When she was in her father's room, with the door closed, what reason had Phoebe to suppose that Mrs. Pamflett was crouching down outside, to catch what passed between Miser Farebrother and his daughter? "Come and sit beside me, Phoebe," said Miser Farebrother. "So--the birthday is over?" "Nearly over, father." "And your friends have gone away contented?" "Yes, father." "Those flowers look well in your dress. What flowers are they? Ah, I see--white daisies and roses. Who gave you the daisies?" "A poor friend in the village sent them to me." Knowing that her father was incensed against Tom Barley, she did not dare to mention his name. "And the roses, Phoebe?" "Mr. Cornwall gave them to me," said Phoebe, timidly. "Can you spare me one?" She gave it to him gladly, and he stuck it in his coat. Phoebe's heart beat quick. Every sign that came to her was in harmony with its throbbing. "I am sorry for your sake, Phoebe, that I am not younger and stronger." "Dear father! I grieve that you suffer so! If I only knew what to do to make you well!" "That is spoken like a dutiful child. All that you can do is not to worry me--not to give me pain." "Indeed, indeed, father," said Phoebe, earnestly, "I will never do that!" "You are a good girl. It is strange that it was only the other day I suddenly discovered you were a woman. The change brings other changes; and I, your father, must not be blind to the fact. Why, Phoebe," he said, gaily, "it is more than likely that one day you will marry!" Phoebe hung her head. "You blush!--as your dear mother used to blush when she and I were talking of love. I did my best to make her happy. She died too soon for you and me!" He sighed, and paused a moment. "And now, Phoebe, I am both mother and father to you." "Yes, dear father." "I have only one wish in life, Phoebe--your happiness: and we must bring it about. It has happened sometimes that you have not seen me in a right light; I have said things which may have laid me open to misconstruction. They have not really come from my heart; I have been so tortured with pain that I scarcely knew what I was saying. Will you forgive me, Phoebe?" "Dear father, I love you!" "You are my own child, your sainted mother's child! Before she died she spoke to me of the time when you would be a woman, and when changes were before you. The duty you owed to her, you owe also to me." "I shall never be wanting in it, father." "You will marry--of course you will marry. You will ask for my consent, like a dutiful, loving child?" "I could not be happy without it, father," said Phoebe, in a low tone. His voice was so benevolent, so imbued with concern for her happiness, that her heart went out to him. "That is a promise, my dear child?" "Yes, dear father, it is a promise."