The Maidens' LodgeNone of Self and All of Thee, (in the Reign of Queen Anne)

By Emily Sarah Holt________________________________________________________________________The story opens in 1712, and is a story of the habits, customs, lovesand hates of a gentle family of those days. We pay particular attentionto two young women, Rhoda and Phoebe. Of course your reviewer never didlive in those days, but the style of life of these minor grandees seemsto ring true, as one would expect of this skilled author. As with herother historical novels, the reader seems to feel pulled into thecontemporary scene of those days and that class: their foolish airs andgraces, their ambition, in most cases, to marry at or above their"station". 

Amid a welter of other minor grandees appears one Mr Welles, who issaid to be well placed with an income of three thousand pounds a year, to be compared with one of the players in the story, a curate with 21pounds a year with which to bring up his large brood. But he turns outto be greedy, and makes a bid for one of the two young women, who, heimagines, is to inherit a large and valuable estate. But he has made amistake, and much of the latter part of the book deals with the way inwhich he tries to recover his position, and is, of course, rebuffed. NH________________________________________________________________________

THE MAIDENS' LODGENONE OF SELF AND ALL OF THEE, (IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE)

BY EMILY SARAH HOLT

CHAPTER ONE. 

PHOEBE ARRIVES AT WHITE-LADIES. 

 "The sailing of a cloud hath Providence to its pilot. "

 _Martin Farquhar Tupper_. 

In the handsome parlour of Cressingham Abbey, commonly calledWhite-Ladies, on a dull afternoon in January, 1712, sat Madam and hergranddaughter, Rhoda, sipping tea. 

Madam--and nothing else, her dependants would have thought it animpertinence to call her Mrs Furnival. Never was Empress of all theRussias more despotic in her wide domain than Madam in her narrow one. 

As to Mr Furnival--for there had been such a person, though it was agood while since--he was a mere appendage to Madam's greatness--usefulin the way of collecting rents and seeing to repairs, and capable ofbeing put away when done with. He was a little, meek, unobtrusive man, fully (and happily) convinced of his own insignificance, and ready tosink himself in his superb wife as he might receive orders. He had beenrequired to change his name as a condition of alliance with the heiressof Cressingham, and had done so with as much readiness as he would insimilar circumstances have changed his coat. It was about fourteenyears since this humble individual had ceased to be the head servant ofMadam; and it was Madam's wont to hint, when she condescended to referto him at all, that her marriage with him had been the one occasion inher life wherein she had failed to act with her usual infallibility. 

It had been a supreme disappointment to Madam that both her childrenwere of the inferior sex. Mrs Catherine to some extent resembled herfather, having no thoughts nor opinions of her own, but being capable ofmoulding like wax; and like wax her mother moulded her. She married, under Madam's orders, at the age of twenty, the heir of the neighbouringestate--a young gentleman of blood and fortune, with few brains andfewer principles--and died two years thereafter, leaving behind her ababy daughter only a week old, whom her careless father was glad enoughto resign to Madam, in order to get her out of his way. 

The younger of Madam's daughters, despite her sister's passiveobedience, had been the mother's favourite. Her obedience was by nomeans passive. She inherited all her mother's self-will, and more thanher mother's impulsiveness. Much the handsomer of the two, she wasdressed up, flattered, indulged, and petted in every way. Nothing wastoo good for Anne, until one winter day, shortly after Catherine'smarriage, when the family assembled round the breakfast table, and Annewas found missing. A note was brought to Madam that evening by one ofMr Peveril's under-gardeners, in which Anne gaily confessed that shehad taken her destiny into her own hands, and had that morning beenmarried to the Reverend Charles Latrobe, family chaplain to herbrother-in-law, Mr Peveril. She hoped that her mother would not beannoyed, and would receive her and her bridegroom with the usualcordiality exhibited at weddings. 

Madam's, face was a study for a painter. Had Anne Furnival searchedthrough her whole acquaintance, and selected that one man who would beleast acceptable at Cressingham, she could not have succeeded better. 

A chaplain! the son of a French Huguenot refugee, concerned in trade!--every item, in Madam's eyes, was a lower deep beyond the previous one. It was considered in those days that the natural wife for a familychaplain was the lady's maid. That so mean a creature should presume tolift his eyes to the sister of his patroness, was monstrous beyondendurance. And a Frenchman!--when Madam looked upon all foreigners asnuisances whose removal served for practice to the British fleet, andboasted that she could _not_ speak a word of French, with as muchcomplacency as would have answered for laying claim to a perfectknowledge of all the European tongues. And a tradesman's son! Atradesman, and a gentleman, in her eyes, were terms as incompatible as ablue rose or a vermilion cat. For a man to soil his fingers with sale, barter or manufacture, was destructive of all pretension not only tobirth, but to manners. 

On the head of her innocent spouse Madam's fury had been outpoured in nomeasured terms. Receive the hussy, she vehemently declared, she wouldnot! She should never set foot in that house again. From this momentshe had but one daughter. 

Two years afterwards, on the evening of Catherine's funeral, and of thetransference of baby Rhoda to the care of her grandmother, a youngwoman, shabbily dressed, carrying an infant, and looking tired andcareworn, made her way to the back door of the Abbey. She asked for aninterview with Madam. 

"I cannot disturb Madam, " said the grey-haired servant, not unkindly;"her daughter was buried this morning. You must come again, my goodwoman. "

"Must I so, Baxter?" replied the applicant. "Tell her she has onedaughter left. Surely, if ever she will see me, it were to-night. "

"Eh, Mrs Anne!" exclaimed the man, who remembered her as a baby inarms. "Your pardon, Madam, that I knew you not sooner. Well, I cannottell! but come what will, it shall never be said that I turned my youngmistress from her mother's door. If I lose my place by it, I'll take inyour name to Madam. "

The answer he received was short and stern. "_My daughter_ was buriedthis morning. I will not see the woman. "

Baxter softened it a little in repeating it to Mrs Latrobe. But hecould not soften the hard fact that her mother refused to see her. Shewas turning away, when suddenly she lifted her head and held out herchild to him. 

"Take it to her! 'Tis a boy. "

Mrs Latrobe knew Madam. If a grandchild of the nobler sex produced noeffect upon her, no more could be hoped. Baxter carried the child in, but he shook his grey head when he brought it back. He did not repeatthe message this time. 

"I'll have nought to do with that beggar tradesfellow's brats!" saidMadam, in a fury. 

"Mrs Anne, there's one bit of comfort, " said old Baxter, in a whisper. "Master slipped out as soon as I told of you, and I saw him cross thefield towards the church. Go you that way, and meet him. "

She did not speak another word, but she clasped the child tight to herbosom, and hurried away. As she passed a narrow outlet at the end ofthe Abbey Church, close to the road, Mr Furnival shambled out and mether. 

"Eh, Nancy, poor soul, God bless thee!" faltered the poor father, whowas nearly as much to be pitied as his child. "She'll not see thee, mygirl. And she'll blow me up for coming. But that's nothing--it comesevery day for something. Look here, child, " and Mr Furnival emptiedall his pockets, and poured gold and silver into Anne's thin hand. "Ican do no more. Poor child! poor child! But if thou art in trouble, mygirl, send to me at any time, and I'll pawn my coat for thee if I can dono better. "

"Father, " said Mrs Latrobe, in an unsteady voice, "I am sorry I wasever an undutiful child to _you_. "

The emphasis was terribly significant. 

So they parted, with much admiration of the grandson, and Mr Furnivaltrotted back to his penance; for Madam kept him very short of money, andrequired from him an account of every shilling. The storm which heanticipated broke even a little more severely than he expected; but hebore it quietly, and went to bed when it was over. 

Since that night nothing whatever had been heard of Mrs Latrobe untilfour months before the story opens. When Mr Furnival was on hisdeath-bed, he braved his wife's anger by naming the disowned daughter. His last words were, "Perpetua, seek out Anne!"

Madam sat listening to him with lips firmly set, and without words. Itwas not till he was past speech that she gave him any answer. 

"Jack, " she said at last, to the pleading eyes which were more eloquentthan the hushed voice had been, "look you here. I will not seek thegirl out. She has made her bed, and let her lie on it! But I will dothis for you--and I should never have done that without your asking andpraying me now. If she comes or sends to me, I will not refuse her somehelp. I shall please myself what sort. But I won't turn her quiteaway, for your sake. "

The pleading eyes turned to grateful ones. An hour later, and Madam wasa widow. 

Fourteen years passed, during which Rhoda grew up into a maiden ofnineteen years, always in the custody of her grandmother. Her fatherhad fallen in one of the Duke of Marlborough's battles, and before hisdeath had been compelled to sell Peveril Manor to liquidate his gamblingdebts. He left nothing for Rhoda beyond his exquisite wardrobe andjewellery, a service of gold plate, and a number of unpaid bills, whichMadam flatly refused to take upon herself, and defied the unhappytradesmen to impose upon Rhoda. She did, however, keep the plate andjewels; and by way of a sop to Cerberus, allowed the "beggarlycraftsmen, " whom she so heartily despised, to sell and divide theproceeds of the wardrobe. 

When the fourteen years were at an end, on an afternoon in September, aletter was brought to the Abbey for Madam. Its bearer was arespectable, looking middle-aged woman. Madam ordered her to have somerefreshment, while she read the letter. Rhoda noticed that her handshook as she held it, and wondered what it could be about. Letters wereunusual and important documents in those days. But it was the signaturethat had startled Madam--"Anne Latrobe. "

Mrs Latrobe wrote in a strain of suffering, penitence, and entreaty. She was in sore trouble. Her husband was dead; of her five childrenonly one was living. She herself was capable of taking a situation aslady's maid--a higher position then than now--and she knew of one ladywho was willing to engage her, if she could provide otherwise forPhoebe. Phoebe was the second of her children, and was now seventeen. She expressed her sorrow for the undutiful behaviour of which she hadbeen guilty towards both parents; and she besought in all ignorance thefather who had been dead for fourteen years, to plead with Madam, tohelp her, in any way she pleased, to put Phoebe into some respectableplace where she could earn her own living. Mrs Latrobe described heras a "quiet, meek, good girl, --far better than ever I was, "--and saidthat she would be satisfied with any arrangement which would effect theend proposed. 

For some minutes Madam sat gazing out of the window, yet seeing nothing, with the letter lying open before her. Her promise to her dead husbandbound her to answer favourably. What should she do with Phoebe? Aftersome time of absolute silence, she startled Rhoda with the question, --

"Child, how old are you?"

"Nineteen, Madam, " answered Rhoda, in much surprise. 

"Two years!" responded Madam, --which words were an enigma to hergranddaughter. 

But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary ofher sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of someeligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She wasmore perplexed than ever with the next question. 

"Would you like a companion, child?"

"Very much, Madam. " Anything which was a change was welcome to Rhoda. 

"I think I will, " said Madam. "Ring the bell. "

I have already stated that Madam was impulsive. When her old butlercame in--a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability--shesaid, "Send that woman here. "

The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within thedoor. 

"Your name, my good woman?" asked Madam, condescendingly. 

"An't please you, Molly Bell, Madam. "

"Whence come you, Molly?"

"An't please you, from Bristol, Madam. "

"How came you?"

"An't please you, on foot, Madam; but I got a lift in a carrier's cartfor a matter of ten miles. "

"Do you know the gentlewoman that writ the letter you brought?"

"Oh, ay, Mistress Latrobe! The Lord be thanked, Madam, that ever I didknow her, and her good master, the Reverend, that's gone to the goodplace. "

"You are sure of that?" demanded Madam; but the covert satire was loston Molly Bell. 

"Sure!" exclaimed she; adding, very innocently, "You can never haveknown Mr Latrobe, Madam, to ask that; not of late years, leastwise. "

"I never did, " said Madam, rather grimly. "And do you know MrsPhoebe?"

"Dear heart, Madam!" said Molly, laughing softly, "but how queer it dosound, for sure, to hear you say Mrs Phoebe! She's always been MissPhoebe with us all these years; and we hadn't begun like to think shewas growing up. Oh, dear, yes, Madam, I knew them all--Master Charles, and Miss Phoebe, and Master Jack, and Miss Perry, and Miss Kitty. "

"Miss Perry?" said Madam, in an interrogative tone. 

