Often a first grief, where sorrow was hitherto been a stranger, is but the foretaste to many another, like the first hailstorm, after long sunshine, preluding a succession of showers, the clouds returning after the rain, and obscuring the sky of life for many a day.

Those who daily saw Mrs. Fulmort scarcely knew whether to attribute her increasing invalidism to debility or want of spirits; and hopes were built on summer heat, till, when it came, it prostrated her strength, and at last, when some casual ailment had confined her to bed, there was no rally. All took alarm; a physician was called in, and the truth was disclosed. There was no formed disease; but her husband’s death, though apparently hardly comprehended, had taken away the spring of life, and she was withering like a branch severed from the stem. Remedies did but disturb her torpor by feverish symptoms that hastened her decline, and Dr. Martyn privately told Miss Charlecote that the absent sons and daughters ought to be warned that the end must be very near.

Honor, as lovingly and gently as possible, spoke to Phœbe. The girl’s eyes filled with tears, but it was in an almost well-pleased tone that she said, ‘Dear mamma, I always knew she felt it.’

‘Ah! little did we think how deeply went the stroke that showed no wound!’

‘Yes! She felt that she was going to him. We could never have made her happy here.’

‘You are content, my unselfish one?’

‘Don’t talk to me about myself, please!’ implored Phœbe. ‘I have too much to do for that. What did he say? That the others should be written to? I will take my case and write in mamma’s room.’

Immediate duty was her refuge from anticipation, gentle tendance from the sense of misery, and, though her mother’s restless feebleness needed constant waiting on, her four notes were completed before post-time. Augusta was eating red mullet in Guernsey, Juliana was on a round of visits in Scotland, Mervyn was supposed to be in Paris, Robert alone was near at hand.

At night Phœbe sent Boodle to bed; but Miss Fennimore insisted on sharing her pupil’s watch. At first there was nothing to do; the patient had fallen into a heavy slumber, and the daughter sat by the bed, the governess at the window, unoccupied save by their books. Phœbe was reading Miss Maurice’s invaluable counsels to the nurses of the dying. Miss Fennimore had the Bible. It was not from a sense of appropriateness, as in pursuance of her system of re-examination. Always admiring the Scripture in a patronizing temper, she had gloried in critical inquiry, and regarded plenary inspiration as a superstition, covering weak points by pretensions to infallibility. But since her discussions with Robert, and her readings of Butler with Bertha, she had begun to weigh for herself the internal, intrinsic evidence of Divine origin, above all, in the Gospels, which, to her surprise, enchained her attention and investigation, as she would have thought beyond the power of such simple words.

Pilate’s question, ‘What is truth?’ was before her. To her it was a link of evidence. Without even granting that the writer was the fisherman he professed to be, what, short of Shakesperian intuition, could thus have depicted the Roman of the early Empire in equal dread of Cæsar and of the populace, at once unscrupulous and timid, contemning Jewish prejudice, yet, with lingering mythological superstition, trembling at the hint of a present Deity in human form; and, lost in the bewilderment of the later Greek philosophy, greeting the word truth with the startled inquiry, what it might be. What is truth? It had been the question of Miss Fennimore’s life, and she felt a blank and a disappointment as it stood unanswered. A movement made her look up. Phœbe was raising her mother, and Miss Fennimore was needed to support the pillows.

‘Phœbe, my dear, are you here?’

‘Yes, dear mamma, I always am.’

‘Phœbe, my dear, I think I am soon going. You have been a good child, my dear; I wish I had done more for you all.’

‘Dear mamma, you have always been so kind.’

‘They didn’t teach me like Honora Charlecote,’ she faltered on; ‘but I always did as your poor papa told me. Nobody ever told me how to be religious, and your poor papa would not have liked it. Phœbe, you know more than I do. You don’t think God will be hard with me, do you? I am such a poor creature; but there is the Blood that takes away sin.’

‘Dear mother, that is the blessed trust.’

