best for his creatures."

"Thank God, ma'am, I think I feel resigned. I know it is God's will; but
I'm very sorry for poor father and mother--they'll be so lone like when
they don't see Phoebe about." Her father gazed intently at her, and
the tears ran trickling down his cheeks; her mother put her apron before
her face, and shook her head in silent anguish. Miss Aubrey did not
speak for a few moments. "I see you have been reading the prayer-book
mamma gave you when you were at the Hall," said she at length, observing
the little volume lying open on Phoebe's lap.

"Yes, ma'am--I was _trying_; but somehow lately, I can't read, for
there's a kind of mist comes over my eyes, and I can't see."

"That's weakness, Phoebe," said Miss Aubrey, quickly but tremulously.

"May I make bold, ma'am," commenced Phoebe, languidly, after a
hesitating pause, "to ask _you_ to read the little psalm I was trying to
read a while ago? I should so like to hear _you_."

"I'll try, Phoebe," said Miss Aubrey, taking the book, which was open
at the sixth psalm. 'Twas a severe trial, for her feelings were not a
little excited already. But how could she refuse the dying girl? So Miss
Aubrey began a little indistinctly, in a very low tone, and with
frequent pauses; for the tears every now and then quite obscured her
sight. She managed, however, to get as far as the sixth verse, which was
thus:--

_"I am weary of my groaning: every night wash I my bed, and water
my couch with tears: My beauty is gone for very trouble."_

Here Kate's voice suddenly stopped. She buried her face for a moment or
two in her handkerchief, and said hastily, "I can't read any more,
Phoebe!" Every one in the little room was in tears except poor
Phoebe, who seemed past that.

"It's time for me to go, now, Phoebe. We'll send some one early in the
morning to know how you are," said Miss Aubrey, rising and putting on
her bonnet and shawl. She contrived to beckon Phoebe's mother to the
back of the room, and silently slipped a couple of guineas into her
hands; for she knew the mournful occasion there would soon be for such
assistance! She then left, peremptorily declining the attendance of
Phoebe's father--saying that it _must_ be dark when she could not find
the way to the Hall, which was almost in a straight line from the
cottage, and little more than a quarter of a mile off. It was very much
darker, and it still snowed, though not so thickly as when she had come.