No flower ever comes up to perfection through one single influence; many powers and companionships, great and tiny, unite to complete its beauty. The winds rock it, the rains wash it, the breezes fan it, the dew kisses it, the sun smiles on it, the clouds give rest to it, the soil feeds it, neighbouring shrubs shelter it, its leaves protect it, the insects enrich it—and over all is the Great Gardener.

Thus groweth to perfect grace a little earthly flower.

Flowers of the Kingdom grow in like manner.

If Bessie was not a success amid dishes and brooms she certainly was behind the counter; many a customer came again and again, attracted by the bright, sunny assistant, and would even patiently wait till she was disengaged rather than be served by any one else.

In the home circle she was a constant source of pure merriment and joy; very seldom, indeed, was there anything like a cloud upon her spirits as there used so often to be, and this was largely owing to the fact that she was appreciated, that there was now-a-days no fear of being snubbed and scolded. Nanna certainly occasionally "sat upon her," but then it was always done with a smile, and Bessie knew right well every word of "the dear lecture" was uttered because Nanna wished her to be "a right sort of a woman." And then there was the daily inspiration of being with Mrs. Waring, who never lectured; sometimes she would give a look, but that was all, and then there was always love in the look. The girl often wondered why there could not have been the same state of matters at home, and never hesitated to take the most of the blame to herself. She went in home every other day, always with the same determination to be on her good behaviour, but never met with anything like success. It was a long time before she found out the reason of this—it was because the atmosphere of the homes was different. Some flowers can only bloom under certain conditions. One home was Bethany, the other was Gadara.

All the fun and merriment Bessie went in for was not purely spontaneous; knowing the weight of trouble her friend had to carry, she, on set purpose, planned to bring the sparkle to Phebe's eye and the laugh to her lips. Her keen sense of the ludicrous and her ready wit always made her efforts appear natural. One day an old man—an old bachelor—came into the shop, and complained that so many people owed him money, mentioning one, a widow woman, but he added, "I shall stand it no longer, I shall 'court' her." Of course, he meant the county court. When Bessie retailed this at dinner, she described his look of blank wonder when she offered to be bridesmaid! "And do you know, that poor old dear never grasped what I meant, and I do believe he went away thinking I had made him an offer of marriage. I do indeed. I must not do any more adumbrations again."

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Colston, nearly choking.

"I thought you'd think that was a good sort of a word. I only got hold of it to-day, and I had to turn the dictionary up myself to know what it means. It means 'to shadow forth.' I must not speak in shadow henceforth, but in plain English. Yes, I like that word. I mean to make up a list of nice-sounding words to bring out on special occasions."

"Mind they fit in properly," said Reynolds.

"I shan't trouble much about that," said the irrepressible Bessie, "a misfit often gives piquancy to a sentence. Only yesterday old Mrs. Bennett told me that the doctor had told her as how 'her calculation was that slow she was in a very bad state indeed.' I didn't tell the poor old dear she meant circulation, because I thought it would hurt her feelings. But I just thought that word delicious, and told her she'd have to hurry up with her figures."

Had any one asked Bessie just then if she was a Christian, her answer might have been a "No," but that she was not far from the Kingdom is certain from the fact that she was constantly trying to frame her life to "high issues." "If I can do nothing else to please Jesus," she said to herself, "I can try to let folks have a bright time." If Bessie gained inspiration from Mrs. Waring, it is equally true Phebe gained the same from her. It was largely owing to Bessie's brightness that hope was still strong within her, that she went often to her work with a true zest, and that the sunny aspect of things took first place with her.

Bessie had a gift which singers, orators and philosophers might envy, but it was Phebe who had first given the girl the idea that she could use it to the glory of God. One old woman, whose blood was thin and cold, declared that to be with Bessie for a quarter of an hour was "like sitting in a sunny garden a-smelling of roses." Phebe's enjoyment was something similar, but she had herself placed the seat and planted the roses, though it never struck her like that.

Very often Phebe chided herself for being what she thought too gleesome in her ways, and one night after supper she had a talk with Nanna about it, when all the others had retired to bed. "Do you think I am getting too frivolous, Nanna? I often find myself laughing and even joking, and then I think how unbecoming it is for a matron like me, with all the responsibilities of a business resting upon me, and"—a sigh and a pause—"with such a shadow on my life, to be acting like that."

"How do you think you ought to act, then, dearie?" lovingly stroking Phebe's hair. They were sitting in the old fashion, close by the fire, Phebe on a low stool, leaning on Nanna's knee.

"Why, with something of a calm, quiet dignity," looking up with a smile.

"Do you think that quite fits in with the idea of rejoicing ever more?"

"Hardly."

"Or with, that 'your joy may be full'?"

"No. But, Nanna, dear, I don't want you to ask me questions. I want to know what you think yourself. And I want you to remember that mine is a sort of special case, that might not come under general rules."

