"Thank God, ma'am, I think I feel resigned. I know it is God's will; but I'm very sorry for poor father and mother--they'll be so lone like when they don't see Phœbe about." Her father gazed intently at her, and the tears ran trickling down his cheeks; her mother put her apron before her face, and shook her head in silent anguish. Miss Aubrey did not speak for a few moments. "I see you have been reading the prayer-book mamma gave you when you were at the Hall," said she at length, observing the little volume lying open on Phœbe's lap. "Yes, ma'am--I was _trying_; but somehow lately, I can't read, for there's a kind of mist comes over my eyes, and I can't see." "That's weakness, Phœbe," said Miss Aubrey, quickly but tremulously. "May I make bold, ma'am," commenced Phœbe, languidly, after a hesitating pause, "to ask _you_ to read the little psalm I was trying to read a while ago? I should so like to hear _you_." "I'll try, Phœbe," said Miss Aubrey, taking the book, which was open at the sixth psalm. 'Twas a severe trial, for her feelings were not a little excited already. But how could she refuse the dying girl? So Miss Aubrey began a little indistinctly, in a very low tone, and with frequent pauses; for the tears every now and then quite obscured her sight. She managed, however, to get as far as the sixth verse, which was thus:-- _"I am weary of my groaning: every night wash I my bed, and water my couch with tears: My beauty is gone for very trouble."_ Here Kate's voice suddenly stopped. She buried her face for a moment or two in her handkerchief, and said hastily, "I can't read any more, Phœbe!" Every one in the little room was in tears except poor Phœbe, who seemed past that. "It's time for me to go, now, Phœbe. We'll send some one early in the morning to know how you are," said Miss Aubrey, rising and putting on her bonnet and shawl. She contrived to beckon Phœbe's mother to the back of the room, and silently slipped a couple of guineas into her hands; for she knew the mournful occasion there would soon be for such assistance! She then left, peremptorily declining the attendance of Phœbe's father--saying that it _must_ be dark when she could not find the way to the Hall, which was almost in a straight line from the cottage, and little more than a quarter of a mile off. It was very much darker, and it still snowed, though not so thickly as when she had come. She and Margaret walked side by side, at a quick pace, talking together about poor Phœbe. Just as she was approaching the extremity of the village, nearest the park-- "Ah! my lovely gals!" exclaimed a voice, in a low but most offensive tone--"alone? How uncommon"--Miss Aubrey for a moment seemed thunderstruck at so sudden and unprecedented an occurrence: then she hurried on with a beating heart, whispering to Margaret to keep close to her, and not to be alarmed. The speaker, however, kept pace with them.