Dr. Staines recommended the little shop wherever he went, and even
extended its operations. He asked Phoebe to get her own wheat ground
at home, and send the flour up in bushel bags. "These assassins, the
bakers," said he, "are putting copper into the flour now, as well as
alum. Pure flour is worth a fancy price to any family. With that we
can make the bread of life. What you buy in the shops is the bread of
death."

Dick was a good, sharp boy, devoted to his sister. He stuck to the shop
in London, and handed the money to Phoebe, when she came for it. She
worked for it in Essex, and extended her country connection for supply
as the retail business increased.

Staines wrote an article on pure food, and incidentally mentioned the
shop as a place where flour, milk, and butter were to be had pure. This
article was published in the Lancet, and caused quite a run upon the
little shop. By and by Phoebe enlarged it, for which there were great
capabilities, and made herself a pretty little parlor, and there she and
Dick sat to Falcon for their portraits; here, too, she hung his rejected
landscapes. They were fair in her eyes; what matter whether they
were like nature? his hand had painted them. She knew, from him, that
everybody else had rejected them. With all the more pride and love did
she have them framed in gold, and hung up with the portraits in her
little sanctum.

For a few months Phoebe Dale was as happy as she deserved to be. Her
lover was working, and faithful to her--at least she saw no reason to
doubt it. He came to see her every evening, and seemed devoted to her:
would sit quietly with her, or walk with her, or take her to a play, or