nd obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all
the Marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. A quiet haven after many
storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life!

All the morning Mr. Clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only
looking up sometimes to ply Phebe with questions. When Jean Merle
returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile
shining through his dim eyes.

"You are no phantom then!" he said. "I've been so used to your company
as a ghost that when you are out of sight I fancy myself dreaming. I
could not let Phebe go away lest I should feel that all this is not
real. Did any one know you again?"

"Not a soul," he answered; "how could they? Mrs. Nixey herself has no
remembrance of me. There is no fear of my being known."

"Then I want you to stay with me," said old Mr. Clifford eagerly; "I'm a
lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it
seems a long and dreary road to the grave. I want one to sit beside me
in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of
his old father. Could you do it, Jean Merle? I beseech you, if it is
possible, give me your services in my old age."

"It will be hard for you," pleaded Phebe in a low voice, "harder than
going out alone to my little home. But you would do more good here; you
could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful
about Mr. Clifford. I can take care that you should always know before
Felix and Hilda come down. Felicita never comes."

How much harder it would be for him even Phebe could not guess. To dwell
within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it,
with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience.
To have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty
home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished;
this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old
Marlowe on the hills. Yet if any one living had a claim upon him for
such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was
gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes.

"I will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears
no reason against it when we have given it more thought."

CHAPTER XXI.

PHEBE'S SECRET.

For the first time in her life those who were about Phebe Marlowe felt
that she was under a cloud. The sweet sunny atm