There often came back to Phebe's mind the prayer she offered just after her engagement, "Dear Lord, make me a true Christian, and help me to be perfectly willing to let Thee do it in whatever way Thou thinkest will be best for me." It was one of the few-remembered prayers; they are but few in anybody's experience. Our prayers are too often to us but as yesterday's faded rose-petals.

She was not quite so sure to-day she could pray that prayer truthfully as when it was first framed. But there was this comfort, she had no desire to take herself from beneath the moulding Hands.

Nanna was inwardly very indignant at the treatment Phebe had received, not that her teaching and her own private experiences did not agree, but she was one of those women who have to do a certain amount of boiling over and exploding before a calm level is obtained. She was, however, mostly wise enough to let this exciting process be carried on in private. She was a perfect tower of strength to Phebe; indeed, it would be impossible to reckon up all Phebe owed to her, and Phebe was quite aware of this, often saying that Nanna was the clever one who made the plans, while she was only the humble one who carried them out.

"Look here, dearie," Nanna said, when she could trust herself to speak with calmness, "I say, and say it with all deliberateness, it was wicked to shut that door on you like that. If that man thought you were unfit to mix with those girls he should have first been quite sure of the grounds he was acting on. But, never you mind; mark this, and mark it well, man never shuts one door, but God opens another, and a bigger one, too. Men shut the door of the Ephesus Church against John, but look what a mighty big one God opened for him into Heaven! And it's the same to-day. So, you be on the look-out—I mean to—and see who sees it first. I told Bessie this, and she says she'll buy a spy-glass for one eye and a telescope for the other. I wonder if that girl will ever sober down!"

"She will make a fine woman some day."

"There's the making of a fine woman in her, and she's certainly on the mend."

Bessie overheard Phebe one day referring to Mrs. Colston's leadership, whereupon that young lady remarked she ought to be called "teacher," and all the others in the house "disciples."

It was at the tea-table. David Jones quietly observed, "You never hear of women disciples."

"Yes, you do," snapped Bessie; "if you had ever read Grecian history, you would never have made that remark. Besides, women deserved the name of 'disciple' more than those men did who followed Jesus; they saw to His wants, if they did nothing more; it only mentions once that the men ever did so, and then it took the whole twelve of them to go and buy a meal, leaving the tired Jesus all alone, not even one there to get a drink for Him."

"Better take care, Jones," said Reynolds, "you'll be sure to get the worst of it."

"Yes, of course you will," said Mrs. Colston; "there are too many nasty little things said now-a-days about women. The other day I heard some one say he wished Satan had gone for Job's wife, but he knew better. I felt like calling out."

"But then she was really a bad one," said Jones.

"Indeed, she was not. That's just it; so often wrong judgments are passed on women." (Nanna had wanted to bring out this little speech for some time, and quite blessed Bessie for the opportunity she had made.) "That poor woman bore without a word being recorded against her, the loss of children and property, and it was only when she saw her husband stricken that she rebelled, and then she didn't say half the bad things as Job did a bit further on. Yet Job's held up for admiration, and the poor wife for execration. I tell you it's not fair."

"I should think not, indeed," chimed in Bessie.

"Now, is it?" asked Mrs. Colston, turning to the young men. They both agreed it was not. "Then do be careful," she continued, "both of you, whenever you are tempted to say sneering things about women." Phebe had left the table at the commencement of the conversation, which made it still more easy for Nanna to send home her message. There was one splendid thing about her: however cutting her rebukes might be, she always gave them in a bright, nice manner; as Bessie said, she always used the biggest spoon she could get—inferring that the pill was nearly lost in the amount of jam she used.

Both the young fellows knew her words had a special significance; they were not at all offended, but rather, on the contrary, a fresh feeling of chivalry was stirred in their hearts towards their young mistress, "The Little Missis," as she was so often called. David Jones was even beginning to think there was a halo round everybody's head in that establishment, except his own, and a double halo round Bessie's, in spite of her snaps. If he had known all that took place in that little homestead he would have had a still more brilliant vision of glory—if even he had known the significance of the silver stars, one of which was found in a conspicuous place in every room, he would have felt like taking off his boots, for he was both impressionable and by nature devout. But not even Nanna knew till long afterwards what those stars meant, though she had a pretty shrewd guess about them.

As can be easily imagined, Phebe's life was a lonely one. The fact of her husband cutting himself off from her in such an abrupt fashion was quite enough to bring about this loneliness. There was not even companionship through the pen; she had answered both Ralph's letters, and still continued to write, giving him all particulars of the business, trying to put as much love into the letters as she could truly find echo in her heart, but no further replies came. All was a blank. And then there was the further loneliness all souls find the nearer they get to God. True, she had her sister, and Nanna, and sunny Jack, and Bessie; but these only touched the outer part of her being. We stand as units before God, and the more we understand our relationship to God the more we realise the soul's loneliness from the human side—a loneliness which draws us nearer and nearer to God.

Phebe often wished she could constantly remember the presence of God with her, but sometimes for a whole day she would forget Him, and she knew that was the reason why so often she failed, and the peace was broken. Prayer came very naturally to her when anything was wanted, but she felt that was not sufficient.

"What do people do who have bad memories?" she asked herself. Then came thoughts of strings round fingers and knots in handkerchiefs, but these seemed childish. One day the words, "When they saw His star," were very much with her, and the thought came, "I wish I could always see His star!" and this was followed by what she thought a bright idea. She would make a number of silver stars and place one in each room, shops and sale-room included, where she could not fail to see them; no one but herself need know their meaning, and they would continually remind her of His presence until she had trained herself to do without their help.

The plan was carried out. There was nothing in it anybody could object to; there was nothing of the fetish, nor crucifix, nor altar about it. Many an eye was raised up to those stars; the children were especially fascinated by them, and the shop was even spoken of by some as "The shop of the silver star," but none guessed their meaning. Reynolds was quite in the dark; though he often watched his mistress fix her eyes on them, he never came near the secret. Most people thought they were only in the nature of decoration. How often we draw near to holy places without even a thrill or look of wonder!

And the stars helped her greatly. I do not say she never forgot, but every little help we can secure along life's way to bind us to the Divine we should make the most of and rejoice over.

Even sharp-eyed, sharp-witted Bessie, who was now a real member of the circle, did not guess their meaning. Perhaps this was because she was so full of her own good-fortune that she was not keen on anything else just then, and when her first joy had cooled somewhat, the sight of the stars had become too familiar to excite comment.

For a long time Mrs. Colston and Phebe had been of the opinion that Bessie would never make much progress while under her mother's roof. Both mother and daughter loved each other (there was no doubt about that), but they did not rest each other. Mrs. Marchant was a fretful woman; family cares had shattered her nerves; Bessie was all alive—"life in every limb" was intensely true about her three times over—and so they constantly irritated each other.

As Bessie was washing up the tea-things one day, feeling very down-hearted, even dropping a tear now and again, she thought she would banish her gloom with a little song, and so piped up on her loudest key:

not remembering more than one verse, the chorus was repeated several times.

"Sakes alive!" screamed out the mother from the kitchen, "do stop that. Do, for goodness' sake, finish your sweeping, girl, and get through the gates and stop there!"

"I only wish I could," replied Bessie, but not loud enough for the mother to hear.

Soon after that she noticed her brother's jacket had slipped off a chair in the kitchen, where he had thrown it, and while she was sitting mending some stockings, she saw something moving on it. For a minute or two she kept a most careful watch, then cautiously picked the coat up and hung it at the back of the door. When her brother came to put it on she gave a nervous little wriggle on her chair, but said nothing.

At supper-time there was quite an explosion, the brother declaring she had put a black-beetle in his pocket, in spite of knowing how much he dreaded them; he had drawn it out with his handkerchief at a choir-practice, right in front of all the boys.

"I never did!" protested Bessie.

"You had something to do with it, I'm sure; else why did you so carefully hang my jacket up, without a word of fault-finding?"

"I saw it walk into your pocket; that's a very different thing from putting it in," the girl frankly explained.

Instead of the mother seeing any fun in the situation, and quietly pointing out where fun ends and unkindness begins, and forgetting the many practical jokes Bessie herself had good-naturedly endured at the hands of her brother, she literally stormed at Bessie, declaring she should leave home at once and be put to some business.

Phebe hearing of all this, offered to take Bessie, to which the mother readily agreed. So it was a very short journey indeed Bessie took from home.

Deep down in her heart the girl was very grieved at the way she had left home, but outwardly kept her usual brightness, and was indeed truly delighted at now really being "one of the company."

"If ever I get rich," she exclaimed, "and have a coat-of-arms, I shall have a black-beetle on my quarterings, for it was a black-beetle which carried me here; a fine old ebony coachman! Oh, Mrs. Waring," and a sad note came into the girl's voice just then, "life often seems to me such a tangle and jingle!"

"Does it, dear? It has often seemed the same to me." Just then she caught sight of the star—she must not lose an opportunity—"but we must do our best to turn it into a song. We'll try together, won't we?"

A squeeze of the hand was all the answer Bessie was able to give.

It is strange that though we stand as units before God, the soul's progress can only be definitely marked by its relationship to others. By the way Phebe treated those who came under her influence was one test of her advance.

The only objection Nanna raised to this addition to the family was the fear lest Bessie and Jones should be thrown too much together.

"You must have noticed how she has ceased calling him 'Darling.'"

"They are less likely to come together if they are constantly in each other's society than if they only saw each other occasionally," was all Phebe said.

"I really think," remarked Nanna, "this house ought to be called a hospital for sick souls. First of all, you take this lonely soul in——"

"Why, it was you who took me in," interrupted Phebe.

"All lonely and forlorn," calmly continued Nanna, unheeding the interruption; "then Jones comes along, sore wounded in the battle, and now there's this poor young thing taken in with a broken wing. It's really nothing short of a hospital."

"Well, then," replied Phebe, "we'll call it Love's Hospital."