ll, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be
time enough for all that had to be done.

But the last morning came, when Phebe found herself standing amid those
who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes
more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. Bishop
Pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river,
where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. But Felix and Alice
and Hilda lingered about Phebe till the last moment. Yet they said but
little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the
love or half the sorrow they felt? Phebe's heart was full. How gladly
would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left
behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for
Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle!

"But they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "I stay,
and must stay, for their sakes." As at length they said farewell to one
another, Hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is
about to leave, Phebe saw at a little distance Jean Merle himself,
looking on. She could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance
there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her
when they were gone. For when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight
of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up
and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his
gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. Alone and sad at
heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and
drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who
were now altogether parted from her.

CHAPTER XXX.

QUITE ALONE.

It was early in June, and the days were at the longest. Never before had
Phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and
disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and
departure they indicated. The place was no longer a home: everything was
gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was
simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be
sold and scattered without regret. Her own studio was a scene of litter
and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was
useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house,
now far too large and costly for her occupation.

What was she