"Miss Perpetua, Madam--we always called her Miss Perry for short. Adear little blessed child she was!"

Rhoda saw the kind which held the letter tremble again. 

"And they are all dead but Miss Phoebe?"

"It's a mercy Miss Phoebe wasn't taken too, " said Molly, shaking herhead. "They died of the fever, in one fortnight's time--Miss Perry wentthe first; and then Master Jack, and then Master Charles, and theReverend himself, and Miss Kitty last of all. Miss Phoebe was down likeall of 'em, and the doctor did say he couldn't ha' pulled her throughbut for her dear good mother. She never had her gown off, Madam, nightnor day, just a-going from one sick bed to another; and they all died inher arms. I wonder she didn't lie down and die herself at last. I dothink it was Miss Phoebe beginning to get better as kept her in life. "

"Poor Anne!"

If anything could have startled Rhoda, it was those two words. Sherecognised her aunt's name, and knew now of whom they were speaking. 

Had Molly been retained as counsel for Mrs Latrobe, she could hardlyhave spoken more judiciously than she did. She went on now, --

"And, O Madam! when all was done, and the five coffins carried out, shesays to me, Mrs Latrobe says, `Molly, ' she says, `I'd ought to be verythankful. I haven't been a good child, ' she says, `to my father andmother. But _they'll_ never pay me back my bitter ways, ' she says. AndI'm right sure, Madam, as Miss Phoebe never will, for she's that sweetand good, she is! So you see, Madam, Mrs Latrobe, she's had hertroubles, and if so be she's sent to you for comfort, Madam, I take theliberty to hope as you'll give her a bit. "

"You can go back to the kitchen, Molly, " said Madam, in what was for hera very gracious tone. "I will order you a night's lodging here, andto-morrow one of my carters, who is going to Gloucester, shall take youso far on your way. I will give you a letter to carry. "

"Thank you kindly, Madam!"

And with half a dozen courtesies, one for Rhoda, and the rest for Madam, Molly retreated, well pleased. Madam sat down and wrote her letter. This was Madam's letter, written in an amiable frame of mind:--

 "Daughter, --I have yowr leter. Your father is ded thise foreteen yeres. I promissed him as he lay a dyeing yt wou'd doe some thing for you. You have nott desarv'd itt, but I am sory to here of your troble. If you will sende youre childe to mee, I will doe so mutch for yow as too brede her upp with my granedor Roda, yowr sistar Catterin's child. I wou'd not have yow mistak my meaneing, wch is nott that shee shou'd be plac'd on a levell with her cosin, for Roada is a jantlewoman, and yt is moar than she can say. But to be Rodes wating mayd, and serve her in her chamber, and bere her cumpany when she hath need. I will give the girle too sutes of close by the yere, and some tims a shillinge in her pockit, and good lodgeing and enow of victle. And if shee be obediant and humbel, and order her self as I wou'd she may, I will besyde al this give her if shee mary her weding close and her weddying diner, --yt is, if she mary to my minde, --and if noe, thenn shee may go whissel for anie thing I will doe for her. It is moar than she cou'd look for anie whear els. You will bee a foole to say Noe. 

 "P. Furnival. 

 "Lett the girle come when you goe to your place. There is a carrer goes from Bristoll to Teukesburry, and a mann with an horse shal mete her at the Bell. "

Be not horrified, accomplished modern reader, at Madam's orthography. She spelt fairly well--for a lady in 1712. 

An interval of about two months followed, and then came another letterfrom Mrs Latrobe. She wrote in a most grateful strain; she wasevidently even more surprised than pleased with the offer for Phoebe. There was a reference of penitent love to her father; a promise thatPhoebe should be at Cressingham on or as near as possible to thetwenty-ninth of January; and warm thanks for her mother's undeservedkindness, more especially for the consideration which had prompted thepromise that Phoebe should be met at Tewkesbury, instead of being leftto find her way alone in the dark through the two miles which laybetween that town and Cressingham. 

So, on the afternoon of that twenty-ninth of January, an hour after theman and horses had started, Madam and Rhoda sat in the Abbey parlour, sipping their tea, and both meditating on the subject of Phoebe. 

Madam, as became a widow, was attired in black. A stiff black bombazinepetticoat was surmounted by a black silk gown adorned with flowers inraised embroidery, and the train of the gown was pulled through thepocket-hole of the petticoat. At that time, ladies of all ages woretheir dresses low and square at the neck, edged with a tucker of nett orlace; the sleeves ended at the elbows with a little white ruffle ofsimilar material to the tucker. In London, the low head-dress wascoming into fashion; but country ladies still wore the high commode, asuperb erection of lace and muslin, from one to three feet in height. Long black silk mittens were drawn up to _meet_ the sleeves. The shoesreached nearly to the ankles, and were finished with large silverbuckles. 

Rhoda was much smarter. She wore a cotton gown--for when all cottongowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles--ofan involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red. Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode wasbrightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-bucklesrivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda's figure was good, but herface was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neitherintellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also didMadam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it wouldhave been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tingeof red. 

The coming of her cousin was an event of the deepest interest to Rhoda, for she had been ever since her birth absolutely without any society ofher own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself byother girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplishedyoung person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, andsuch a pleasure to receive--with a becoming deprecation which meantnothing--the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dippedinto a score or two of her grandfather's books, had picked up sundryfine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, orwhat would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of thedelightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe. 

So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madamring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trottedpast the window, until Sukey, one of Madam's maids, came in answer tothe bell, and courtesying, said, "An it please you, Madam, Mrs PhoebeLatrobe. "

Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item whichshe noticed was that Phoebe's figure was by no means so good as her own, her shoulders being so high as almost to reach deformity; the next pointwas that the expression of Phoebe's face was remarkably sweet; the thirdwas that Phoebe's dress was particularly shabby. It was a brown stuff, worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any of theflounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain whitelinen apron--aprons were then worn both in and out of doors--andPhoebe's walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse, and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. Themanner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void ofself-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. Shecourtesied, first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stoodwaiting within the door till she was called forward. 

"Come hither, child!" said Madam. 

Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam puttwo fingers under Phoebe's chin, and lifting up the young face, studiedit intently. What she saw there seemed to please her. 

"You'll do, child, " she said, letting Phoebe go. "Be a good maid, andobedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose yourhood. Rhode, pour her a dish of tea. "

And this was Madam's welcome to her granddaughter. 

Phoebe obeyed her instructions with no words but "Thank you, Madam. "Her voice was gentle and low. If the tears burned under her eyelids, noone knew it but herself. 

"Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber, " said Madam, when thenew-comer had finished her tea. "I see, child, your new clothes hadbetter not be long a-coming. "

"I have a better gown than this, Madam, in my trunk, " she answered. 

"Well, I am glad of it, " said Madam shortly. 

Rhoda led her cousin up the wide stone staircase, and into a prettyroom, low but comfortable, fitted with a large bed, a washstand, awardrobe, and a dressing-table. The two girls were to occupy ittogether. And here Rhoda's tongue, always restrained in hergrandmother's presence, felt itself at liberty, and behaved accordingly. A new cousin to catechise was a happiness that did not occur every day. 

"Have you no black gown?" was the first thing which Rhoda demanded ofPhoebe. 

"Oh, yes, " said Phoebe. "I wear black for my father, and all of them. "

Heedless of what she might have noticed--the tremor of Phoebe's voice--Rhoda went on with her catechism. 

"How long has your father been dead?"

"Eight months. "

"Did you like him?"

"_Like_ him!" Phoebe seemed to have no words to answer. 

"I never knew anything about mine, " went on Rhoda. "He lived till I wasthirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!"

Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if _her_ thoughts were toomuch for her. 

"And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brotheror sister, " pursued Rhoda. 

"Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!" said Phoebe, lookingat Rhoda with deep compassion. 

"Love! Oh, I don't know that I want it, " said Rhoda lightly. "How isAunt Anne, and where is she?"

"Mother?" Phoebe's voice shook again. "She is going to live with agentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone. "

"Well, you know, " was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not atall neatly put in order, "you'll have to wear a black gown to-morrow. It is King Charles. "

"Yes, I know, " said Phoebe. 

"Was your father a Dissenter?" queried Rhoda. 

"No, " said Phoebe, looking rather surprised. 

"Because I can tell you, Madam hates Dissenters, " said Rhoda. "Shewould as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn't you come in yourblack gown?"

"It is my best, " answered Phoebe. "I cannot afford to spoil it. "

"What do you think of Madam?"

Phoebe shrank from this question. "I can hardly think anything yet. "

"Oh dear, I wish to-morrow were over!" said Rhoda with an artificialshiver. "I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. Wehave to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and butter fordinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I'll show youthe ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writpoetry?"

"No, " replied Phoebe. "But will that not be diverting ourselves?"

"Oh, but we can't always be miserable!" said Rhoda. "Besides, what gooddoes it do? It is none to King Charles: and I'm sure it never does megood. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens' Lodge, and makeacquaintance with the old gentlewomen. "

"The Maidens' Lodge, what is that?"

"Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called itthe Maidens' Lodge; a sort of better-most kind of alms-houses, you know, for six old gentlewomen--at least, I dare say they are not all old, butsome of them are. (Mrs Vane does not think she is, at any rate. ) Youcan't see them from this window; they are on the other side of thechurch. "

"And are they all filled?"

"All but one, just now. I protest I don't know why Madam built them. Iguess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it wouldhave been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; butdon't you tell her I said so!"

"Don't be afraid, " said Phoebe, smiling. "I trust I am not apick-thank. But don't you think, when you would not have a thing saidagain, it were better not to say it at the first?"

[Note: A meddlesome mischief-maker. ]

"Oh, stuff! I can't always be such a prig as that!"

Phoebe was unpacking a trunk of very modest dimensions, and Rhoda, perched on a corner of the bed, sat and watched her. 

"Is _that_ your best gown?"

"Yes, " said Phoebe, lifting it carefully out. 

"How many have you?"

"This and that. "

"Only two? How poor Aunt Anne must be!"

"We have always been poor. "

"Have you always lived in Bristol?"

"No. We used to live at the Bath when I was a child. Father was curateat the Abbey Church. "

"How much did he get?"

"Twenty-five pounds a year. "

"That wasn't much for seven of you. "

"It was not, " returned Phoebe, significantly. 

"What can you do?" asked Rhoda, suddenly. "Can you write poetry?"

"I never tried, so I cannot tell, " said Phoebe. 

"Can you sing?"

"Yes. "

"And play on anything?"

"No. I cannot do much. I can sew pretty well, and knit in fourdifferent ways; I don't cook much--I mean, I don't know how to make manythings, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read andwrite, and keep accounts. "

"Can you dance a jig?--and embroider, and work tapestry?"

"No, I don't know anything of that. "

"Can't work tapestry! Why, Phoebe!"

"You see, there never was any time, " said Phoebe, apologetically. "Ofcourse, I helped mother with the cooking and sewing; and then there werethe children to see to, and I learned Perry and Kitty to read and sew. Then there were all the salves and physic for the poor folk. We couldnot afford much in that way, but we did what we could. "

"Well, I wouldn't marry a parson; that's flat!" said Rhoda. "Fancyspending all your days a-making salves and boluses! Fiddle-faddle!"

Phoebe gave a little laugh. "I was not always making salves, " she said. 

"Had you any pets? We have a parrot; I believe she's near as old asMadam. I want a monkey, but Madam won't hear of it. "

"We never had but one, " said Phoebe, the quiver coming again into hervoice, "and--it died. "

"What was it?"

"A little dog. "

"I don't much care for dogs, " said Rhoda. "Mrs Vane is the one forpets; that is, whenever they are modish. She carries dormice in herpocket, and keeps a lapdog and a squirrel. When the mode goes out, shegives the thing away, and gets something newer. "

"Oh, dear!" said Phoebe. "I could never give my friends away. "

"Oh, it is not always to friends, " said Rhoda, misunderstanding her. "She gave one of her cats to a tailor at Tewkesbury. "

"But the creatures are your friends, " said Phoebe. "How can you bear togive them away?"

"Cats, and dogs, and squirrels--friends!" answered Rhoda, laughing. "Why, Phoebe, what a droll creature you are!"

"They would be my friends, " responded Phoebe. 

