"I can't tell you, I am sure!" answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzled tone. "I didn't know I was patient. I don't think I have often asked for that, specially. Very often, I ask God to give me what He sees I need; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gave it me." The admiring look in Gatty's eyes was happily unintelligible to Phoebe. "Now then!" said Molly's not particularly welcome voice, close by them. "Here's old Edmundson. Clasp your hands in ecstasy, Phoebe. Mum says you and he have got to fall in love and marry one another; so make haste about it. He's not an ill piece, only you'll find he won't get up before noon unless you squirt water in his face. Now then, fall to, and say some pretty things to one another!" Of course Molly had taken the most effectual way possible to prevent any such occurrence. Phoebe did not dare to lift her eyes; and the chaplain was, if possible, the shyer of the two, and had been dragged there against his will by invincible Molly. Neither would have known what to do, if Gatty had not kindly come to the rescue. "Pray sit down, Mr Edmundson," she said, in a quiet, natural way, as if nothing had happened. "I thought I had seen you riding forth, half an hour ago; I suppose it must have been some one else." "I--ah--yes--no, I have not been riding to-day," stammered the perturbed divine. "Twas a very pleasant morning for a ride," said mediating Gatty. "Very pleasant, Madam," answered the chaplain. "Have you quite lost your catarrh, Mr Edmundson?" "Quite, I thank you, Madam." "I believe my mother wishes to talk with you of Jack Flint, Mr Edmundson." "Yes, Madam?" "The lad hath been well spoken of to her for the under-gardener's boy's place. I think she wished to have your opinion of him." "Yes, Madam." "Is the boy of a choleric disposition?" "Possibly, Madam." "But what think you, Mr Edmundson?" "Madam, I--ah--I cannot say, Madam." "I think I see Mr Lamb beckoning to you," observed Gatty, wishful to relieve the poor _gauche_ chaplain from his uncomfortable position. "Madam, I thank you--ah--very much, Madam." And Mr Edmundson made a dive into the throng, and disappeared behind a quantity of silk brocade and Brussels lace. Phoebe ventured to steal a glance at him as he departed. She found that the person to whom she had been so unceremoniously handed over, alike by Madam, Lady Delawarr, and Molly, was a thickset man of fifty years, partially bald, with small, expressionless features. He was not more fascinating to look at than to talk to, and Phoebe could only entertain a faint hope that his preaching might be an improvement upon both looks and conversation. A little later in the evening, as Phoebe sat alone in her corner, looking on, "I say!" came from behind her. Her heart fluttered, for the voice was Molly's.