‘The Truth,’ flashed upon Miss Fennimore, as she watched their faces.

‘Will He give me His own goodness?’ said Mrs. Fulmort, wistfully. ‘I never did know how to think about Him—I wish I had cared more. What do you think, Phœbe?’

‘I cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed it is safe to think of His great loving-kindness and mercy. Robert will be here to-morrow. He will tell you better.’

‘He will give me the Holy Sacrament,’ said Mrs. Fulmort, ‘and then I shall go—’

Presently she moved uneasily. ‘Oh, Phœbe, I am so tired. Nothing rests me.’

‘There remaineth a rest,’ gently whispered Phœbe—and Miss Fennimore thought the young face had something of the angel in it—‘no more weariness there.’

‘They won’t think what a poor dull thing I am there,’ added her mother. ‘I wish I could take poor Maria with me. They don’t like her here, and she will be teased and put about.’

‘No, mother, never while I can take care of her!’

‘I know you will, Phœbe, if you say so. Phœbe, love, when I see God, I shall thank Him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have some comfort in one of my children.’

Phœbe tried to make her think of Robert, but she was exhausted, dozed, and was never able to speak so much again.

Miss Fennimore thought instead of reading. Was it the mere effect on her sympathies that bore in on her mind that Truth existed, and was grasped by the mother and daughter? What was there in those faltering accents that impressed her with reality? Why, of all her many instructors, had none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded Mrs. Fulmort?

Robert arrived the next day. His mother knew him and was roused sufficiently to accept his offices as a clergyman. Then, as if she thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed.

‘Bless them, mother,’ said Robert, bending over her, and she evidently accepted this as what she wanted; but ‘How—what?’ she added; and taking the uncertain hand, he guided it to the head of each of his three sisters, and prompted the words of blessing from the failing tongue. Then as Bertha rose, he sank on his knees in her place, ‘Bless me, bless me, too, mother; bless me, and pardon my many acts of self-will.’

‘You are good—you—you are a clergyman,’ she hesitated, bewildered.

‘The more reason, mamma; it will comfort him.’ And it was Phœbe who won for her brother the blessing needed as balm to a bleeding heart.

‘The others are away,’ said the dying woman; ‘maybe, if I had made them good when they were little, they would not have left me now.’

While striving to join in prayer for them, she slumbered, and in the course of the night she slept herself tranquilly away from the world where even prosperity had been but a troubled maze to her.

Augusta arrived, weeping profusely, but with all her wits about her, so as to assume the command, and to provide for her own, and her Admiral’s comfort. Phœbe was left to the mournful repose of having no one to whom to attend, since Miss Fennimore provided for the younger ones; and in the lassitude of bodily fatigue and sorrow, she shrank from Maria’s babyish questions and Bertha’s levity and curiosity, spending her time chiefly alone. Even Robert could not often be with her, since Mervyn’s absence and silence threw much on him and Mr. Crabbe, the executor and guardian; and the Bannermans were both exacting and self-important. The Actons, having been pursued by their letters from place to place in the Highlands, at length arrived, and Mervyn last of all, only just in time for the funeral.

Phœbe did not see him till the evening after it, when, having spent the day nearly alone, she descended to the late dinner, and after the quietness in which she had lately lived, and with all the tenderness from fresh suffering, it seemed to her that she was entering on a distracting turmoil of voices. Mervyn, however, came forward at once to meet her, threw his arm round her, and kissed her rather demonstratively, saying, ‘My little Phœbe, I wondered where you were;’ then putting her into a chair, and bending over her, ‘We are in for the funeral games. Stand up for yourself!’

She did not know in the least what he could mean, but she was too sick at heart to ask; she only thought he looked unwell, jaded, and fagged, and with a heated complexion.

He handed Lady Acton into the dining-room; Augusta, following with Sir Bevil, was going to the head of the table, when he called out, ‘That’s Phœbe’s place!’

‘Not before my elders,’ Phœbe answered, trying to seat herself at the side.