"I vow, I'd like to see you make a friend of Mrs Vane's Cupid!"exclaimed Rhoda, laughing. "He is the most spiteful little brute I everset eyes on. He thinks his teeth were made to bite everybody, and histail wasn't made to wag. "

"Poor little thing! I don't wonder, if he has a mistress who would givehim away because it was not the mode to keep him. "

"I never saw a maid so droll!" said Rhoda, still laughing; "'twill neverserve to be so mighty nice, that I can tell you. Why, you talk as ifthose creatures had feelings, like we have!"

"And so they have, " said Phoebe, warming up a little. 

"You are mightily mistaken, " returned Rhoda. 

"Why do they bark, and bite, and wag their tails, then?" said Phoebe, unanswerably. "It means something. "

"Why, what does it signify if they have?" demanded Rhoda, not veryconsistently. "I say, Phoebe, is that your best hood? How shabby yougo!"

"Yes, " answered Phoebe, quietly. 

"How much pin-money do you mean to stand for?" was Rhoda's nextstartling question. 

"How much what?" said astonished Phoebe, dropping the gloves she wastaking out of her trunk. 

"How much pin-money will you make your husband give you?"

"I've not got one!" was Phoebe's very innocent response. 

"Well, you'll have one some day, of course, " said Rhoda. "I mean tohave five hundred, at least. "

"Pounds?" gasped Phoebe. 

"Of course!" laughed Rhoda. "I tell you, I mean to be a modishgentlewoman, as good as ever Mrs Vane; and I'll have a knight at least. Oh, you'll see, one of these days. I can manage Madam, when Idetermine on it. Phoebe, there's the supper bell. Come on. "

And quite regardless of the treasonable language in which she had justbeen indulging, Rhoda danced down into the parlour, becoming suddenlysober as she crossed the threshold. 

Phoebe followed, and unless her face much belied her thoughts, she was agood deal puzzled by her new cousin. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

MAKING ACQUAINTANCES. 

"Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in adistant waste: No shepherds' tents within thy view appear, Yet the ChiefShepherd is for ever near. "

_Cowper_. 

The Abbey Church of White-Ladies, to which allusion has already beenmade, was not in any condition for Divine Service, being only abeautiful ruin. When Madam went to church, therefore, she drove twomiles to Tewkesbury. 

At nine o'clock punctually, the great lumbering coach was drawn to thedoor by the two heavy Flanders mares, with long black tails which almosttouched the ground. Madam, in a superb costume of black satin, trimmedwith dark fur and white lace, took her seat in the place of honour. Rhoda, in a satin gown and hood, with a silk petticoat, all black, asbecame the day, sat on the small seat at one side of the door. ButRhoda sat with her face to the horses, while the yet lower placeopposite was reserved for Phoebe, in her unpretending mourning. Thegreat coach rumbled off, out of the grand gates, always opened whenMadam was present, past the ruins of the Abbey Church, and drew upbefore a row of six little houses, fronted by six little gardens. Theywere built on a very minute scale, exactly alike, each containing foursmall rooms--kitchen, parlour, and two bedrooms over, with a littlelean-to scullery at the back. On the mid-most coping-stone appeared alofty inscription to the effect that--

"The Maidens' Lodge was built to the Praise and Glory of God, by thepious care of Mistress Perpetua Furnival, Widow, for the lodging of sixdecayed gentlewomen, Spinsters, of Good Birth and Quality, --A. D. 1702. "

It occurred to Phoebe, as she sat reading the inscription, that it mighthave been pleasanter to the decayed gentlewomen in question not to havetheir indigence quite so openly proclaimed to the world, even thoughcoupled with good birth and quality, and redounding to the fame ofMistress Perpetua Furnival. But Phoebe had not much time to meditate;for the door of the first little house opened, and down the gravel walk, towards the carriage, came the neatest and nicest of little old ladies, attired, like everybody that day, in black, and carrying a silver-headedcane, on which she leaned as if it really were needed to support her. She was one of those rare persons, a pretty old woman. Her complexionwas still as fair and delicate as a painting on china, her blue eyesclear and expressive. Of course, in days when everyone wore powder, hair was of one colour--white. 

"This is Mrs Dolly Jennings, " whispered Rhoda to Phoebe; "she is theeldest of the maidens, and she is about seventy. I believe she is somemanner of cousin to the Duke--not very near, you know. "

The Duke, in 1712, of course, meant the Duke of Marlborough. 

"Good morning, Madam, " said Mrs Jennings, in a cheerful yet gentlevoice, when she reached the carriage. 

"Good morning, Mrs Dorothy. I am glad I see you well enough toaccompany me to church. "

"You are very good, Madam, " was the reply, as Mrs Dorothy clambered upinto the lumbering vehicle; "I thank God my rheumatic pains are as fewand easy to-day as an old woman of threescore and ten need look for. "

"You are a great age, Mrs Dorothy, " observed Madam. 

"Yes, Madam, I thank God, " returned Mrs Dorothy, as cheerfully asbefore. 

While Phoebe was meditating on this last answer, the second Maidenappeared from Number Two. She was an entire contrast to the first, being tall, sharp, featured, florid, high-nosed, and generally angular. 

"Mrs Jane Talbot, " whispered Rhoda. 

Mrs Jane, having offered her civilities to Madam, climbed also into thecoach, and placed herself beside Mrs Dorothy. 

"Marcella begs you will allow her excuses, Madam, for she is indisposedthis morning, " said Mrs Jane, in a quick, sharp voice, which madePhoebe doubt if all her angularity were outside. 

While Madam was expressing her regret at this news, the doors of NumbersFive and Six opened simultaneously, and two ladies emerged, who were, intheir way, as much a contrast as Mrs Jane and Mrs Dorothy. Number Sixreached the carriage first. She was a pleasant, comfortable lookingwoman of about fifty years of age, with a round face and healthycomplexion, and a manner which, while kindly, was dignified andself-possessed. 

"Good morning, my Lady Betty!" said the three voices. 

Phoebe then perceived that the seat of honour, beside Madam, had beenreserved for Lady Betty. But Number Five followed, and she was sosingular a figure that Phoebe's attention was at once diverted to her. 

She looked about the age of Lady Betty, but having evidently been abeauty in her younger days she was greatly indisposed to resign thatcharacter. Though it was a sharp January morning, her neck wasunprotected by the warm tippet which all the other ladies wore. Therewas nothing to keep her warm in that quarter except a necklace. Largeear-rings depended from her ears, half a dozen rings were worn outsideher gloves, a long chatelaine hung from her neck to her waist, to whichwere attached a bunch of trinkets of all shapes and sizes. She waslaced very tight, and her poor nose was conscious of it, as it showed byblushing at the enormity. Under her left arm was a very small, veryfat, very blunt-nosed Dutch pug. Phoebe at once guessed that the ladywas Mrs Vane, and that the pug was Cupid. 

"Well, Clarissa!" said Mrs Jane, as the new-comer took her seat at thedoor opposite Rhoda; "pity you hadn't a nose-ring!"

Mrs Vane made no answer beyond an affected smile, but Cupid growled atMrs Jane, whom he did not seem to hold in high esteem. The coach, witha good effort on the part of the horses, got under way, and rumbled offtowards Tewkesbury. 

"And how does Sir Richard, my Lady Betty?" inquired Madam, with muchcordiality. 

"Oh, extremely well, I thank you, " answered Lady Betty. "So well, indeed, now, that he talks of a journey to London, and a month at theBath on his way thence. "

"What takes him to London?" asked Mrs Jane. 

"'Tis for the maids he thinks to go. He would have Betty and Gatty havea season's polishing; and for Molly--poor little soul!--he is wishful tohave her touched. "

"Is she as ill for the evil as ever, poor child?"

"Oh, indeed, yes! 'Tis a thousand pities; and such sprightly parts asshe discovers!"

[Note: So clever as she is. ]

"'Tis a mercy for such as she that the Queen doth touch, " said MrsJane. "King William never did. "

"Is that no mistake?" gently suggested Lady Betty. 

"Never _dared_, " came rather grimly from Madam. 

"Well, maybe, " said Mrs Jane. "But I protest I cannot see why QueenMary should not have done it, as well as her sister. "

"I own I cannot but very much doubt, " returned Madam, severely, "thatany good consequence should follow. "

By which it will be perceived that Madam was an uncompromising Jacobite. Mrs Jane had no particular convictions, but she liked to talk Whig, because all around were Tories. Lady Betty was a Hanoverian Tory--thatis, what would be termed an extreme Tory in the present day, butattached to the Protestant Succession. Mrs Clarissa was whatever shefound it the fashion to be. As to Mrs Dorothy, she held privateopinions, but she never allowed them to appear, well knowing that theywould be far from acceptable to Madam. And since Mrs Dorothy wassometimes constrained unwillingly to differ from Madam on points whichshe deemed essential, she was careful not to vex her on subjects whichshe considered indifferent. 

Rhoda was rather disappointed to find that Phoebe showed no astonishedadmiration of Tewkesbury Abbey. She forgot that the Abbey Church atBath, and Saint Mary Redcliffe at Bristol, had been familiar to Phoebefrom her infancy. The porch was lined with beggars, who showeredblessings upon Madam, in grateful anticipation of shillings to come. But Madam passed grandly on, and paid no attention to them. 

The church and the service were about equally chilly. Being a fast-day, the organ was silent; but all the responding was left to the choir, thecongregation seemingly supposing it as little their concern as Cupidthought it his--who curled himself up comfortably, and went to sleep. The gentlemen appeared to be amusing themselves by staring at theladies; the ladies either returned the compliment slily behind theirfans, or exchanged courtesies with each other. There was a long, longbidding prayer, and a sermon which might have been fitly prefaced by theannouncement, "Let us talk to the praise and glory of Charles theFirst!" It was over at last. The gentlemen put down their eye-glasses, the ladies yawned and furled their fans; there was a great deal ofbowing, and courtesying, and complimenting--Mr William informing MrsBetty that the sun had come out solely to do her honour, and Mrs Bettyretorting with a delicate blow from her fan, and, "What a mad fellow areyou!" At last these also were over; and the ladies from Cressinghamremounted the family coach, nearly in the same order as they came--thevariation being that Phoebe found herself seated opposite Mrs ClarissaVane. 

"Might I pat him?" said Phoebe, diffidently. 

"If you want to be bit, do!" snapped Mrs Jane. 

"Oh deah, yes!" languishingly responded Mrs Clarissa. "He neveh bites, does 'e, the pwetty deah!"

"Heyday! Doesn't 'e, the pwetty deah!" observed Mrs Jane, in suchexact imitation of her friend's affected tones as sorely to try Phoebe'sgravity. 

Lady Betty laughed openly, but added, "Mind what you are about, child. "

"Poor doggie!" softly said Phoebe. 

Cupid's response was the slightest oscillation of the extreme point ofhis tail. But when Phoebe attempted to stroke him, to the surprise ofall parties, instead of snapping at her, as he was expected to do, Cupidonly wagged rather more decidedly; and when Phoebe proceeded to rub hishead and ears, he actually gave her, not a bite of resentment, but alick of friendliness. 

"Deah! the sweet little deah! 'E's vewy good!" said his mistress. 

The gentle reader is requested not to suppose that the elision of MrsClarissa's poor letter H, as well as R, proceeded either from ignoranceor vulgarity--except so far as vulgarity lies in blindly followingfashion. Mrs Clarissa's only mistake was that, like most countryladies, she was rather behind the age. The dropping of H and otherletters had been fashionable in the metropolis some eight years before. 

"Clarissa, what a goose are you!" said Mrs Jane. 

"Come, Jenny, don't you bite!" put in Lady Betty. "Cupid has set you abetter example than so. "

"I'll not bite Clarissa, I thank you, " was Mrs Jane's rather spitefulanswer. "It would want more than one fast-day to bring me to that. Couldn't fancy the paint. And don't think I could digest the patches. "

Lady Betty appeared to enjoy Mrs Jane's very uncivil speeches; whileCupid's mistress remained untouched by them, being one of those personswho affect not to hear anything to which they do not choose to respond. 

"Well, Rhoda, child, " said Lady Betty, as the coach neared home, "'tisno good, I guess, to bid you drink tea on a fast-day?"

