cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,' said Phoebe; 'but indeed
it is safe to think of His great loving-kindness and mercy. Robert will
be here to-morrow. He will tell you better.'

'He will give me the Holy Sacrament,' said Mrs. Fulmort, 'and then I
shall go--'

Presently she moved uneasily. 'Oh, Phoebe, I am so tired. Nothing rests
me.'

'There remaineth a rest,' gently whispered Phoebe--and Miss Fennimore
thought the young face had something of the angel in it--'no more
weariness there.'

'They won't think what a poor dull thing I am there,' added her mother.
'I wish I could take poor Maria with me. They don't like her here, and
she will be teased and put about.'

'No, mother, never while I can take care of her!'

'I know you will, Phoebe, if you say so. Phoebe, love, when I see God, I
shall thank Him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have
some comfort in one of my children.'

Phoebe tried to make her think of Robert, but she was exhausted, dozed,
and was never able to speak so much again.

Miss Fennimore thought instead of reading. Was it the mere effect on her
sympathies that bore in on her mind that Truth existed, and was grasped
by the mother and daughter? What was there in those faltering accents
that impressed her with reality? Why, of all her many instructors, had
none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded Mrs. Fulmort?

Robert arrived the next day. His mother knew him and was roused
sufficiently to accept his offices as a clergyman. Then, as if she
thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but
when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed.

'Bless them, mother,' said Robert, bending over her, and she evidently
accepted this as what she wanted; but 'How--what?' she added; and taking
the uncertain hand, he guided it to the head of each of his three
sisters, and prompted the words of blessing from the failing tongue.
Then as Bertha rose, he sank on his knees in her place, 'Bless me, bless
me, too, mother; bless me, and pardon my many acts of self-will.'

'You are good--you--you are a clergyman,' she hesitated, bewildered.

'The more reason, mamma; it will comfort him.' And it was Phoebe who won
for her brother the blessing needed as balm to a bleeding heart.

'The others are away,' said the dying woman; 'maybe, if I had made them
good when they were little, they would not have left me now.'

While striving to join in