‘The sister at home is mistress of the house,’ he sternly answered. ‘Take your proper place, Phœbe.’

In much discomfort she obeyed, and tried to attend civilly to Sir Nicholas’s observations on the viands, hoping to intercept a few, as she perceived how they chafed her eldest brother.

At last, on Mervyn himself roundly abusing the flavour of the ice-pudding, Augusta not only defended it, but confessed to having herself directed Mrs. Brisbane to the concoction that morning.

‘Mrs. Brisbane shall take orders from no lady but Miss Fulmort, while she is in my house,’ thundered Mervyn.

Phœbe, in agony, began to say she knew not what to Sir Bevil, and he seconded her with equal vehemence and incoherency, till by the time they knew what they were talking of, they were with much interest discussing his little daughter, scarcely turning their heads from one another, till, in the midst of dessert, the voice of Juliana was heard,—‘Sir Bevil, Sir Bevil, if you can spare me any attention—What was the name of that person at Hampstead that your sister told me of?’

‘That person! What, where poor Anne Acton was boarded? Dr. Graham, he called himself, but I don’t believe he was a physician. Horrid vulgar fellow!’

‘Excellent for the purpose, though,’ continued Lady Acton, addressing herself as before to Mr. Crabbe; ‘advertises for nervous or deficient ladies, and boards them on very fair terms: would take her quite off our hands.’

Phœbe turned a wild look of imploring interrogation on Sir Bevil, but a certain family telegraph had electrified him, and his eyes were on the grapes that he was eating with nervous haste. Her blood boiling at what she apprehended, Phœbe could endure her present post no longer, and starting up, made the signal for leaving the dinner-table so suddenly that Augusta choked upon her glass of wine, and carried off her last macaroon in her hand. Before she had recovered breath to rebuke her sister’s precipitation, Phœbe, with boldness and spirit quite new to the sisters, was confronting Juliana, and demanding what she had been saying about Hampstead.

‘Only,’ said Juliana, coolly, ‘that I have found a capital place there for Maria—a Dr. Graham, who boards and lodges such unfortunates. Sir Bevil had an idiot cousin there who died. I shall write to-morrow.’

‘I promised that Maria should not be separated from me,’ said Phœbe.

‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Augusta; ‘we could not receive her; she can never be made presentable.’

‘You?’ said Phœbe.

‘Yes, my dear; did you not know? You go home with us the day after to-morrow; and next spring I mean to bring you out, and take you everywhere. The Admiral is so generous!’

‘But the others?’ said Phœbe.

‘I don’t mind undertaking Bertha,’ said Lady Acton. ‘I know of a good school for her, and I shall deposit Maria at Dr. Graham’s as soon as I can get an answer.’

‘Really,’ continued Augusta, ‘Phœbe will look very creditable by and by, when she has more colour and not all this crape. Perhaps I shall get her married by the end of the season; only you must learn better manners first, Phœbe—not to rush out of the dining-room in this way. I don’t know what I shall do without my other glass of wine—when I am so low, too!’

‘A fine mistress of the house, indeed,’ said Lady Acton. ‘It is well Mervyn’s absurd notion is impossible.’

‘What was that? To keep us all?’ asked Phœbe, catching at the hope.

‘Not Maria nor the governess. You need not flatter yourself,’ said Juliana; ‘he said he wouldn’t have them at any price; and as to keeping house alone with a man of his character, even you may have sense to see it couldn’t be for a moment.’

‘Did Robert consent to Maria’s going to Hampstead?’ asked Phœbe.

‘Robert—what has he to do with it? He has no voice.’

‘He said something about getting the three boarded with some clergyman’s widow,’ said Augusta; ‘buried in some hole, I suppose, to make them like himself—go to church every day, and eat cold dinners on Sunday.’

‘I should like to see Bertha doing that,’ said Juliana, laughing.

