d the resources of the place in which she found herself. There
were no books, except some old volumes of sermons and a few back numbers
of the Congregational Magazine, no visitors, so far as she could make
out, no newspaper but the Carlingford Weekly Gazette, nothing but her
grandmother's gossip about the chapel and Mrs. Tom to pass the weary
hours away. Even last night Mrs. Tozer had asked her whether she had not
any work to beguile the long evening, which Phoebe occupied much more
virtuously, from her own point of view, in endeavouring to amuse the old
people by talking to them. Though it was morning, and she ought to have
been refreshed and encouraged by the repose of the night, it was again
with a few hot tears that Phoebe contemplated her prospects. But this was
only a passing weakness. When she went down to breakfast, she was again
cheerful as the crocuses that raised their heads along the borders with
the promise of summer in them. The sun was shining, the sky was frosty,
but blue. After all, her present sufferings could not endure for ever.
Phoebe hurried to get dressed, to get her blue fingers warned by the
dining-room fire. It is needless to say that there was no fire, or
thought of a fire in the chilly room, with its red and brown hangings,
in which Mrs. Tozer last night had hoped she would be happy. "No fear of
that, grandmamma," she had answered cheerfully. This was as much a lie,
she felt, as if it had been said with the wickedest intentions--was it
as wrong? How cold it was, and yet how stifling! She could scarcely
fasten the ribbon at her neck, her fingers were so cold.

"Yes, grandpapa, it is brighter than in London. We don't live in the
city, you know. We live in rather a pretty neighbourhood looking out on
Regent's Park, but it is seldom so bright as the country. Sometimes the
fog blows up our way, when the wind is in the east; but it is warmer, I
think," said Phoebe, with a little shiver, stooping over the dining-room
fire.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Tozer, shaking her head, "it's your mother as has spo