_Madame de Motteville_. "And how goes it, my dear, with Madam and Mrs Rhoda?" inquired little Mrs Dorothy as she handed a cup to Phoebe. "They are well, I thank you. Mrs Dolly, I have come to ask your counsel." "Surely, dear child. Thou shalt have the best I can give. What is thy trouble?" "I have two or three troubles," said Phoebe, sighing. "You know Rhoda is going to-morrow to Delawarr Court; and I am to go with her. I wish I need not!" "Why, dear child?" "Well, I am afraid it must sound silly," answered Phoebe, with a little laugh at herself; "but really, I can scarce tell why. Do you never feel thus unwilling to do a thing, Mrs Dorothy, almost without reason?" "Ah, there is a reason," said the old lady: "and it comes either from your body or your mind, Phoebe. If 'tis from your body, let your mind govern it in any matter you _must_ do. If it come from your mind, either you see a clear cause for it, or you do not." "I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen." Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen. "There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from some disorder of the body." "What, Mrs Dorothy?" "Discontent, my child." "But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled. "Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.'" "Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?" "What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do her Father's will?" Phoebe's face became grave. "Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.' Have a care!--Well, what is your next trouble?" "I have had a letter from mother," said Phoebe, colouring and looking uncomfortable. "Is that a trouble, child?" "No,--not that. Oh no! But--" "But a trouble sticks to it. Well,--what?" "She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for me to do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be the best chance." Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to Mrs Latrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe. "I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy," said Phoebe uneasily. "And ought I?" "I suppose somebody had better ask you first," was Mrs Dorothy's dry answer. "I would rather live with Mother," continued Phoebe. And suddenly a cry broke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wish Mother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill of the fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!" Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together on her little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe. "Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whom no love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have it otherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one of those, Phoebe?" "I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"