Phoebe sat meditating, for nobody had spoken to her, when she felt a soft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look up into a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger. Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr. The small-pox had changed her terribly--far more than her sister. No one could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft, peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty's best point, was replaced by a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease. "You did not know me at first," said Gatty, quietly, as if stating a fact, not making an inquiry. "I do now," answered Phoebe, returning Gatty's smile. "Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a rough one, Phoebe." "I am afraid you must have suffered _very_ much, Mrs Gatty." "Won't you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered, Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then." Phoebe's face, not her tongue, said, "In what manner?" "'Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, and telling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I could have stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one's elbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but I could have stood that, though I don't like it. But 'tis hard to be told I have disappointed my mother's dearest hopes, and that she will never take any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in my cradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes the least slip, it will be directly, `Oh, your saints are no better than other folks!' Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered." "Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!--well, Gatty, then, as you are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose." "I wonder for what!" said Gatty. "Well, we can't tell yet, you see," replied Phoebe, simply. "I suppose you will find out by and bye." "I wish I could find out," said Gatty, sighing. "I think He will show you, when He is ready," said Phoebe. "Father used to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good while. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doing with us while He does it, but only when He has finished." "Nice," at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of delicately particular. "I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been living now." "Oh!" very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish. "Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?" "My patience!" repeated astonished Phoebe. "Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know."