It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of what was going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked beside him so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flash of lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at God's call. It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting to him, simply as being in his mind associated with Rhoda. And Rhoda did not want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so. So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome," she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she stands promised already." Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often do think so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain," and who have to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they dare speak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendly at Delawarr Court. "To whom?" he asked, almost angrily. "Mr Marcus Welles." "That painted fop!" cried Derwent. Phoebe was silent. "You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?" "She is promised to him." Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she were in a dream: all these events which were passing around her never could be real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though she heard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--to be left alone with God. Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expected much more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, in the moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe did not understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She had never loved anybody--that was plain! And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her, taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost. She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house, where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade of a clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one of them. It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of a Syrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her love for Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopeless thing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall. "But Thou remainest!" The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones of her father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text of the last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he had said to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always, there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ." The tears came now. There was relief and healing in them. "But Thou remainest!" "Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?" Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempest which had swept over her heart.