and reasoning ended. But when our first sorrow came, all
the puzzles melted, and it was not worth while to argue on realities that
I felt. Since that, I have read more, and seen where my own ignorance
made my difficulties, and I have prized--yes, adored, the truths all the
more because you had taught me to appreciate in some degree their perfect
foundation on reasoning.'

'Strange,' said Miss Fennimore, 'that we should have lived together so
long, acting on each other, yet each unconscious of the other's thoughts.
I see now. What to you was not doubt, but desire for a reason for your
hope, became in poor Bertha, not disbelief, but contempt and carelessness
of what she did not feel. I shall never have a sense of rest, till you
can tell me that she enters into your faith. I am chiefly reconciled to
leaving her, because I trust that in her enfeebled, dependent state, she
may become influenced by Miss Charlecote and by you.'

'I cannot argue with her,' said Phoebe. 'When she is well, she can
always puzzle me; I lose her when she gets to her _ego_. You are the
only one who can cope with that.'

'The very reason for keeping away. Don't argue. Live and act. That was
your lesson to me.'

Phoebe did not perceive, and Miss Fennimore loved her freedom from
self-consciousness too well even for gratitude's sake to molest her
belief that the conversion was solely owing to Robert's powers of
controversy.

That one fleeting glimpse of inner life was the true farewell. The
actual parting was a practical matter of hurry of trains, and separation
of parcels, with Maria too busy with the Maltese dog to shed tears, or
even to perceive that this was a final leave-taking with one of those
whom she best loved.

CHAPTER XXIII

Tak down, tak down the mast of gowd,
Set up the mast of tree,
It sets not a forsaken lady
To sail so gallantly.--_Annie of Lochroyan_

'Quaint little white-capped objects! The St. Wulstan's girls marching to
St. Paul's! Ah! the banner I helped to work! How well I remember the
contriving that crozier upon it! How well it has worn! Sweet Honey must
be in London; it was the sight she most grudged missing!'

So thought Lucilla Sandbrook as a cab conveyed her through the
Whittingtonian intricacies.

Her residence with Mrs. Willis Beaumont was not a passage in her life on
which she loved to dwell. Neither party had been well content with the
other, though deference to Mrs. P