeeded. A little later on she did not attempt to sit up, but stretched up her arms to her mother's face. Then came a morning when the mother woke without the touch of the little fingers; the child was awake, the love-light as usual in the soft, grey eyes, but with not strength enough left to show its love in the old way.

Then it was Phebe grew alarmed, and the doctor was sent for. But all that human aid could do Nanna had already done. And then came a day when even the shopmen stole about on tip-toe. (The Potter was about to put His cup into the furnace again. There was high work designed for it, for which it needed great preparation.)

All day long Phebe sat by the fire nursing her dying child on her knee.

The angels must have bent very closely round Mary of Nazareth as she nursed her Babe; but surely they gather just as closely round a mother whose child they are about to conduct to their King!

There was still the love-light in the little one's eyes. Nanna was standing at the window watching the sunlight fade from the sky; Phebe was watching the light slowly fade from her child's eyes.

The angels were bending still closer.

For one moment the little hand was once more raised to stroke the loving face bending over it. It was a last effort, and then the light was gone.

The angels had gone.

"It is time she had some more milk," said Nanna, coming near.

"She is asleep," said Phebe, in a strained voice, "let her alone just now," and quite hastily she put her arm over the child, drawing the shawl partly over its face.

Nanna did not feel she had the heart to press her point, and left the room for a few minutes. On her return she said, "Phebe, dear, you must wake Queenie, she must have her milk; it will never do to neglect any effort. Let me have her for a few moments. I'll promise to wake her gently," and she held out her arms beseechingly.

Phebe's answer was to strain the little form passionately to her breast.

"Come, come," said Nanna, more firmly, "let me take her."

"To wake her?" asked Phebe, looking at her with wild eyes.

"Yes, there's a dear. You will be quite worn out."

"She will never wake again," wailed Phebe, and then tears came to her relief, tears which in the first moments of her agony seemed to be freezing her life's blood.

"Phebe! Phebe! Why did you not tell me before? Did you know that she was gone when I spoke to you before?"

"Yes, but I could not let you have her, and I cannot let you have her now." She rose to go upstairs, still carrying the little cold form.

"But I must have her, Phebe, dear," said Nanna, planting herself firmly in Phebe's way.

"Surely, you will not take her from me yet! I cannot, oh, I cannot part with her. It is so hard! Oh, so hard!"

"It is hard just now, darling, I know. Sit down again, and let us look at the sweet little face." Phebe did so. "And won't you really let me have her at all?" Nanna continued; "surely, you will!" and Phebe, pressing a passionate kiss on the cold brow, yielded, knowing that never again in this life would she hold that little form in her arms. Was it any wonder she was loth to part with it, when, however much her arms might ache for it in the future, she could never again press it to her heart!

And then came days of darkness. Why had God allowed her child to be taken? He could not have prevented her husband's desertion without taking away his free will, but the child did not wish to leave her; why did not God touch her with His healing hand? Was not her lot hard enough without this last trial? Why did not God, to make up for the loss of husband, allow the child to remain? Would not an earthly loving father have done as much? These questionings would come, and her heart could find no answers—yet.

And Nanna, who knew all about them, never chided. She just waited, knowing that ere long comfort would come. "It was the sight of sorrow such as yours that made Jesus shed tears," she said one day. "It fair broke the blessed Lord down to see that woman Mary cry so, and to see the trouble death brings."

"Then you don't think He's cross with me for fretting so?" asked Phebe, with some excitement.

"Not a bit of it, dearie. He knows right well what a blow it has been to you, and sympathises with you; rest on that."

"That is a comfort, but then, Nanna, why did He not prevent it? He is all-powerful, and could have prevented it if He had chosen!" It was the old cry from a broken heart, "Why! Why!"

"Because He wished for your child exactly the same as you do." She spoke very emphatically.

"What is that?" Phebe asked, eagerly.

"The greatest good. Be sure of this, if it had been for the child's good she would have stayed. God can judge so much better than we can what is the best, so He decided she was to go. You do believe, don't you, dearie, that God knows best?—He must do!"

"Yes." But the voice had no ringing tone in it.

"And there's another thing I want you to rest on, though you cannot work it out yet in your own mind, but it's true, for all that, and it's this, that God will make all this trouble work for good in your own life, quite apart from dear little Queenie's, or, even for your sake, He would not have permitted it."

"I believe it all, Nanna, and yet it seems so hard to live out the belief."

"Yes, dearie, I know, but that's just because the trouble has kind of stunned you. Just you wait awhile, and you will be able not only to rest on the fact of God's wisdom and goodness, but cheerfully to rest."

"I wish I could!"

How strange it is that there is never a wounded heart but there's somebody close by to put in some extra drop of bitterness. A friend called in one day with the express intention of showing sympathy, but succeeded in doing just the opposite, by remarking she was sure it was not the will of God any little child should die, and what a pity it was we had not more faith. All this Phebe told to Nanna, and, for a wonder, Nanna was near to exploding.

"I do wish folk would have more sense! Why, it seems to me, some folks think they know better than God Himself. If you had prayed, 'My child is not going to die, my faith will keep her here,' wouldn't that have been dictating to God! Then, think of all the holy men and women who have died young! Do you think God allowed them to die before their time simply because they didn't know they might have healing through faith! Don't trouble your head about that. Why, God, perhaps, has some work up yonder to do that only an innocent child-spirit like Queenie could do, or He may have taken her to shield her from some evil. If your faith could have saved that child you would have had the faith. God knew right enough you didn't want to part with her." Then when the dear old soul had taken breath, she started off again. "What is a sign? It's something out of the ordinary way to teach you some special lesson. Well, Jesus said the sick were to be cured by faith, as a sign, not as a rule. Nobody can get over that, so there now," and off she went to give Jack his supper.

It was not long before Phebe herself realised at least one blessing which had come into her life since the child's departure, and that was the sense of the nearness of the spirit world. It seemed as if a line of light connected her world with the beyond, and the line of light was the pathway Queenie had trod. When she had lost her mother her grief was great, but it was the grief of a child, her soul had not the conscious power then to reach after her loved one as now she reached after her child.

The whole of her life seemed made up of strips of light and shade, and just as this gleam from the golden land dawned upon her, the old darkness seemed all to come back again. The following letter was received from Ralph:—

"Queen's Hotel, Adelaide.

"My Dear Phebe,

"I dare say you have been wondering what part of the globe I have travelled to. This letter will set your mind at rest on that score. I do not suppose I shall stay here long, but any letters you send will be sure to be forwarded to me. I have already found several friends here and have good prospects. No doubt my sudden departure was a shock to you, but I did it out of regard for you, and you must think of it in that way. And you cannot say I did not leave you well provided for. The goodwill of the business and the stock are worth a great deal. You are in a much better position now than before you were married. As soon as ever I am permanently settled we will discuss future plans. Of course I miss you and the children very much, and no doubt you miss me. This is a splendid country, with room to breathe in. I only wish I had come years ago. I mean to make my mark here; no more small pettifogging ways for me. My friends tell me I am just the man to succeed here. It is nice to be appreciated.

"Write soon and tell me how you all are.

"I am,
"Your affectionate husband,
"Ralph Waring."

It was not long before Phebe noticed that though the letter was in a foreign envelope, it had neither stamp nor postmark of any description.

By what means the letter had reached her seemed too great a mystery for her to attempt to unravel, so the thought of it was put right away, the change in Ralph's affections being quite sufficient for her to cope with just then.