But the agony of helplessness that had oppressed Phœbe was relieved. She saw an outlet, and could form a resolution. Home might have to be given up, but there was a means of fulfilling her mother’s charge, and saving Maria from the private idiot asylum; and for that object Phœbe was ready to embrace perpetual seclusion with the dullest of widows. She found her sisters discussing their favourite subject—Mervyn’s misconduct and extravagance—and she was able to sit apart, working, and thinking of her line of action. Only two days! She must be prompt, and not wait for privacy or for counsel. So when the gentlemen came in, and Mr. Crabbe came towards her, she took him into the window, and asked him if any choice were permitted her as to her residence.

‘Certainly; so nearly of age as you are. But I naturally considered that you would wish to be with Lady Bannerman, with all the advantages of London society.’

‘But she will not receive Maria. I promised that Maria should be my charge. You have not consented to this Hampstead scheme?’

‘Her ladyship is precipitate,’ half whispered the lawyer. ‘I certainly would not, till I had seen the establishment, and judged for myself.’

‘No, nor then,’ said Phœbe. ‘Come to-morrow, and see her. She is no subject for an establishment. And I beg you will let me be with her; I would much prefer being with any lady who would receive us both.’

‘Very amiable,’ said Mr. Crabbe.

‘Ha!’ interrupted Mervyn, ‘you are not afraid I shall let Augusta carry you off, Phœbe. She would give the world to get you, but I don’t mean to part with you.’

‘It is of no use to talk to her, Mervyn,’ cried Augusta’s loud voice from the other end of the room. ‘She knows that she cannot remain with you. Robert himself would tell her so.’

‘Robert knows better than to interfere,’ said Mervyn, with one of his scowls. ‘Now then, Phœbe, settle it for yourself. Will you stay and keep house for me at home, or be Augusta’s companion? There! the choice of Hercules. Virtue or vice?’ he added, trying to laugh.

‘Neither,’ said Phœbe, readily. ‘My home is fixed by Maria’s.’

‘Phœbe, are you crazy?’ broke out the three voices; while Sir Nicholas slowly and sententiously explained that he regretted the unfortunate circumstance, but Maria’s peculiarities made it impossible to produce her in society; and that when her welfare and happiness had been consulted by retirement, Phœbe would find a home in his house, and be treated as Lady Bannerman’s sister, and a young lady of her expectations, deserved.

‘Thank you,’ said Phœbe; then turning to her brother, ‘Mervyn, do you, too, cast off poor Maria?’

‘I told you what I thought of that long ago,’ said Mervyn, carelessly.

‘Very well, then,’ said Phœbe, sadly; ‘perhaps you will let us stay till some lady can be found of whom Mr. Crabbe may approve, with whom Maria and I can live.’

‘Lady Acton!’ Sir Bevil’s voice was low and entreating, but all heard it.

‘I am not going to encumber myself,’ she answered. ‘I always disliked girls, and I shall certainly not make Acton Manor an idiot asylum.’

‘And mind,’ added Augusta, ‘you won’t cone to me for the season! I have no notion of your leaving me all the dull part of the year for some gay widow at a watering-place, and then expecting me to go out with you in London.’

‘By Heaven!’ broke out Mervyn, ‘they shall stay here, if only to balk your spite. My sisters shall not be driven from pillar to post the very day their mother is put under ground.’

‘Some respectable lady,’ began Robert.

‘Some horrid old harridan of a boarding-house keeper,’ shouted Mervyn, the louder for his interference. ‘Ay, you would like it, and spend all their fortunes on parsons in long coats! I know better! Come here, Phœbe, and listen. You shall live here as you have always done, Maria and all, and keep the Fennimore woman to mind the children. Answer me, will that content you? Don’t go looking at Robert, but say yes or no.’

Mervyn’s innuendo had deprived his offer of its grace, but in spite of the pang of indignation, in spite of Robert’s eye of disapproval, poor desolate Phœbe must needs cling to her home, and to the one who alone would take her and her poor companion. ‘Mervyn, thank you; it is right!’

‘Right! What does that mean? If any one has a word to say against my sisters being under my roof, let me hear it openly, not behind my back. Eh, Juliana, what’s that?’

‘Only that I wonder how long it will last,’ sneered Lady Acton.

‘And,’ added Robert, ‘there should be some guarantee that they should not be introduced to unsuitable acquaintance.’

‘You think me not to be trusted with them.’

‘I do not.’

Mervyn ground his teeth, answering, ‘Very well, sir, I stand indebted to you. I should have imagined, whatever your opinion of me, you would have considered your favourite sky-blue governess an immaculate guardian, or can you be contented with nothing short of a sisterhood?’

‘Robert,’ said Phœbe, fearing lest worse should follow, ‘Mervyn has always been good to us; I trust to him.’ And her clear eyes were turned on the eldest brother with a grateful confidence that made him catch her hand with something between thanks and triumph, as he said—

‘Well said, little one! There, sir, are you satisfied?’

‘I must be,’ replied Robert.

Sir Bevil, able to endure no longer, broke in with some intelligence from the newspaper, which he had been perusing ever since his unlucky appeal to his lady. Every one thankfully accepted this means of ending the discussion.

‘Well, Miss,’ was Juliana’s good night, ‘you have attained your object. I hope you may find it answer.’

‘Yes,’ added Augusta, ‘when Mervyn brings home that Frenchwoman, you will wish you had been less tenacious.’

‘That’s all an idea of yours,’ said Juliana. ‘She’ll have punishment enough in Master Mervyn’s own temper. I wouldn’t keep house for him, no, not for a week.’

‘Stay till you are asked,’ said Augusta.

Phœbe could bear no more, but slipped through the swing-door, reached her room, and sinking into a chair, passively let Lieschen undress her, not attempting to raise her drooping head, nor check the tears that trickled, conscious only of her broken, wounded, oppressed state of dejection, into the details of which she durst not look. How could she, when her misery had been inflicted by such hands? The mere fact of the unseemly broil between the brothers and sisters on such an evening was shame and pain enough, and she felt like one bruised and crushed all over, both in herself and Maria, while the one drop of comfort in Mervyn’s kindness was poisoned by the strife between him and Robert, and the doubt whether Robert thought she ought to have accepted it.

When her maid left her, she only moved to extinguish her light, and then cowered down again as if to hide in the darkness; but the soft summer twilight gloom seemed to soothe and restore her, and with a longing for air to refresh her throbbing brow, she leant out into the cool, still night, looking into the northern sky, still pearly with the last reminiscence of the late sunset, and with the pale large stars beaming calmly down.

‘Oh mother, mother! Well might you long to take your poor Maria with you—there where the weary are at rest—where there is mercy for the weak and slow! Home! home! we have none but with you!’

Nay, had she not a home with Him whose love was more than mother’s love; whose soft stars were smiling on her now; whose gentle breezes fanned her burning cheeks, even as a still softer breath of comfort was stilling her troubled spirit! She leant out till she could compose herself to kneel in prayer, and from prayer rose up quietly, weary, and able to rest beneath the Fatherly Wings spread over the orphan.

She was early astir, though with heavy, swollen eyelids; and anxious to avoid Bertha’s inquiries till all should be more fully settled, she betook herself to the garden, to cool her brow and eyes. She was bathing them in the dewy fragrant heart of a full-blown rose, that had seemed to look at her with a tearful smile of sympathy, when a step approached, and an arm was thrown round her, and Robert stood beside her.

‘My Phœbe,’ he said tenderly, ‘how are you? It was a frightful evening!’

‘Oh! Robert, were you displeased with me?’

‘No, indeed. You put us all to shame. I grieved that you had no more preparation, but some of the guests stayed late, afterwards I was hindered by business, and then Bevil laid hands on me to advise me privately against this establishment for poor Maria.’

‘I thought it was Juliana who pressed it!’

‘Have you not learnt that whatever he dislikes she forwards?’

