tears, Phoebe's confession ended.

"Well, child," said her mother, "it's as I've often told you. Your
drawer is a shame to be seen; and I'm glad Mrs. Nott spoke to you
as she did."

Uncle Roger stroked his chin, and sat looking out through the
window for a little, saying nothing, till Phoebe's sobs grew less
frequent, and at last almost ceased. He then reached his hand
through the open lattice, and pulling a little flower from among
the creepers, gently raised Phoebe's face, saying,--

"Look thee here, little niece; mark this small, pretty flower, with
its white blossoms so perfect and tidy; look at the stalk below,
and each little leaf upon it, regular, one after the other. There
isn't one part of this pretty flower out of its place, Phoebe; and
who made it?"

Phoebe's sobs ceased altogether as she replied, "God, uncle."

"And look there," Uncle Roger went on, drawing towards him as he
spoke a large china dish, on which lay a beautiful honeycomb, which
Mrs. Copland had set aside for a sick friend--"look at this too.
See each cell, and each of these beautiful little arches; there is
not one unlike its neighbour. What do you think of order like that,
niece Phoebe? isn't it perfect?"

"Yes, uncle," she whispered, quieted and wondering.

"Well, little lass, our God, who made the pretty flower, and caused
the bees to make the sweet honeycomb, is a God of order, and He
loves order. He does not wish my little Phoebe to be the untidy
little maid she is."

Phoebe lay quiet for a few minutes, thinking to herself how kindly
Uncle Roger always spoke to her, and how much easier it was to
"feel good" with him than with Mrs. Nott or Margaret Prettyman.
"But what did Mrs. Nott mean by 'apple-pie order,' uncle?" she said
after a little, looking up in her uncle's face.

Uncle Roger smiled and smoothed her hair, not saying anything for a
moment or two; then, instead of answering her question, he asked,
"When is your birthday, Phoebe?"

"The twenty-sixth of next month," she replied quickly, and
wondering very much.

"Do you remember," continued Uncle Roger, "the custard feast I gave
you last birthday? I've been asking your mother here to bring you
over this year too to Lady's Mead, and I'll give you another feast,
and father, and mother, and Bob, and little Charlie; and we'll have
Uncle and Aunt Leyton, and little Mary-Anne to keep you company;
and then, Niece Phoebe, I'm thinking of showing you by that time
what apple-pi