Miss Charlecote only said it was a comfort. Within herself she hoped that, for Maria's peace and that of all concerned, her deficiency might become an acknowledged fact. She saw that the sparing Maria's tears was such a boon to Phoebe as to make her forgive all overtasking of herself. 'So you get on better,' she said. 'Much better than Robin chooses to believe we do,' said Phoebe, smiling; 'perhaps it seemed hard at first, but it is comfortable to be made to do everything thoroughly, and to be shown a better best than we had ever thought of. I think it ought to be a help in doing the duty of all one's life in a thorough way.' 'All that thou hast to do,' said Honor, smiling, 'the week-day side of the fourth commandment.' 'Yes, that is just the reason why I like it,' said Phoebe, with bright gladness in her countenance. 'But is that the motive Miss Fennimore puts before you?' said Honor, a little ironically. 'She does not say so,' answered Phoebe. 'She says that she never interferes with her pupils' religious tenets. But, indeed, I do not think she teaches us anything wrong, and there is always Robert to ask.' This passed as the two ladies were entering the house and preparing for the evening meal. The table was placed in the bay of the open window, and looked very inviting, the little silver tea-pot steaming beside the two quaint china cups, the small crisp twists of bread, the butter cool in ice-plant leaves, and some fresh fruit blushing in a pretty basket. The Holt was a region of Paradise to Phoebe Fulmort; and glee shone upon her sweet face, though it was very quiet enjoyment, as the summer breeze played softly round her cheeks and danced with a merry little spiral that had detached itself from her glossy folds of light hair. 'How delicious!' she said. 'How sweet the honeysuckle is, dear old thing! You say you have known it all your life, and yet it is fresh as ever.' 'It is a little like you, Phoebe,' said Honor, smiling. 'What! because it is not exactly a pretty flower?' 'Partly; and I could tell you of a few other likenesses, such as your being Robert's woodbine, yet with a sort of clinging freedom. Yes, and for the qualities you share with the willow, ready to give thanks and live on the least that Heaven may give.' 'But I don't live on the least that Heaven may give,' said Phoebe, in such wonder that Honor smiled at the justice of her simile, without impressing it upon Phoebe, only asking-- 'Is the French journey fixed upon, Phoebe?' 'Yes; they start this day fortnight.' 'They--not you?' 'No; there would be no room for me,' with a small sigh. 'How can that be? Who is going? Papa, mamma, two sisters!' 'Mervyn,' added Phoebe, 'the courier, and the two maids.' '_Two_ maids! Impossible!'