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Updated: May 6, 2025
The surgeon had already arrived, and before he ceased from his labors he had dressed thirty wounds. The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was terrible for she was eager to return to her father and sick mother.
It was as utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. Without her all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. With her Jean Merle did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his. "No, no," cried Phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep lines; "it is impossible! You ought not to ask me."
Almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to him. For Phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her native moors, had fixed at once upon the Abbey as the one spot in London where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken vault of heaven overarching it.
"But you doesn't own me, Aunt Babe; every one else doesn't own me, just myse'f." What remote memory of past Sunday stories had asserted itself, the next day, it would be impossible to tell; but Mac suddenly projected himself into the long-ago, and out from the long-ago he addressed Phebe. "You are Pharaoh, you know, and you kills babies." "Don't be silly, Mac."
But he soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for even Phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day.
Phebe seldom called her that, and when she did her heart was in the little word, making it so tender that Rose thought it the sweetest in the world, next to Uncle Alec's "my little girl." Now it was almost passionate, and Phebe's face grew rather tragical as she looked down at Rose.
"If you love me best, I shall not mind a bit about your thinking Phebe the handsomest, because she is. Isn't she, boys?" asked Rose, with a mischievous look at the gentlemen opposite, whose faces expressed a respectful admiration which much amused her.
In spite of herself, Theodora laughed at the assurance in Phebe's tone. "Oh, I have studied myself a good deal," she said with calm complacency. "I am not nervous, nor very sympathetic, and I think I could operate on people very nicely." "Phebe!" This time, there was no concealment in Theodora's laugh. "You needn't make fun of me," she said indignantly. "That helps along; papa says it does.
"It has been such a long, long time!" he said, still holding her hands. "I do not know how we have made out to spare you." "We shall not have to spare her much longer," said Gerald. "She is coming down-stairs to-morrow." And then Halloway dropped Phebe's hands, and turning to Gerald, held out a hand to her. "Forgive me for not even noticing you, Miss Vernor. At first I could only see Miss Phebe."
They were upstairs in that lady's charming little sitting-room, Phebe on a low stool by her friend's side, and Halloway had just come in from a round of parochial visits and joined them there. "Mrs. Whittridge," said Phebe, suddenly, "do you think it is possible to care too much for one's friends? Mr. Halloway says one can. I know he means that I do." Mrs.
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