‘Oh! Robert, you can hinder that scheme from ever being thought of again!’

‘Yes,’ said Robert; ‘there she should never have been, even had you not made resistance.’

‘And, Robert, may we stay here?’ asked Phœbe, trembling.

‘Crabbe sees no objection,’ he answered.

‘Do you, Robert? If you think we ought not, I will try to change; but Mervyn is kind, and it is home! I saw you thought me wrong, but I could not help being glad he relented to Maria.’

‘You were right. Your eldest brother is the right person to give you a home. I cannot. It would have shown an evil, suspicious temper if you had refused him.’

‘Yet you do not like it.’

‘Perhaps I am unjust. I own that I had imagined you all happier and better in such a home as Mrs. Parsons or Miss Charlecote could find for you; and though Mervyn would scarcely wilfully take advantage of your innocence, I do not trust to his always knowing what would be hurtful to you or Bertha. It is a charge that I grudge to him, for I do not think he perceives what it is.’

‘I could make you think better of him. I wonder whether I may.’

‘Anything—anything to make me think better of him,’ cried Robert eagerly.

‘I do not know it from him alone, so it cannot be a breach of confidence,’ said Phœbe. ‘He has been deeply attached, not to a pretty person, nor a rich nor grand one, but she was very good and religious—so much so that she would not accept him.’

‘How recently?’

‘The attachment has been long; the rejection this spring.’

‘My poor Phœbe, I could not tell you how his time has been passed since early spring.’

‘I know in part,’ she said, looking down; ‘but, Robin, that arose from despair. Oh, how I longed for him to come and let me try to comfort him!’

‘And how is this to change my opinion,’ asked Robert, ‘except by showing me that no right-minded woman could trust herself with him?’

‘Oh, Robert, no! Sisters need not change, though others ought, perhaps. I meant you to see that he does love and honour goodness for itself, and so that he will guard his sisters.’

‘I will think so, Phœbe. You deserve to be believed, for you draw out his best points. For my own part, the miserable habits of our boyhood have left a habit of acrimony, of which, repent as I will, I cannot free myself. I gave way to it last night. I can be cool, but I cannot help being contemptuous. I make him worse, and I aggravated your difficulties by insulting him.’

‘He insulted you,’ said Phœbe. ‘When I think of those words I don’t know how I can stay with him.’

‘They fell short! They were nothing,’ said Robert. ‘But it was the more unbefitting in me to frame my warning as I did. Oh, Phœbe, your prayers and influence have done much for me. Help me now to treat my brother so as not to disgrace my calling.’

‘You—when you freely forgive all the injuries he has done you!’

‘If I freely forgave, I suppose I should love;’ and he murmured sadly, ‘He that hateth his brother is a murderer.’

Phœbe shrank, but could not help thinking that if the spirit of Cain existed among them, it was not with the younger brother.

When she next spoke, it was to express her fear lest Miss Fennimore should refuse to remain, since the position would be uncomfortable. Her talent was thrown away on poor Maria, and Bertha had been very vexing and provoking of late. Phœbe greatly dreaded a change, both from her love for her governess, and alarm lest a new duenna might be yet more unwelcome to Mervyn, and she was disappointed to see that Robert caught at the hope that the whole scheme might be baffled on this score.

Phœbe thought a repetition of the dinner-table offence would be best obviated by taking her place as tea-maker at once. Mervyn first came down, and greeted her like something especially his own. He detected the red blistered spot on her cheek, and exclaimed, ‘Eh! did they make you cry? Never mind; the house will soon be clear of them, and you my little queen. You have nothing to say against it. Has any one been putting things in your head?’ and he looked fiercely at his brother.

‘No, Mervyn; Robert and I both think you very kind, and that it is the right thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘no arrangement could be more proper. I am sorry, Mervyn, if my manner was offensive last night.’

‘I never take offence, it is not my way,’ said Mervyn, indifferently, almost annoyed that his brother had not spirit to persevere in the quarrel.

