In my large circle of kindred, perhaps twenty families in all, it was
an Aunt Phoebe. Paul gave a letter of introduction to one whom he
calls "Phoebe, our sister," as she went up from Cenchrea to Rome,
commending her for her kindness and Christian service, and imploring
for her all courtesies. I think Aunt Phoebe was named after her. Was
there a sickness in any of the households, she was there ready to sit
up and count out the drops of medicine. Was there a marriage, she
helped deck the bride for the altar. Was there a new soul incarnated,
she was there to rejoice at the nativity. Was there a sore bereavement
she was there to console. The children, rushed out at her first
appearance, crying, "Here comes Aunt Phoebe," and but for parental
interference they would have pulled her down with their caresses--for
she was not very strong, and many severe illnesses had given her
enough glimpses of the next world to make her heavenly-minded. Her
table was loaded up with Baxter's "Saints' Rest," Doddridge's "Rise
and Progress," and Jay's "Morning and Evening Exercises," and John
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," and like books, which have fitted out
whole generations for the heaven upon which they have already entered.