"Oh, but I am coming, my Lady Betty, " answered Rhoda, briskly. "I meanto drink a dish with every one of you. "

"I shan't give you anything to eat, " interpolated Mrs Jane. "Never doto be guzzling on a fast-day. You won't get any sugar from me, neither. "

"Never mind, Mrs Jane, " said Rhoda. "Mrs Dolly will give mesomething, I know. And I shall visit her first. "

Mrs Dorothy assented by a benevolent smile. 

"I hope, child, you will not forget it is a fast-day, " said Madam, gravely, "and not go about to divert yourself in an improper manner. "

"Oh no, Madam!" said Rhoda, drawing in her horns. 

No sooner was dinner over--and as Rhoda had predicted, there was nothingexcept boiled potatoes and bread and butter--than Rhoda pounced onPhoebe, and somewhat authoritatively bade her come upstairs. Madam hadcomposed herself in her easy chair, with the "Eikon Basilike" in herhand. 

"Will Madam not be lonely?" asked Phoebe, timidly, as she followedRhoda. 

"Lonely? Oh, no! She'll be asleep in a minute, " said Rhoda. 

"I thought she was going to read, " suggested Phoebe. 

"She fancies so, " said Rhoda, laughing. "I never knew her try yet butshe went to sleep directly. "

Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on achair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in redsheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe's notice with a rathergrandiloquent air. 

"Now, Phoebe! There's my Book of Poems!"

Phoebe opened the book, and her eye fell on a few lines of faint, delicate writing, on the fly-leaf. 

"To Rhoda Peveril, with her Aunt Margaret's love. "

"Oh, you have an aunt!" said Phoebe. 

"I have two somewhere, " said Rhoda. "They are good for nothing. Theynever give me anything. "

Phoebe looked up with a rather surprised air. "They seem to do, sometimes, " she observed, pointing to the book. 

"Well, that one did, " answered Rhoda; "one or two little things likethat; but she is dead. The others are just a pair of spiteful oldcats. "

Phoebe's look of astonishment deepened. 

"They must be very different from my aunt, then. I have only one, but Iwould not call her names for the world. She loves me, and I love her. "

"Why, what are aunts good for but to be called names?" was the amiableresponse. "But now listen, Phoebe. I am going to read you a piece ofmy poetry. You see, our old church is dedicated to Saint Ursula; andthere is an image in the church, which they say is Saint Ursula--it hassuch a charming face! Madam doesn't think 'tis charming, but I do. Soyou see, this poem is to that image. "

Phoebe looked rather puzzled, but did not answer. 

"Now, I would have you criticise, Phoebe, " said Rhoda, condescendingly, using a word she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books. 

"I don't know what that is, " said Phoebe. 

"Well, it means, if you hear anything you don't like, say so. "

"Very well, " replied Phoebe, quietly. 

And Rhoda began to read, with the style of a rhetorician--as shesupposed--

 "Step softly, nearer as ye tread To this shrine of the royal dead! This Abbey's hallowed unto one, Daughter of Britain's ancient throne, -- History names her one sole thing, The daughter of a British King. "

Rhoda paused, and looked at her cousin--ostensibly for criticism, reallyfor admiration. If Phoebe had said exactly what she thought, it wouldhave been that her ear was cruelly outraged: but Phoebe was notaccustomed to the sharp speeches which passed for wit with Rhoda. Shefell back on a matter of fact. 

"Does history say nothing more about her?"

"Of course it does! It says the Vandals martyred her. Phoebe, youcan't criticise poetry as if it were prose. "

It struck Phoebe that Rhoda's poetry was very like prose; but she saidmeekly, "Please go on. I ask your pardon. "

So Rhoda went on--

 "Her glorious line has passed away-- The wild dream of a by-gone day! We know not from what throne she sprang, Britain is silent in her song--"

"What's the matter?" asked Rhoda, interrupting herself. 

"I ask your pardon, " said Phoebe again. "But--will _song_ do with_sprang_? And if Ursula was a real person, as I thought she had been, she wasn't a wild dream, was she?"

"Phoebe, I do believe you haven't a bit of taste!" said Rhoda. "I'lltry you with one more verse, and then--

 "O wake her not! Ages have passed Since her fair eyelids closed at last. "

"I should think, then, you would find it difficult to wake her, "remarked Phoebe: but Rhoda went on as if she had not heard it, --

 "For twice six hundred years, 'tis said, Hath rested 'neath yon tomb her head, -- That head which soft reposed of old On couch of satin and of gold. "

"Dear!" was Phoebe's comment. "I didn't know they had satin sofastwelve hundred years ago. "

"'Tis no earthly use reading poetry to you!" exclaimed Rhoda, throwingdown the book. "You haven't one bit of feeling for it, no more than ifit were a sermon I was reading! Tie your hood on, and make haste, andwe'll go and see the Maidens. "

Phoebe seemed rather troubled to have annoyed her cousin, though sheevidently did not perceive how it had been effected. The girls tied ontheir hoods, and Rhoda, who was not really ill-natured, soon recoveredherself when she got into the fresh air. 

"Now, while we are going across the Park, " she said, "I will tell yousomething about the old gentlewomen. I couldn't this morning, you know, more than their names, because there was Madam listening. But now, hark! Mrs Dolly Jennings--the one who came in first, you know, and satover against Lady Betty--I don't know what kin she is, but there is somekin between her and the Duchess of Marlborough. She is the oldest ofthe Maidens, and the best one to tell a story--except she falls topreaching, and then 'tis tiresome. Do you like sermons, Phoebe?"

"It all depends who preaches them, " said Phoebe. 

"Well, of course it does, " said Rhoda. "I don't like anyone but DrHarris--he has such white hands!"

"He does not preach about them, does he?" said Phoebe, apparentlypuzzled as to the connection. 

"Oh, he nourishes them about, and discovers so many elegancies!"answered Rhoda. 

"But how does that make him preach better?"

"Why, Phoebe, how stupid you are! But you must not interrupt me in thatway, or I shall never be done. Mrs Dolly, you see, is seventy or more;and in her youth she was in the great world. So she has all manner ofstories, and she'll always tell them when you ask her. I only wish shedid not preach! Well, then, Mrs Jane Talbot--that one with the highnose, that sat next Mrs Dolly in the coach--she has lively partsenough, and that turn makes her very agreeable. I don't care for hersister, Mrs Marcella, that lives next her--she's always having somedistemper, and I don't like sick people. Mrs Clarissa Vane is theleast well-born of all of them; but she's been a toast, you see, and shefancies herself charming, poor old thing! As for Lady Betty--weren'tyou surprised? I believe Madam pays her a good lot to live there; itgives the place an air, you know. She is Sir Richard Delawarr's aunt, and he is the great man all about here--all the land that way belongs tohim, as far as you can see. He is of very good family--an old Normanhouse. They are thought a great deal of, you know. "

"But isn't that strange?" said Phoebe, meditatively. "If Sir Richard isthought more of because his forefathers came from France six hundredyears ago, why is my grandfather thought less of because he came fromFrance thirty years ago?"

"O Phoebe! It is not the same thing at all!"

"But why is it not the same thing?" gently persisted Phoebe. 

"Oh, nonsense!" said Rhoda, cutting the knot peremptorily. "Phoebe, canyou speak French?"

"Yes. "

"Have a care you don't let Madam hear you! Who taught you?--yourfather?"

"Yes. He said it was our own language. "

"Why, you don't mean to say he was _proud_ of being a Frenchman?" criedRhoda, in amazement. 

"I think he was, if he was proud of anything, " answered Phoebe. "Heloved France very dearly. He thought it the grandest country in theworld. "

And Phoebe's voice trembled a little. Evidently her father was in hereyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred. 

"But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn't!" cried Rhoda, towhom such an idea seemed an impossibility. 

"He was fond of England, too, " said Phoebe. "He said she had shelteredus when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be verythankful to her. But he loved France the best. "

Rhoda tried to accept this incredible proposition. 

"Well! 'tis queer!" she said at last. "Proud of being a Frenchman!What would Madam say?"

"'Tis only like Sir Richard Delawarr, is it?"

"Phoebe, you've no sense!"

"Well, perhaps I haven't, " said Phoebe meekly, as they turned in at thegate of Number One. 

Mrs Dolly Jennings was ready for her guests, in her little parlour, with the most delicate and transparent china set out upon the littletea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing onthe hob. 

"Well, you thought I meant it, Mrs Dolly!" exclaimed Rhoda laughingly, as the girls entered. 

"I always think people mean what they say, child, until I find theydon't, " said Mrs Dorothy. "Welcome, Miss Phoebe, my dear!"

"Oh, would you please to call me Phoebe?" said the owner of that name, blushing. 

"So I will, my dear, " replied Mrs Dorothy, who was busy now pouring outthe tea. "Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to breadand butter. "

Rhoda obeyed, and did not pass the plate to Phoebe. 

"Mrs Dolly, " she said, interspersing her words with occasional bites, "I am really concerned about Phoebe. She hasn't the least bit ofsense. "

"Indeed, child, " quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe colouredpainfully. "How doth she show it?"

"Why, she doesn't care a straw for poetry?"

"Is it poetry you engaged her with?"

"What do you mean?" said Rhoda, rather pettishly. "It was my poetry. "

"Eh, dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, but there was a little indication of funabout her mouth. "Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousinhath more fancy for epical poetry. "

"She doesn't care for any sort, I'm sure, " said Rhoda. 

"What say you to this heavy charge, Phoebe?" inquired little MrsDorothy, with a cheery smile. 

"I like some poetry, " replied Phoebe, bashfully. 

"What kind?" blurted out Rhoda, apparently rather affronted. 

Phoebe coloured, and hesitated. "I like the old hymns the Huguenotsused to sing, " she said, "such us dear father taught me. "

"Hymns aren't poetry!" said Rhoda, contemptuously. 

"That is true enough of some hymns, child, " answered Mrs Dorothy. "But, Phoebe, my dear, will you let us hear one of your hymns?"

"They are in French, " whispered Phoebe. 

"They will do for me in French, my dear, " replied Mrs Dorothy. 

Rhoda stared in manifest astonishment. Phoebe struggled for a momentwith her natural shyness, and then she began:--

 "Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger. "

 "My lot asks no complaining, But joy and confidence; I have no fear remaining, For God is my Defence. "

But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush ofassociations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, andcovered her face with her hands. 

"What on earth are you crying for?" asked Rhoda. 

"Thank you, my dear, " said Mrs Dorothy. "The verse is enough for aday, and the truth which is in it is enough for a life. "

"I ask your pardon!" sobbed Phoebe, when she could speak at all. "But Iused to sing it--to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poormother. And they are all gone now!"

"Oh, don't bother!" said Rhoda. "My papa's dead, and my mamma too; butyou'll not see me crying over it. "

Rhoda pronounced the words "Pappa, " and "Mamma, " as is done in Americato this day. 

"You never knew your parents, Mrs Rhoda, " said the little old lady, ever ready to cast oil on the troubled waters. "Phoebe, dear child, wouldst thou wish them all back again?"

"No; oh, no! I could not be so unkind, " said Phoebe, wiping her eyes. "But only a year ago, there were seven of us. It seems so hard!"

"I say, Phoebe, if you mean to cry and take on, " said Rhoda, springingup and drinking off her tea, "you'll give me the spleen. I hate to behipped. I shall be off to Mrs Jane. Come along!"

"Go yourself, Mrs Rhoda, my dear, and leave your cousin to recover, iftears be your aversion. "

"Why, aren't they all our aversions?" said Rhoda, outraging grammar. "You don't need to pretend, Mrs Dolly! I never saw you cry in mylife. "

"Ah, child!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if she meant to indicate that therehad been more of her life than could be seen from Rhoda'sstanding-point. "But you'll do well to take an old woman's counsel, mydear. Run off to Mrs Jane, and divert yourself half an hour; and whenyou return, your cousin will have passed her trouble, and I will have aStory to tell you both. I know you like stories. "

"Come, I'll go, for a story when I came back, " said Rhoda; "but I meantto take Phoebe. Can't she wipe her eyes and come?"

"Then I shall not tell you a story, " responded Mrs Dorothy. 

Rhoda laughed, and ran off. Mrs Dorothy let Phoebe have her cry outfor a short time. She moved softly about, putting things in order, andthen came and sat down by Phoebe on the settle. 

