"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early." Phoebe felt any reply impossible. "Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement." Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak? had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!" went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right," said Phoebe, plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plain before my face," It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, and that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She could only put the case into God's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah: "O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me." It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda said suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that Mr Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?" "Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more. "Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me." Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come? "I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda. Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes. "I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him very well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_." "Yes, poor dear," said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I must fetch more wool." And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her-- "Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!" "Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot. Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, the servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting the candles. "Well, my dear," asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "is your decision taken?" "It is, Madam," readily answered her niece. "So much the better. What is it, my dear?" "I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam." "You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: I promised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?" "If you please, Madam." "Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I will begin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in a week or two." Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely, "Good-night, Madam."