"Excuse me, I don't think yours is a special case; there's many women with sorer troubles than yours. Besides, if no one was joyful except those who had no burdens, I wonder who'd be joyful! Not many, if any, for burdens come to everybody."

Phebe was silent, for we all, somehow or other, cling to the idea our burden is a specially heavy one.

Then Nanna went on: "You want me to say what I think. Well, you must not scold if you don't like what I am going to say, seeing you would have it; but I've been thinking instead of you being too frisky, you're not joyful enough. You've got five young folks immediately under your control, not to speak of others, and for their sakes—if no other reason—you've got to be joyful. And then there's another reason—you profess to be a Christian, and they're shams and nothing else who don't go in for delight-work—delighting themselves in God. The idea that your trouble should be a sort of black veil to you is ridiculous. If you let your trouble shadow your life it's as good as saying God is not able to take care of you, and if you let it hinder you in your life it gives the victory to Satan, and seems to say trouble has more power over you than God's peace. No, our dear Heavenly Father knows what it is to be merry, and He expects His children to be merry too. So mind you are."

"You dear, sunny preacher," said Phebe, reaching up and kissing her.

"Ah, I do wish folks would go in for more joy. I do believe we could do with joy-missions and joy-missionaries."

"You are one already."

Again there was silence, and then Phebe said: "Of course, it's not as though I had no hope at all. Ralph may come back; sometimes I think that loneliness will waken up his love again, for they say love never dies."

"No love dies," replied Nanna, "but it changes. There are a good many sorts of love. But even, dearie, if that hope never comes about, you've got God and Jack to hope in. Now, I may ask a question, mayn't I?"

"You know you may, you old darling Nanna."

"Are you going in for that 'calm, quiet dignity' affair, or are you going to be the Lord's happy-hearted Phebe?"

"The latter, God helping me," in a quiet whisper.

The next evening there was another conference, but this time it was a conference of three, Jim Coates having come to report progress.

There was now a little band of four Christians among the navvies. They had held two meetings, at which a chapter had been read, and two had prayed. Their mates had not yet learnt the secret of these gatherings; lively times were expected when they did.

Then Jim went on to say how he and Dick had visited the camp on Sunday and found a dreadful state of matters. "Talk o' heathen folks, they're not in it, not a bit of it, and never anybody comes along to say a word to 'em; not even to give 'em a tract. And you should hear 'em talk about religious folks, it 'ud fair make your hair stand on end, that it would. I've been thinking, Mrs. Waring——" and then poor Jim came to a standstill, and sat nervously twirling his hat in his hands. "I've been thinking," he started again, and again there came a pause.

"You needn't be afraid of us, Mr. Coates," said Nanna, "we're only two poor lone women that a mouse would scare out of our wits."

"I don't know about that," said Jim, with a laugh. The bit of fun set him quite at his ease. "I've been thinking that if only we could get the use of a shed we might hold a meeting there on Sundays."

"I'm sure my friend the ganger would arrange that all right for you," put in Phebe.

"Yes, I think he would," replied Jim; "it wasn't on that point I wasn't sure, but on something else."

"And what is that?" inquired Phebe, feeling quite curious as to what could be making Jim shy.

"Well, it's this. I've been thinking if only you'd come and talk to the men as you've talked to me, it might be the making of some of 'em."

"That is impossible!" said Phebe, rising up from her chair in her agitation, "impossible."

The star was forgotten.

Nanna was darning some towels. As Phebe uttered the last word, she let the work drop and looked up, then instantly picked it up again and went on, without uttering a word. Phebe instinctively knew Nanna did not agree with her, and just a little feeling of resentment took possession of her. Nanna ought to have sympathised with her, and protected her from such an overwhelming request.

"I'm sorry," said Jim; "p'raps you'll think better of it a little later on. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"I cannot help it. I am altogether unequal and unfitted for such a work. But that does not say I will not help you in some other way, for I do admire your earnestness so much. I will do my very best to find some one who would undertake it."

"Well, that certainly is the next best thing," said Jim, feeling considerably relieved, and with that understanding they parted.

Nanna still went on with her darning.

"You do not think I have done right, Nanna?"

"No, I do not."

"But it would not be possible for me to do such a thing."

"God has opened a door for you, and you have put out your hand to close it."

"Don't say that. You cannot be sure the door was meant for me; perhaps it is that I am to find some one; that is to be my share of the work."

"Child, I have more faith in you than that, and I do not think that is the way God works."

It struck Phebe just then how unfair she had been to Nanna in her thoughts; instead of feeling aggrieved she ought to have felt flattered that her old friend had such confidence in her abilities. It would not do to make any confession, but she put her arms round Nanna's neck and kissed her as though to atone for the wrong she had done.

"Ah, dearie, you've stood to-night, I'm thinking," Nanna continued, "where Moses stood and where Jeremiah stood, and you've made the same excuses they did."

Just then Phebe caught sight of the star.

Did she hear over again the old command, "On whatsoever errand I shall send thee, thou shalt go"? If she did, she certainly made no answer.