"The world is too great for thee, poor child!" she said, tenderly, taking Phoebe's hands in hers. "It is a long way from thy father'sgrave; but, bethink thee, 'tis no long way from himself, if he is goneto Him that is our Father. "

"I know he is, " whispered Phoebe. 

"And is the Lord thy Shepherd, dear child?"

"I know He is, " said Phoebe, again. 

"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, '" softly repeated Mrs Dorothy. 

"Oh, it is wrong of me!" sobbed Phoebe. "But it does seem so hard. Nobody cares for me any more. "

"Nay, my child, `He careth for thee. '"

"Oh, I know it is so!" was the answer; "but I can't feel it. It alllooks so dark and cold. I can't feel it!"

"Poor little child, lost in the dark!" said Mrs Dorothy, gently. "Dear, the Lord must know how very much easier it would be to see. ButHis especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet havebelieved. 'Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thinehand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly fatherwould have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenlyFather?"

Phoebe's tears were falling more softly now. 

"Phoebe, little maiden, shall I love thee?"

"Thank you, Mrs Dorothy, but people don't love me, " said Phoebe, as ifit were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. "Only dear fatherand Perry. "

"And thy mother, " suggested Mrs Dorothy, in a soothing tone. 

"Well--yes--I suppose so, " doubtfully admitted Phoebe. "But, you see, poor mother--I had better not talk about it, Mrs Dorothy, if youplease. "

Mrs Dorothy let the point pass, making a note of it in her own mind. She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, "Dear father" and "poor mother"; yetit was the father who was dead, and the mother was living. The terms, thought Mrs Dorothy, must have some reference to character. 

"Little Phoebe, " she said, "if it should comfort thee betimes to pourout thine heart to some human creature, come across the Park, and tellthy troubles to me. Thou art but a young traveller; and such mostlylong for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorryfor thee, while the Lord can help thee. He is the best to trust, child. "

"Yes, I know, " whispered Phoebe. "You are so good, Mrs Dorothy!"

"Now for the story!" said Rhoda, dancing into the little parlour. "You've had oceans of time to dry your eyes. I have been to Mrs Jane, and Mrs Clarissa, and my Lady Betty; and I've had a dish of tea witheach one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I'm ready, MrsDorothy; go on!"

"What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?"

"Oh, you had better begin at the beginning, " said Rhoda. "I don't thinkI ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin withthe Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your wholehistory. "

Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully. 

"It won't do me any harm, " added Rhoda; "and I can't see why you shouldcare. You're nearly seventy, aren't you?"

Phoebe's shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to meanthat she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resentthe question. 

"Yes, my dear, I am over seventy, " she said, quietly. "And I don't knowthat it would do you any harm. You have to face the world, too, one ofthese days. Please God, you may have a more guarded entrance into itthan I had! Here is a cushion for your back, Mrs Rhoda; and, Phoebe, my dear, here is one for you. Let me reach my knitting, and then youshall hear my story. But it will be a long one. "

"So much the better, if 'tis agreeable, " answered Rhoda. "I don't carefor stories that are over in a minute. "

"This will not be over in a day, " said Mrs Dorothy. 

"All right, " responded Rhoda, settling herself as comfortably as shecould. "I say, Phoebe, change cushions with me; I'm sure you've got thesofter. "

And Phoebe obeyed in an instant. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

LITTLE MRS. DOROTHY. 

 "And the thousands come and go All along the crowded street; But they give no ear to the things we know, And they pass with careless feet. For some hearts are hard with gold, And some are crushed in the throng, And some with the pleasures of life are cold-- How long, O Lord, how long!"

"If I am to begin at the beginning, my dears, " said little Mrs Dorothy, "I must tell you that I was born in a farmhouse, about a mile from SaintAlbans, on the last day of the year of our Lord 1641; that my father wasthe Reverend William Jennings, brother to Sir Edward; and that my motherwas Mrs Frances, daughter to Sir Jeremy Charlton. "

"Whatever made your father take up with a parson's life?" said Rhoda. "I wouldn't be one for an apron full of money! Surely he was marriedfirst, wasn't he?"

"He was married first, " answered Mrs Dorothy; "and both his father andmy mother's kindred took it extreme ill that he should propose suchviews to himself, --the rather because he was of an easy fortune, hisgrandmother having left him some money. "

"Would I have been a parson!" exclaimed Rhoda. "I'm too fond of jelliesand conserves--nobody better. "

"Well, my dear Mrs Rhoda, if you will have me say what I think, "resumed Mrs Dorothy. 

"You can if you like, " interjected Rhoda. 

"It does seem to me, and hath ever done so, that the common customamongst us, which will have the chaplain to rise and withdraw whendessert is served, must be a relique of barbarous times. "

Dessert at that time included pies, puddings, and jellies. 

"O Mrs Dorothy! you have the drollest notions!"

And Rhoda went off in a long peal of laughter. The idea of any otherarrangement struck her as very comical indeed. 

"Well, my dear, " said Mrs Dorothy, "I hope some day to see itotherwise. "

"Oh, how droll it would be!" said Rhoda. "But go on, please, MrsDolly. "

"Through those troublous times that followed on my birth, " resumed theold lady, "I was left for better safety with the farmer at whose house Iwas born; for my father had shortly after been made parson of a churchin London, and 'twas not thought well that so young a child as I thenwas should be bred up in all the city tumults. My foster-father's namewas Lawrence Ingham; and he and his good wife were as father and motherto me. "

"But what fashion of breeding could you get at a farmhouse?" demandedRhoda, with a scornful pout. 

"Why, 'twas not there I learned French, child, " answered Mrs Dorothy, smiling; "but I learned to read, write, and cast accounts; to cook anddistil, to conserve and pickle; with all manner of handiworks--sewing, knitting, broidery, and such like. And I can tell you, my dear, that inall the great world whereunto I afterwards entered I never saw bettermanners than in that farmhouse. I saw more ceremonies, sure; but notmore courtesy and kindly thought for others. "

"Why, I thought folks like that had no manners at all!" said Rhoda. 

"Then you were mightily mistaken, my dear. Farmer Ingham had twodaughters, who were like sisters to me; but they were both older than I. Their names were Grace and Faith. 'Twas a very quiet, peacefulhousehold. We rose with the sun in summer, and before it in winter--"

"Catch me!" interpolated Rhoda. 

"And before any other thing might be done, there was reading and prayerin the farmhouse kitchen. All the farm servants trooped in, and tooktheir places in order, the men on the right hand of the master, and thewomen on the left of the mistress. Then the farmer read a chapter, andafterwards prayed, all joining in `Our Father' at the end. "

"But--he wasn't a parson?" demanded Rhoda, with a perplexed look. 

"Oh no, my dear. "

"Then how could he pray?" said Rhoda. "He'd no business to read thePrayer-Book; and of course he couldn't pray without it. "

"Ah, then he made a mistake, " replied Mrs Dorothy very quietly. "Hefancied he could. "

"But who ever heard of such a thing?" said Rhoda. 

"We heard a good deal of it in those days, my dear. Why, child, theCommon Prayer was forbid, even in the churches. Nobody used it, save afew here and there, that chose to run the risk of being found out andpunished. "

"How queer!" cried Rhoda. "Well, go on, Mrs Dolly. I hope the prayersweren't long. I should have wanted my breakfast. "

"They were usually about three parts of an hour. "

"Ugh!" with a manufactured shudder, came from Rhoda. 

"After prayers, for an hour, each went to her calling. Commonly we tookit turn about, the girls and I--one with the mistress in the kitchen, one with the maids in the chambers, and the third, if the weather wasfine, a-weeding the posies in the garden, or, if wet, at her sewing inthe parlour. Then the great bell was rung for breakfast, and we allgathered again in the kitchen. For breakfast were furmety, eggs, andbutter, and milk, for the women; cold bakemeats and ale for the men. "

"No tea?" asked Rhoda. 

"I was near ten years old, child, ere coffee came into England; and teawas some years later. The first coffee-house that ever was in thisrealm was set up at Oxford, of one Jacobs, a Jew; and about two yearsafter was the first in London. For tea, 'twas said Queen Catherinebrought it hither from Portingale; but in truth, I believe 'twas knownamong us somewhat sooner. But when it came in, for a long time noneknew how to use it, except at the coffee-houses. I could tell you adroll tale of a neighbour of Farmer Ingham's, that had a parcel of teasent her as a great present from London, with a letter that said 'twasall the mode with the quality. And what did she, think you, but boiledit like cabbage, and bade all her neighbours come taste the new greens. "

"Did they like them?" asked Rhoda, as well as she could speak forlaughing. 

"I heard they all thought with their hostess, who said, `If those werequality greens, the quality were welcome to keep 'em; country folk wouldrather have cabbage and spinach any day. '"

"Well!" said Rhoda, bridling a little, when her amusement had subsided;"'tis very silly for mean people to ape the quality. "

"It is so, my dear, " replied Mrs Dorothy, with that extreme quietnesswhich was the nearest her gentle spirit could come to irony. "'Tissilly for any to ape another, be he less or more. "

"Why, there can be no communication between them, " observed Rhoda, witha toss of her head. 

"`Communication, ' my dear, " said Mrs Dolly. "Yonder's a new word. Where did you pick it up?"

"O Mrs Dolly! you can't be in the mode if you don't pick up all the newwords, " answered Rhoda more affectedly than ever. She was showing offnow, and was entirely in her element. 

"And pray what are the other new words, my dear?" inquired Mrs Dorothygood-naturedly, and not without a little amusement. "That one soundsvery much like the old-fashioned `commerce. '"

"Well, I don't know them all!" said Rhoda, with an assumption ofhumility; "but now-o'-days, when you speak of any one's direction, youmust say _adresse_, from the French; and if one is out of spirits, yousay he is _hipped_--that's from hypochondriacal; and a crowd of peopleis a _mob_--that's short for mobile; and when a man goes about, anddoesn't want to be known, you say he is _incog. _--that means incognito, which is the Spanish for unknown. Then you say Mr Such-an-one spends_to the tune of five_ hundred a year; and there are a lot of men _of hiskidney_; and _I bantered them_ well about it. Oh, there are lots of newwords, Mrs Dolly. "

"So it seems, my dear. But are you sure incognito is Spanish?"

"Oh, yes! William Knight told me so, " said Rhoda, with another toss ofher head. 

"I imagined it was Latin, " observed Mrs Dorothy. "But 'tis true, Iknow nought of either tongue. "

"Oh, William Knight knows everything, " said Rhoda, hyperbolically. 

"He must be a very ingenious young man, " quietly observed Mrs Dorothy. 

"Well, he is, " said Rhoda, scarcely perceiving the satire latent in MrsDorothy's calm tones. 

"I am glad to hear it, my dear, " returned the old lady. 

"But he's very uppish, --that's pos. , " resumed the young one. 

"Really, my dear, you are full of new words, " said Mrs Dorothy, good-naturedly. "What means `pos. , ' pray you?"

"Why, `positive, '" said Rhoda, laughing. "And _rep. _ means reputation, and _fire_ means spirit, and _smart_ means sharp, and a _concert_ meansa lot of people singing and playing on instruments of music, and an_operation_ means anything you do, and a _speculation_ means--well, itmeans--it means a speculation, you know. "

"Dear, dear!" cried little Mrs Dorothy, holding up her hands. "Iprotest, my dear, I shall be drove to learn the English tongue anew ifthis mode go on. "

"Well, Mrs Dolly, suppose your tale should go on?" suggested Rhoda. "Heyday! do you know what everybody is saying?--everybody that isanybody, you understand. "

"I thought that everybody was somebody, " remarked Mrs Dorothy, with acomical set of the lips. 

"Oh dear, no!" said Rhoda. "There are ever so many people who arenobody. "

"Indeed!" said Mrs Dorothy. "Well, child, what is everybody saying?"

"Why, they say the Duke is not so well with the Queen as he has been. 'Tis thought, I assure you, by many above people. "

"Is that one of the new words?" inquired Mrs Dorothy, with a littlelaugh. "Dear child, what mean you?--the angels?"

"Oh, Mrs Dorothy, you are the oddest creature!" cried Rhoda. "Why, youknow very well what I mean. Should you be sorry, Mrs Dolly, if theDuke became inconsiderable?"

"No, my dear. Why should I?"

"Well, I thought--" but Rhoda's thought went no further. 

"You thought, " quietly continued the old lady, "that I had not had enowof town vanities, and would fain climb a few rungs up the ladder, holding on to folks' skirts. Was that it, child?"

"Well, I don't know, " said Rhoda uneasily, for Mrs Dorothy hadtranslated her thought into rather too plain language. 

"Ah, my dear, that is because you would love to climb a littleyourself, " said Mrs Dorothy, smilingly, "and you apprehend noinconveniency from it. But, child, 'tis the weariest work in all theworld--except it be climbing from earth to heaven. To climb on men'sladders is mostly as a squirrel climbs in its cage, --round and round;you think yourself going vastly higher, but those that stand on the firmground and watch you see that you do but go round. But to climb upJacob's ladder, whereof the Lord stands at the top, it will be othereyes that behold you climbing up, when in your own eyes you have notbettered yourself by a step. Climb as high as you will there, dearmaids!--but never mind the ladders that go round. They are infinitelydisappointing. I know it, for I have climbed them. "

"Well, Mrs Dolly, do go on, now, and tell us all about it, there's agood soul!" said Rhoda. 

Little Mrs Dorothy was executing some elaborate knitting. She went onwith it for a few seconds in silence. 

"I was but sixteen, " she said, quietly, "when my mother came to visitme. I could not remember seeing her before: and very frighted was I ofthe grand gentlewoman, for so she seemed to me, that rustled into thefarmhouse kitchen in silken brocade, and a velvet tippet on her neck. She was evenly disappointed with me. She thought me stiff and gloomy;and I thought her strange and full of vanities. `In three years' time, Dolly, ' quoth she, `thou wilt be nineteen, and I will then have thee upto Town, and thou shalt see somewhat of the world. Thou art notill-favoured, ' quoth she, --'twas my mother that said this, my dears, "modestly interpolated Mrs Dorothy, --"and I dare say thou wilt be theTown talk in a week. 'Tis pity there is no better world to have theeinto!--and thy father as sour and Puritanical as any till of late, savethe mark!--but there, `we must swim with the tide, ' saith she. `'Tis along lane that has no turning. ' Ah me! but the lane had turned ere Iwas nineteen. "

"Why, Mrs Dolly, the Restoration must have been that very year, "observed Rhoda. 

"That very year, " repeated Mrs Dorothy. "'Twas in April I quittedFarmer Ingham's house, and was fetched up to London; and in May came theKing in, and was shortly thereafter crowned. "

"If it please you, " asked Phoebe, speaking for the first time of her ownaccord, "were you glad to go, Madam?"

"Well, my dear, I was partly glad and partly sorry. I was sorrowful totake leave of mine old friends, little knowing if I should ever see themagain or no; yet, like an untried maid, I was mightily set up with thethought of seeing London, and the lions, and Whitehall, and the like. Silly maid that I was! I had better have shed tears for the last thanfor the first. "

"What thought you the finest thing in London?" said Rhoda. "But tellus, what thought you of London altogether?"

"Why, the first thing I thought of was the size and the noise, " answeredMrs Dorothy. "It seemed to me such a great overgrown town, sodifferent from Saint Albans; and so many carts and wheelbarrows alwaysrattling over the stones; and so many folks in the streets; and all thestrange cries of a morning. I thought my father a very strange, coldman, of whom I was no little afraid; and my mother was sadlydisappointed that I did not roll my eyes, and had not been taught todance. "

"Why did they ever leave you at a farmhouse?" inquired Rhoda, ratherscornfully. 

"_I_ cannot entirely say, my dear; but I think that was mainly myfather's doing. My poor father!"

And Mrs Dorothy's handkerchief was hastily passed across her eyes. 

"The first night I came, " she said, "my mother had a large assembly inher withdrawing-chamber. There were smart-dressed ladies fluttering oftheir fans, and gentlemen in all the colours of the rainbow; and I, foolish maid! right well pleased when one and another commended mycountry complexion, or told me something about my fine eyes: when all atonce came a heavy hand on my shoulder, and my father saith, `Dorothy, Iwould speak with you. ' I followed him forth, not a little tremblinglest he should be about to chide me; but he led me into his own closet, and shut the door. He bade me sit, and leaning over the fire himself, he said nought for a moment. Then saith he, `Dorothy, you heard MrDebenham speak to you?' `Yes, Sir, ' quoth I. `And what said he, child?' goes on my father, gently. I was something loth to repeat whathe had said; for it was what I, in my foolish heart, thought a very finespeech about Mrs Doll's fine eyes, that glistered like stars. Howbeit, my father waited quiet enough; and having been well bred to obey byFarmer Ingham, I brought it out at last. `Did you believe it, Dorothy?'saith my father. `Did you think he meant it?' I did but whisper, `Yes, Sir, ' for I could not but feel very much ashamed. `Then, Dorothy, 'saith he, `the first lesson you will do well to learn in London is thatmen and women do not always mean it when they flatter you. And he doesnot. Ah!' saith my father, fetching a great sigh, --`'tis easy work forfathers to say such things, but not so for maidens to believe them. There is one other thing I would have you learn, Dorothy. ' `Yes, Sir, 'quoth I, when he stayed. He turned him around, and looked in my facewith his dark eyes, that seemed to burn into me, and he saith, `Learnthis, Dorothy, --that 'tis the easiest thing in all the world for a manto drift away from God. Ay, or a woman either. You may do it, andnever know that you have done it, --for a while, at least. David was twofull years ere he found it out. Oh Dorothy, take warning! I was onceas innocent as you are. I have drifted from God, oh my child, how far!The Lord keep you from a like fate. ' I was fairly affrighted, for hisface was terrible. An hour after, I saw him dealing the cards at ombre, with a look as bright and mirthful as though he knew not grief but byname. "

Phoebe looked up with eyes full of meaning. "Did he never come back?"

"Dear child, " said Mrs Dorothy, turning to her, "hast thou forgot thatthe Good Shepherd goeth after that which was lost, until He find it? Hecame back, my dear. But it was through the Great Plague and the GreatFire. "

It was evident for a few minutes that Mrs Dorothy was wrestling withpainful memories. 

"Well, and what then?" said Rhoda, who wanted the story to go on, andwas afraid of what she called preaching. 

"Well!" resumed the old lady, more lightly, "then, for three days in theweek I had a dancing-master come to teach me; and twice in the week amusic-master; and all manner of new gowns, and my hair dressed in amultitude of curls; and my mother's maid to teach me French, and seethat I carried myself well. And when this had gone on a while, mymother began to carry me a-visiting when she went to see her friends. For above a year she used a hackney coach; but then my father was madeDoctor, and had a great church given him that was then all the mode; andmy Lady Jennings came up to Town, and finding he had parts, she began totake note of him, and would carry him in her coach to the Court; and mymother would then set up her own coach, the which she did. And atlength, the summer before I was one-and-twenty, my Lady Jennings, without the privity of my father, offered my mother to have me a maid toone of the Ladies in Waiting on the Queen. From this place, said she, if I played my cards well, and was liked of them above me, I might comein time to be a Maid of Honour. "

"O rare!" exclaimed Rhoda. "And did you, Mrs Dolly?"

"Yes, child, " slowly answered Mrs Dorothy. "I did so. "

Rhoda's face was sparkling with interest and pleasure. Phoebe's wasshadowed with forebodings, of a sad end to come. 

"The night ere I left home for the Court, " pursued the old lady, "mymother held long converse with me. `Thou art mightily improved, Dolly, 'saith she, `since thy coming to London; but there is yet a stiffsoberness about thee, that thou wilt do well to be rid of. Thoushouldst have more ease, child. Do but look at thy cousin Jenny, thatis three years younger than thou, and yet how will she rattle to everyman that hath a word of compliment to pay her!' But after she had madean end, my father called me into his closet. `Poor Dorothy!' he said. `The bloom is not all off the peach yet. But 'tis going, child--'tisfast going. I feared this. Poor Dorothy!'"

"Oh, dear!" said Rhoda. "You were not going to a funeral, Mrs Dolly!"

"Ah, child! maybe, if I had, it had been the better for me. The wiseman saith, `It is better to go to the house of mourning than to thehouse of feasting. '"

"But pray, what harm came to you, Mrs Dorothy?"

"No outward bodily harm at all, my dear. Yet even that was no thanks tome. It was `of the Lord's compassion, ' seeing He had a purpose of mercytoward me. But, ah me! what inward and spiritual harm! Mrs Rhoda, mydear, I saw sights and heard sayings those two years I dwelt in theCourt which I would give the world, so to speak, only to forget themnow. "

"What were they, Mrs Dorothy?" asked Rhoda, eagerly sitting up. 

"Think you I am likely to tell you, child? No, indeed!"

"But what sort of harm did they to you, Mrs Dolly?"

"Child, I learned to think lightly of sin. People did not talk of sinthere at all; the words they used were crime and vice. Every wrongdoing was looked on as it affected other men: if it touched yourneighbour's purse or person, it was ill; if it only grieved his heart, then 'twas a little matter. But how it touched God was never so much asthought on. There might have been no God in Heaven, so little accountwas taken of Him there. "

"Now do tell us. Mrs Dolly, what the Queen was like, and the King, "said Rhoda, yawning. "And how many Maids of Honour were there? Justtell us all about it. "

"There were six, " replied the old lady, taking up her knitting, whichshe had dropped in her earnestness a minute before. "And Mrs Sandersonwas their mother. I reckon you will scarce know that always a marriedgentlewoman goeth about with these young damsels, called the Mother ofthe Maids, whose work it is to see after them. "

"And keep them from everything jolly!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Now, that's ashame! Wouldn't it be fun to bamboozle that creature? I protest Ishould enjoy it!"

"O Mrs Rhoda! Mrs Rhoda!"

"I should, of all things, Mrs Dolly! But now, what were the King andQueen like? Was she very beautiful?"

[Note: Charles the Second and Catherine of Braganza. ]

"No, " said Mrs Dorothy, "she was not. She had pretty feet, fine eyes, and very lovely hair. 'Twas rich brown on the top of her head, anddescending downward it grew into jet black. For the rest, she was buttolerable. In truth, her teeth wronged her by sticking too far out ofher mouth; but for that she would have been lovelier by much. "

"Horrid!" said Rhoda. "I forget where she came from, Mrs Dolly?"

"She came from Portingale, my dear, being daughter to the King of thatcountry, and her name was Catherine. "

"And what was the King like?"

"When he was little, my dear, his mother, Queen Mary, used to say he wasso ugly a baby that she was quite ashamed of him. He wasbetter-favoured when he grew a man; he had good eyes, but a largeMouth. "

[Note: Queen Mary was Henrietta Maria, always termed Queen Mary duringher own reign. ]

"He was a black man, was he not?"

By which term Rhoda meant what we now call a dark man. 

"Yes, very black and swarthy. "

"Where did he commonly live?"

"Mostly at Whitehall or Saint James's. At times he went to HamptonCourt, and often, for a change of sir, to Newmarket; now and then toTunbridge Wells. He was but little at Windsor. "

"Did you like him, Mrs Dorothy?"

Phoebe looked up, when no answer came. The expression of Mrs Dorothy'sface was a curious mixture of fear, repulsion, and yet amusement. 

"No!" she said at length. 

"Why not?" demanded Rhoda. 

"Well, there were some that did, " was the reply, in a rather constrainedtone; "and the one that he behaved the worst to loved him the best ofall. "

"How droll!" said Rhoda. "And who were your friends, then, MrsDorothy?"

"That depends, my dear, on what you mean by friends. If you mean themthat flattered me, and joked with me, and the like, --why, I had verymany; or if you mean them that would take some trouble to push me in theworld, --well, there were several of those; but if you mean such as areonly true friends, that would have cast one thought to my real welfare, whether I should go to Heaven or Hell, --I had but one of that sort. "

"And who was your one friend, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, pursing up herlips a little. 

"The King's Scots cook, my dear, " quietly replied Mrs Dorothy. 

"The _what_?" shrieked Rhoda, going into convulsions of laughter. 

