ed."

"That isn't at all like Phebe I hope she isn't ill," began Aunt Plenty,
sitting down to toast her feet.

"She may be a little hysterical, for she is a proud thing and represses
her emotions as long as she can. I'll step up and see if she doesn't
need a soothing draft of some sort." And Dr. Alec threw off his coat as
he spoke.

"No, no, she's only tired. I'll run up to her she won't mind me and I'll
report if anything is amiss."

Away went Rose, quite trembling with suspense, but Phebe's door was
shut, no light shone underneath, and no sound came from the room within.
She tapped and receiving no answer, went on to her own chamber, thinking
to herself: "Love always makes people queer, I've heard, so I suppose
they settled it all in the carriage and the dear thing ran away to think
about her happiness alone. I'll not disturb her. Why, Phebe!" said Rose,
surprised, for, entering her room, there was the cantatrice, busy about
the nightly services she always rendered her little mistress.

"I'm waiting for you, dear. Where have you been so long?" asked Phebe,
poking the fire as if anxious to get some color into cheeks that were
unnaturally pale.

The instant she spoke Rose knew that something was wrong, and a glance
at her face confirmed the fear. It was like a dash of cold water and
quenched her happy fancies in a moment; but being a delicate-minded
girl, she respected Phebe's mood and asked no questions, made no
comments, and left her friend to speak or be silent as she chose.

"I was so excited I would take a turn in the moonlight to calm my
nerves. Oh, dearest Phebe, I am so glad, so proud, so full of wonder at
your courage and skill and sweet ways altogether that I cannot half tell
you how I love and honor you!" she cried, kissing the white cheeks with
such tender warmth they could not help glowing faintly as Phebe held
her little mistress close, sure that nothing could disturb this innocent
affection.

"It is all your work, dear, because but for you I might still be
scrubbing floors and hardly dare to dream of anything like this," she
said in her old grateful way, but in her voice there was a thrill of
something deeper than gratitude, and at the last two words her head went
up with a gesture of soft pride as if it had been newly crowned.

Rose heard and saw and guessed at the meaning of both tone and gesture,
feeling that her Phebe deserved both the singer's laurel and the bride's
myrtle wreath. But she