"I ask your pardon, Madam; but--" "Well, my dear, if you have something you wish to say, I am ready to listen to it," said Madam, with an air of extreme benignity. Phoebe felt her position the more difficult because of her grandmother's graciousness. She so evidently thought herself conferring a favour on a portionless and unattractive girl, that it became hard to say an opposing word. "If you please, Madam, and asking your pardon, must I be married?" "Must you be married, child!" repeated Madam in astonished tones, "Why, of course you must. The woman is created for the man. You would not die a maid?" "I would rather, if you would allow me, Madam," faltered Phoebe. "But, my dear, I cannot allow it. I should not be doing my duty by you if I did. The woman is made for the man," repeated Madam, sententiously. "But--was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?" asked poor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of her grandmother. "Of course, child--no doubt of it," said Madam. "Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I was made for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour. "When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for," oracularly replied Madam. Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very different thing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom she had met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have been created for the benefit of one another. "And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, you will look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in your station, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter for Rhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was your age, Phoebe." Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever as if she were being led to the slaughter. There was just this uncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feel anything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold good there. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well to venture on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined that representations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. Mrs Latrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe did what was better,--carried her trial and perplexity to her Father in Heaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, it was a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily in this style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change was always welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superior position of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presented superior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, a thing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yet believing that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarily wasted.