"Ah, you may laugh, Mrs Rhoda. You know there's an old saying, `Letthem laugh that win. ' If ever an old sinner like me enters the gates ofHeaven, so far as the human means are concerned, I shall owe it, firstof all, to old David Armstrong. "

"Will you please to tell us about him, Madam?" rather timidly askedPhoebe. 

"With all my heart, my dear. Dear old Davie! Methinks I see him now. Picture to yourselves, my dears, a short man, something stooping in theshoulders, with sharp features and iron-grey hair; always dressed in hiswhite cooking garb, and a white cap over his frizzled locks. But beforeI tell you what I knew of old Davie, methinks I had better tell you atale of him that will give you some diversion, without I mistake. "

"Oh do, Mrs Dolly?" cried Rhoda, who feared nothing so much as toogreat seriousness in her friend's stones. 

"Well, " said Mrs Dorothy, "then you must know, my dears, that once upona time the King and Queen were at dinner, and with them, amongst others, my Lord Rochester, who was at that time a very wild gallant. He died, indeed, very penitent, and, I trust, a saved man; but let that be. Theywere sat after dinner, and my Lord Rochester passes the bottle about tohis next neighbour. `Come, man!' saith the King, in his rollicksomeway, `take a glass of that which cheereth God and man, as Scripturesaith. ' My Lord Rochester at once bets the King forty pound that therewas no such saying in Scripture. The King referreth all to the Queen'schaplain, that happened to be the only parson then present; but saithagain, that though he could not name the place, yet he was as certain tohave read it in Scripture as that his name was Charles, `What thinksyour Majesty?' quoth my Lord Rochester, turning to the Queen. She, verymodestly--"

"But, Mrs Dolly, was not the Queen a Papist? What would she know aboutthe Bible?"

"So she was, my dear. But they have a Bible of their own, that theyallow the reading of to certain persons. And I dare say she was one. However, my Lord Rochester asked her, for I heard him; and she said, very womanly, that she was unfit to decide such matters, but she couldnot think there to be any such passage in the Bible. "

"Why, there isn't!" rashly interpolated Rhoda. 

Mrs Dorothy smiled, but did not contradict her. 

"Then up spoke the Queen's chaplain, and gave his voice like hismistress, that there was no such passage; and several others of them atthe table said they thought the like. So the King, swearing his wontedoath, cried out for some to bring a Bible, that he might search andsee. "

"O Mrs Dolly! what was his favourite oath?"

"I do not see, my dear, that it would do you any good to know it. Well, the Bible, as matters went, was not to be had. King, Queen, chaplain, and courtiers, there was not a man nor woman at the table that owned topossessing a Bible. "

"How shocking!" said Phoebe, under her breath. 

"Very shocking, my dear, " assented Mrs Dorothy. "But all at once myLord Rochester cries out, `Please your Majesty, I'll lay you fortyshillings there's one man in this palace that has a Bible! He cut meshort for swearing in the yard a month since. That's old David, yourMajesty's Scots cook. If you'll send for him--' `Done!' says the King. `Killigrew, root out old Davie, and tell him to come here, and bring hisBible with him. ' So away went Mr Killigrew, the King's favourite page;and ere long back he comes, and old Davie with him, and under Davie'sarm a great brown book. `Here he is, Sire, Bible and all!' says MrKilligrew. `Come forward, Davie, and be hanged!' says the King. `I'llcome forward, Sire, at your Majesty's bidding, ' says Davie, `and gin yeorder it, and I ha'e deservit it, I can be hangit, ' saith he, mightydry; 'but under your Majesty's pleasure I'll just tak' the liberty toask, Sire, what are ye wantin' wi' the Buik?"

"Oh, how queer you talk, Mrs Dolly!"

"As David talked, my dear. He was a Scot, you know. Well, the Kinggave a hearty laugh; and says he, `Oh, come forward, Davie, and fearnothing. We'll not hang you, and we want no hurt to your darling book. '`Atweel, Sire, ' says Davie, `and I'd ha'e been gey sorry gin ye hadmeant to hurt my buik, seein' it was my mither's, and I set store by itfor her sake; but trust me, Sire, I'd ha'e been a hantle sorrier gin yehad meant onie disrespect to the Lord's Buik. I'll no stand by, wi' a'honour to your Majesty, an' see I lichtlied. '"

"What does that mean, Mrs Dolly?"

"Set light by, my dear. Well, the King laughed again, but I thinkDavie's words a little sobered him, for he spoke kindly enough, that noharm should be done, nor was any disrespect intended; `but, ' saith he, `my Lord Rochester and I fell a-disputing if certain words were in theBible or no; and as you are the only man here like to have one, I sentfor you. ' Davie looks, quiet enough, round all the table; and he says, under his breath, `The only man here like to have a Bible! Ay, yourMajesty, I ken weel eneuch that I ha'e my habitation among the tents o'Kedar. Atweel, Sire, an' I'll be pleasit to answer onie sic question, gin ye please to tell me the words. ' My Lord Rochester saith, `"Wine, which cheereth God and man. " Are such words as those in the Bible, David?' Neither yea nor nay said old Davie: but he turned over theleaves of his Bible for a moment, and then, clearing his voice, andfirst doffing his cook's cap (which he had but lifted a minute for theKing), he read from the Book of Judges, Jotham's parable of the trees. 'Twas a little while ere any spoke: then said the Queen's chaplain, swearing a great oath, that he could not but be infinitely surprised tofind there to be such words in the Bible. "

"O Mrs Dolly! a parson to swear!"

"There are different sorts of parsons, my dear. But old David thoughtit shocking, for he turns round to the chaplain, and saith he, `Yourpardon, Mr Howard, but gin ye'd give me leave, I'd be pleasit to swearthe neist oath for ye. It would sound rather better, ye ken, for a cookthan a chaplain. ' `Hurrah!' says the King, swearing himself, `thesprightliest humour I heard of a long time! Pray you, silence, and hearold Davie swear!' `I see nothing to swear anent the now, an' it pleaseyour Majesty, ' says Davie, mighty dry again: `when I do, your Majesty'llbe sure to hear it. ' The King laughed heartily, for he took Davie rightenough, though I saw some look puzzled. Of course he never would seereason to do a sinful thing. But a new thought had come into the King'shead, and he turns quick to Mr Howard, and desires that he would giveexposition of the words that Davie had read. `You ought to know whatthey mean, if we don't, poor sinners, ' saith the King. `I protest, Sire, ' saith the chaplain, `that I cannot so much as guess what theymean. ' `Now then, David the divine, ' cries my Lord Rochester, `yourexposition, if you please. ' And some of the courtiers, that by thistime were not too sober, drummed on the table with glasses, and shoutedfor David's sermon. "

"I think, Mrs Dolly, that was scarce proper, in the King's and Queen'spresence. "

"So I think, my dear. But King Charles's Court was Liberty Hall, andevery man did that which was right in his own eyes. But Davie stoodvery quiet, with the Bible yet open in his hands. He waited hismaster's bidding, if they did not. `Oh ay, go on, Davie, ' saith theKing, leaning back in his chair and laughing. `Silence for Mr DavidArmstrong's sermon!' cries my Lord Rochester, in a voice of a master ofceremonies. But Davie took no note of any voice but the King's, though'twas to my Lord Rochester he addressed him when he spoke. `That winecheereth man, your Lordship very well knows, ' quoth Davie, in his dryway: and seeing his Lordship had drank a bottle and a half since he satdown, I should think he did, my dears. `But this, that wine cheerethGod, is referable to the drink-offering commanded by God of the Jews, wherein the wine doth seem to typify the precious blood of Christ, andthe thankfulness of him that hath his iniquity thereby purged away. Forin the fifteenth chapter of the Book of Numbers you shall find thisdrink-offering termed "a sweet savour unto the Lord. " And since nothingbut Christ is a sweet savour unto God, therefore we judge that the wineof the drink-offering, like to that of the Sacrament, did denote theblood of Christ whereby we are redeemed; the one prefiguring thatwhereto it looked forward, as the other doth likewise figure thatwhereunto it looketh back. This, therefore, that wine cheereth God, isto be understood by an emblem, of the blood of Christ, our Mediator; forthrough this means God is well pleased in the way of salvation that Hehath appointed, whereby His justice is satisfied. His law fulfilled, His mercy reigneth, His grace doth triumph, all His perfections do agreetogether, the sinner is saved, and God in Christ glorified. Now, Sire, I have done your bidding, and I humbly ask your Majesty's leave towithdraw. ' The King said naught, but cast him a nod of consent. Mydears, you never saw such a change as had come over that table. Everyman seemed sobered and awed. The Queen was weeping, the King silent andthoughtful. My Lord Rochester, whom at that time nothing could soberlong, was the only one to speak, and rising with make-believe gravity, as though in his place in the House of Lords, he offered a motion thatthe King should please to send Mr Howard into the kitchen to make kail, and raise the Reverend Mr David Armstrong to the place of chaplain. "

"What is kail, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, laughing. 

"'Tis Scots broth, my dear, whereof King Charles was very fond, and oldDavid had been fetched from Scotland on purpose to make it for him. "

"What a droll old man!" exclaimed Rhoda. 

"Ah, he was one of the best men ever I knew, " said Mrs Dorothy. "But, my dear, look at the clock!"

"I declare!" cried Rhoda. "Phoebe, we have but just time to run homeere supper, if so much as that. Good evening, Mrs Dolly, and thankyou. What will Madam say?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: David Armstrong is a historical person, and this anecdote is true. The surname given to him only is fictitious, as history does not recordany name but "David. "

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THROUGH THORNY PATHS. 

 "I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought. "

 _Caroline Bowles_. 

"Is it long since Madam woke, Baxter?" cried Rhoda in a breathlesswhisper, as she came in at the side door. 

"But this minute, Mrs Rhoda, " answered he. 

"That's good!" said Rhoda aside to Phoebe, and slipping off her shoes, she ran lightly and silently upstairs, beckoning her cousin to follow. 

Phoebe, having no idea of the course of Rhoda's thoughts, obeyed, andfollowed her example in doffing her hood and smoothing her hair. 

"Be quick!" said Rhoda, her own rapid movements over, and putting on hershoes again. 

They found Madam looking barely awake, and staring hard at her book, asif wishful to persuade herself that she had been reading. 

"I hope, child, you were not out all this time, " said she to Rhoda. 

"Oh no, Madam!" glibly answered that trustworthy young lady. "We onlyhad a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly, and I made my compliments to theother gentlewomen. "

"And where were you since, child?"

"We have been upstairs, Madam, " said Rhoda, unblushingly. 

"Not diverting yourselves, I hope?" was Madam's next question. 

"Oh no, not at all, Madam. We were not doing anything particular. "

"Talking, I suppose, as maids will, " responded Madam. "Phoebe, to-morrow after breakfast bring all your clothes to my chamber. I musthave you new apparelled. "

"Oh, Madam, give me leave to come also!" exclaimed Rhoda, with as mucheagerness as she ever dared to show in her grandmother's presence. "Iwould so dearly like to hear what Phoebe is to have! Only, please, nota musk-coloured damask--you promised me that. "

"My dear, " answered Madam, "you forget yourself. I cannot talk of suchthings to-day. You may come if you like. "

Supper was finished in silence. After supper, a pale-faced, tired-looking young man, who had been previously invisible, came intothe parlour, and made a low reverence to Madam, which she returned witha queenly bend of her head. His black cassock and scarf showed him tobe in holy orders. Madam rang the hand-bell, the servants filed in, andevening prayers were read by the young chaplain, in a thin, monotonousvoice, with a manner which indicated that he was not interested himself, and did not expect interest in any one else. Then the servants filedout again; the chaplain kissed Madam's hand, and wished her good-night, bowed distantly to Rhoda, half bowed to Phoebe, instantly drew himselfup as if he thought he was making a mistake, and finally disappeared. 

"'Tis time you were abed, maids, " said Madam. 

Rhoda somewhat slowly rose, knelt before her grandmother, and kissed herhand. 

"Good-night, my dear. God bless thee, and make thee a good maid!" wasMadam's response. 

Phoebe had risen, and stood, rather hesitatingly, behind her cousin. She was doubtful whether Madam would be pleased or displeased if shefollowed Rhoda's example. In her new life it seemed probable that shewould not be short of opportunities for the exercise of meekness, forbearance, and humility. Madam's quick eyes detected Phoebe'sdifficulty in an instant. 

