hoebe was
reading Miss Maurice's invaluable counsels to the nurses of the dying.
Miss Fennimore had the Bible. It was not from a sense of
appropriateness, as in pursuance of her system of re-examination. Always
admiring the Scripture in a patronizing temper, she had gloried in
critical inquiry, and regarded plenary inspiration as a superstition,
covering weak points by pretensions to infallibility. But since her
discussions with Robert, and her readings of Butler with Bertha, she had
begun to weigh for herself the internal, intrinsic evidence of Divine
origin, above all, in the Gospels, which, to her surprise, enchained her
attention and investigation, as she would have thought beyond the power
of such simple words.

Pilate's question, 'What is truth?' was before her. To her it was a link
of evidence. Without even granting that the writer was the fisherman he
professed to be, what, short of Shakesperian intuition, could thus have
depicted the Roman of the early Empire in equal dread of Caesar and of
the populace, at once unscrupulous and timid, contemning Jewish
prejudice, yet, with lingering mythological superstition, trembling at
the hint of a present Deity in human form; and, lost in the bewilderment
of the later Greek philosophy, greeting the word _truth_ with the
startled inquiry, what it might be. What _is_ truth? It had been the
question of Miss Fennimore's life, and she felt a blank and a
disappointment as it stood unanswered. A movement made her look up.
Phoebe was raising her mother, and Miss Fennimore was needed to support
the pillows.

'Phoebe, my dear, are you here?'

'Yes, dear mamma, I always am.'

'Phoebe, my dear, I think I am soon going. You have been a good child,
my dear; I wish I had done more for you all.'

'Dear mamma, you have always been so kind.'

'They didn't teach me like Honora Charlecote,' she faltered on; 'but I
always did as your poor papa told me. Nobody ever told me how to be
religious, and your poor papa would not have liked it. Phoebe, you know
more than I do. You don't think God will be hard with me, do you? I am
such a poor creature; but there is the Blood that takes away sin.'

'Dear mother, that is the blessed trust.'

'The _Truth_,' flashed upon Miss Fennimore, as she watched their faces.

'Will He give me His own goodness?' said Mrs. Fulmort, wistfully. 'I
never did know how to think about Him--I wish I had cared more. What do
you think, Phoebe?'

'I