ll
hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund
of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the
wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of
God.

She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands
lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost
frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the
loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she
turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so
plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting
the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted,
and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in."

"It's me--Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened
and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He
had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit,
standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round
his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether
unlike the bluntness of his usual manner.

"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time
to take a seat?"

"Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and
settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty
movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he
continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all
evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and
more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't
go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as
lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window.
You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?"

"Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome."

"That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal
about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good
one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for
my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show
before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my
prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?"

"To be sure I do," she answered.

"Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his
shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you