After the breakfast, where the elder sisters were cold and distant, and Sir Bevil as friendly as he durst, Mervyn’s first move was to go, in conjunction with Mr. Crabbe, to explain the arrangement to Miss Fennimore, and request her to continue her services. They came away surprised and angry: Miss Fennimore would ‘consider of it.’ Even when Mervyn, to spare himself from ‘some stranger who might prove a greater nuisance,’ had offered a hundred in addition to her present exorbitant salary, she courteously declined, and repeated that her reply should be given in the evening.

Mervyn’s wrath would have been doubled had he known the cause of her delay. She sent Maria to beg Robert to spare her half an hour, and on his entrance, dismissing her pupils, she said, ‘Mr. Fulmort, I should be glad if you would candidly tell me your opinion of the proposed arrangement. I mean,’ seeing his hesitation, ‘of that part which relates to myself.’

‘I do not quite understand you,’ he said.

‘I mean, whether, as the person whose decision has the most worth in this family, you are satisfied to leave your sisters under my charge? If not, whatever it may cost me to part with that sweet and admirable Phœbe,’ and her voice showed unwonted emotion, ‘I would not think of remaining with them.’

‘You put me in a very strange position, Miss Fennimore; I have no authority to decide. They could have no friend more sincerely anxious for their welfare or so welcome to Phœbe’s present wishes.’

‘Perhaps not; but the question is not of my feelings nor theirs, but whether you consider my influence pernicious to their religious principles. If so, I decline their guardian’s terms at once.’ After a pause, she added, pleased at his deliberation, ‘It may assist you if I lay before you the state of my own mind.’

She proceeded to explain that her parents had been professed Unitarians, her mother, loving and devout to the hereditary faith, beyond which she had never looked—‘Mr. Fulmort,’ she said, ‘nothing will approve itself to me that condemns my mother!’

He began to say that often where there was no wilful rejection of truth, saving grace and faith might be vouchsafed.

‘You are charitable,’ she answered, in a tone like sarcasm, and went on. Her father, a literary man of high ability, set aside from work by ill-health, thought himself above creeds. He had given his daughter a man’s education, had read many argumentative books with her, and died, leaving her liberally and devoutly inclined in the spirit of Pope’s universal prayer—‘Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.’ It was all aspiration to the Lord of nature, the forms, adaptations to humanity, kaleidoscope shapes of half-comprehended fragments, each with its own beauty, and only becoming worthy of reprobation where they permitted moral vices, among which she counted intolerance.

What she thought reasonable—Christianity, modified by the world’s progress—was her tenet, and she had no scruple in partaking in any act of worship; while naturally conscientious, and loving all the virtues, she viewed the terrors of religion as the scourge of the grovelling and superstitious; or if suffering existed at all, it could be only as expiation, conducting to a condition of high intellect and perfect morality. No other view, least of all that of a vicarious atonement, seemed to her worthy of the beneficence of the God whom she had set up for herself.

Thus had she rested for twenty years; but of late she had been dissatisfied. Living with Phœbe, ‘though the child was not naturally intellectual,’ there was no avoiding the impression that what she acted and rested on was substantial truth. ‘The same with others,’ said Miss Fennimore, meaning her auditor himself. ‘And, again, I cannot but feel that devotion to any system of faith is the restraint that Bertha is deficient in, and that this is probably owing to my own tone. These examples have led me to go over the former ground in the course of the present spring; and it has struck me that, if the Divine Being be not the mere abstraction I once supposed, it is consistent to believe that He has a character and will—individuality, in short—so that there might be one single revelation of absolute truth. I have not thoroughly gone through the subject, but I hope to do so; and when I mark what I can only call a supernatural influence on an individual character, I view it as an evidence in favour of the system that produced it. My exposition of my opinions shocks you; I knew it would. But knowing this, and thinking it possible that an undoubting believer might have influenced Bertha, are you willing to trust your sisters to me?’