Fishing for Phil by Pansy

DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled with uncomfortable and disappointed people.

Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle, but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood to be reached by argument.

The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks! ' to make to any form of argument.

Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.

Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into her subject without introduction:

"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to please you that I could."

But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.

And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.

Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:

"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."

Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account, as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.

It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him, and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse from those whose society he had imagined he could command.

With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After that she cried, but not long.

Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book, and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them, and be ye separate; " and from that she went to her knees.

Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:

"Father, I know that all my life / Is portioned out by thee; / And the trials that will surely come, / I do not fear to see. / But I ask thee for a present mind, / Intent on serving thee."

It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until afternoon.

From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in the parlor.

"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach, "I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school, and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."

The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only a sigh for answer. Presently she said: