“It is a little chilly this afternoon,” she said, “and to catch a cold at this time of year is so tiresome. It is curious how much harder it is to throw off a cold in the summer.” To Jeannie there was something infinitely pathetic about this. The poor lady had a mortal disease, yet the possibility of getting a cold in the head appeared, even at this first stunning moment, to rank at far greater importance in her mind. In a few weeks, now even, she was beyond all mortal aid, yet the adjustment of the silk scarf to shield her throat from possible chills was not less advisable. The scarf adjusted, Miss Clifford paused again to pull down her veil to its accustomed point. At first it was too low, and then too high; this mattered no less than before. Little pleasures, little pains, seem to have a deeper and more intimate hold over certain natures than the greater calls: a man going out to be hung has been known to complain that his boot hurt him. Jeannie called at Villa Montrose next morning, and, standing on the steps while the door was being answered, she heard the subdued tremolo of a mandolin. She was shown at once into the drawing-room, and there in Phœbe’s corner was sitting Phœbe, with one leg thrown over the other, in the approved attitude, and in front of her, on a brass music-stand, was Funiculi, Funicula. She got up with alacrity when Jeannie entered. “A lovely morning, is it not?” she said. “Dr. Maitland was so kind as to come early, and he told me I might get up and spend a quiet morning, going out in the afternoon, if I felt inclined. He recommended a drive, which I think I shall enjoy.” Evidently for Phœbe the day of little things was not over. Uncertainty had worried her, the relief of certainty had let her tiny occupations resume their wonted importance. It seemed to Jeannie that condolence or congratulations on her bravery would be alike misplaced. It is good to weep with those who weep, but weeping friends are bad company if one does not show any inclination to weep one’s self, and certainly Phœbe showed none. And to continue congratulating any one on their fortitude is gratuitous. Courage, above all the virtues, brings its own reward, for it is warming to the heart. “But Clara offered to take off my hands all the work of the household,” continued Phœbe, “which was very thoughtful of her, for she had noticed, she said, that it seemed to have fatigued me these last few weeks. And so, Miss Avesham, I have been spending a holiday morning with my music. I have hardly any pain this morning.” “I am delighted to hear it,” said Jeannie, “and I see you have Funiculi. I know it, so I will accompany you.”