"Good-night, Phoebe, " she said, rising. 

"Good-night, Madam, " replied Phoebe in a low voice, as she followedRhoda. It was evident that no relationship was to be recognised. 

"Here, you carry the candle, " said Rhoda, nodding towards the hall tableon which the candlesticks stood. "That's what you are here for, Isuppose, --to save me trouble. Dear, I forgot my cloak, --see where itis! Bring it with you, Phoebe. "

Demurely enough Rhoda preceded Phoebe upstairs. But no sooner was thebedroom door closed behind them, than Rhoda threw herself into the largeinvalid chair, and laughed with hearty amusement. 

"Oh, didn't I take her in? Wasn't it neatly done, now? Didn't youadmire me, Phoebe?"

"You told her a lie!" retorted Phoebe, indignantly. 

"'Sh!--that's not a pretty word, " said Rhoda, pursing her lips. "Say afib, next time. --Nonsense! Not a bit of it, Phoebe. We had beenupstairs since we came in. "

"Only a minute, " answered Phoebe. "You made her think what was nottrue. Father called that a lie, --I don't know what you call it. "

"Now, Phoebe, " said Rhoda severely, "don't you be a little Puritan. Ifyou set up for a saint at White-Ladies, I can just tell you, you'll pullyour own nest about your ears. You are mightily mistaken if you thinkMadam has any turn for saints. She reckons them designing persons--every soul of 'em. You'll just get into a scrape if you don't have acare. "

Phoebe made no reply. She was standing by the window, looking up intothe darkened sky. There were no blinds at White-Ladies. 

It was well for Rhoda--or was it well?--that she could not just then seeinto Phoebe's heart. The cry that "shivered to the tingling stars" wasunheard by her. "O Father, Father, " said the cry. "Why did you die andleave your poor little Phoebe, whom nobody loves, whose love nobodywants, with whom nobody here has one feeling in common?" And then allat once came as it were a vision before her eyes, of a scene whereof shehad heard very frequently from her father, --a midnight meeting of theDesert Church, in a hollow of the Cevennes mountains, guarded bysentinels posted on the summit, --a meeting which to attend was to bravethe gallows or the galleys, --and Phoebe fancied she could hear the wordsof the opening hymn, as the familiar tune floated past her:--

 "Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger. "

It was a quiet, peaceful face which was turned back to Rhoda. 

"Did you hear?" rather sharply demanded that young lady. 

"Yes, I heard what you said, " calmly replied Phoebe. "But I have been agood way since. "

"A good way!--where?" rejoined her cousin. 

"To France and back, " said Phoebe, with a smile. 

"What are you talking about?" stared Rhoda. "I said nothing aboutFrance; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madamangry. "

"I won't vex her if I can help it, " answered Phoebe. 

"Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours, --that's pos. ! Take the pins out of my commode. "

"Why should not I be better than my neighbours?" asked Phoebe, as shepulled out the pins. 

"Because they'll all hate you--that's why. I must have clean ruffles--they are in that top drawer. "

"Aren't you better than your neighbours?" innocently suggested Phoebe, coming back with the clean ruffles. 

Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. Thequestion was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very muchbetter, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishesand convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture. There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe wasincapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, whichmade it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highlyindecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On thewhole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation. 

"Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring apair of common ones--those with the box plaits. --What were you thinkingabout France?"

"Oh, nothing particular. I was only--"

"Never mind, if you don't want to tell, " said Rhoda, graciously, nowthat her object was attained. "I wonder what new clothes Madam willgive you. A camlet for best, I dare say, and duffel for every day. Don't you want to know?"

"No, not very much. "

"I should, if I were you. I like to go fine. Not that she'll give_you_ fine things, you know--not likely. There! put my shoes out toclean, and tuck me up nicely, and then if you like you can go to bed. Ishan't want anything more. "

Phoebe did as she was requested, and then knelt down. 

"I vow!" exclaimed her cousin, when she rose. "Do you say your prayerson Sunday nights? I never do. Why, we've only just been at itdownstairs. And what a time you are! I'm never more than five minuteswith mine!"

"I couldn't say all I want in five minutes, " replied Phoebe. 

"Want! why, what do you want?" said Rhoda. "I want nothing. I've gotto do it--that's all. "

"Well, I dare say five minutes is enough for that, " was the quiet replyfrom Phoebe. "But when people get into trouble, then they do wantthings. "

"Trouble! Oh, you don't know!" said Rhoda, loftily. "I've had heaps oftrouble. "

"Have you?" innocently demanded Phoebe, in an interested tone. 

"Well, I should think so! More than ever you had. "

"What were they?" said Phoebe, in the same manner. 

"Why, first, my mother died when I was only a week old, " explainedRhoda. "I suppose, you call that a trouble?"

"Not when you were a week old, " said Phoebe; "it would be afterwards--with some people. But I should not think it was, much, with you. Youhave had Madam. "

"Well, then my father went off to London, and spent all his estate, thatI should have had, and there was nothing left for me. That was atrouble, I suppose?"

"If you had plenty beside, I should not think it was. "

"`Plenty beside!' Phoebe, you are the silliest creature! Why, don'tyou see that I should have been a great fortune, if I had had Peveril aswell as White-Ladies? I should have set my cap at a lord, I can tellyou. Only think, Phoebe, I should have had sixty thousand pounds. Whatdo you say to that? Sixty thousand pounds!"

"I should think it is more than you could ever spend. "

"Oh, I don't know about that, " said Rhoda. "When White-Ladies is mine, I shall have a riding-horse and a glass coach; and I will have asplendid set of diamonds, and pearls too. They cost something, I cantell you. Oh, 'tis easy spending money. You'll see, when it comes tome. "

"Are you sure it will come to you?"

"Why, of course it will!" exclaimed Rhoda, sitting up, and leaning onher elbow. "To whom else would Madam leave it, I should like to know!Why, you never expect her to give it to _you_, poor little white-facedthing? I vow, but that is a good jest!"

Rhoda's laugh had more bitterness than mirth in it. Phoebe's smile wasone of more unmixed amusement. 

"Pray make yourself easy, " said Phoebe. "I never expect anything, andthen I am not disappointed. "

"Well, I'll just tell you what!" rejoined her cousin. "If I catch youmaking up to Madam, trying to please all her whims, and chime in withher vapours, and that--fancying she'll leave you White-Ladies--I tellyou, Phoebe Latrobe, I'll never forgive you as long as I live! There!"

Rhoda was very nearly, if not quite, in a passion. Phoebe turned andlooked at her. 

"Cousin, " she said, gently, "you will see me try to please Madam, since'tis my duty: but if you suppose 'tis with any further object, such aswhat she might give me, you very ill know Phoebe Latrobe. "

"Well, mind your business!" said Rhoda, rather fiercely. 

A few minutes later she was asleep. But sleep did not visit Phoebe'seyes that night. 

When the morning came, Rhoda seemed quite to have forgotten hervexation. She chattered away while she was dressing, on various topics, but chiefly respecting the new clothes which Madam had promised toPhoebe. If words might be considered a criterion, Rhoda appeared totake far more interest in these than Phoebe herself. 

Breakfast was a solemn and silent ceremony. When it was over, Madamdesired Phoebe to attend her in her own chamber, and to bring herwardrobe with her. Rhoda followed, unasked, and sat down on the form atthe foot of the bed to await her cousin. Phoebe came in with her armsfull of dresses and cloaks. She was haunted by a secret apprehensionwhich she would not on any account have put into words--that she mightno longer be allowed to wear mourning for her dead father. But Phoebe'sfears were superfluous. Madam thought far too much of the proprietiesof life to commit such an indecorum. However little she had liked orrespected the Rev. Charles Latrobe, she would never have thought ofrequiring his child to lay aside her mourning until the conventional twoyears had elapsed from the period of his decease. 

Phoebe's common attire was very quickly discarded, as past further wear;and she was desired to wear her best clothes every day, until new oneswere ready for her. This decided, Rhoda was ordered to ring for Betty, Madam's own maid, and Betty was in her turn required to fetch thosestuffs which she had been bidden to lay aside till needed. Bettyaccordingly brought a piece of black camlet, another of black bombazine, and a third of black satin, with various trimmings. The two girls alikewatched in silence, while Betty measured lengths and cut off pieces ofcamlet and bombazine, from which it appeared that Phoebe was to have twonew dresses, and a mantua and hood of the camlet: but when Rhoda heardBetty desired to cut off satin for another mantua, her hithertoconcealed chagrin broke forth. 

"Why, Madam!--she'll be as fine as me!"

"My dear, she will be as I choose, " answered Madam, in a tone whichwould have silenced any one but Rhoda. "And now, satin for a hood, Betty--"

"'Tis a shame!" said Rhoda, under her breath, which was as much as shedared venture; but Madam took no notice. 

"You will line the hoods and mantuas warm, Betty, " pursued Madam, in hermost amiable tone. "Guard the satin with fur, and the camlet with thatstrong gimp. And a muff she must have, Betty. "

"A muff!" came in a vexed whisper from Rhoda. 

"And when the time comes, one of the broidered India scarves that werehad of Staveley, for summer wear; but that anon. Then--"

"But, Madam!" put in Rhoda, in a troubled voice, "you have never givenme one of those scarves yet! I asked you for one a year ago. " To judgefrom her tone, Rhoda was very near tears. 

"My dear!" replied Madam, "'tis becoming in maids to wait till they arespoken to. Had you listened with proper respect, you would have heardme bid Betty lay out one also for you. You cannot use them at thisseason. "

Rhoda subsided, somewhat discontentedly. 

"Two pairs of black Spanish gloves, Betty; and a black fan, and blackvelvet stays. (When the year is out she must have a silver lace. ) Andbid Dobbins send up shoes to fit on, with black buckles--two pairs; andlay out black stockings--two pairs of silk, and two of worsted; andplain cambric aprons--they may be laced when the year is out. I thinkthat is all. Oh!--a fur tippet, Betty. "

And with this last order Madam marched away. 

"Oh, shocking!" cried Rhoda, the instant she thought her grandmother outof hearing. "I vow, but she's going to have you as fine as me. Everybit of it. Betty, isn't it a shame?"

"Well, no, Mrs Rhoda, I don't see as how 'tis, " returned Betty, bluntly. "Mrs Phoebe, she's just the same to Madam as you are. "

"But she isn't!" exclaimed Rhoda, blazing up. "I'm her eldestdaughter's child, and she's only the youngest. And she hasn't done itbefore, neither. Last night she didn't let her kiss her hand. I say, Betty, 'tis a crying shame!"

"Maybe Madam thought better of it this morning, " suggested Betty, speaking with a pin in her mouth. 

"Well, 'tis a burning shame!" growled Rhoda. 

"Perhaps, Mrs Betty, " said Phoebe's low voice, "you could leave thesatin things for a little while?"

"Mrs Phoebe, I durstn't, my dear!" rejoined Betty; "nay, not if 'twasever so! Madam, she's used to have folk do as she bids 'em; and she'llmake 'em, too! Never you lay Mrs Rhoda's black looks to heart, mydear, she'll have forgot all about it by this time to-morrow. "

Rhoda had walked away. 

"But I shall not!" answered Phoebe, softly. 

"Deary me, child!" said Betty, turning to look at her, "don't you go forto fret over that. Why, if a bit of a thing like that'll trouble you, you'll have plenty to fret about at White-Ladies. Mrs Rhoda, she's onand off with you twenty times a day; and you'd best take no notice. Shedon't mean anything ill, my dear; 'tis only her phantasies. "

"Oh, Mrs Betty! I wish--"

"Phoebe!" came up from below. "Fetch my cloak and hood, and bring yourown--quick, now! We are about to drive out with Madam. "

"Come, dry your eyes, child, and I'll fetch the things, " said Betty, soothingly. "You'll be the better of a drive. "

Rhoda's annoyance seemed to have vanished from her mind as well as fromher countenance; and Madam took no notice of Phoebe's disturbed looks. The Maidens' Lodge, was first visited, and a messenger sent in to askLady Betty if she were inclined to take the air. Lady Betty acceptedthe offer, and was so considerate as not to keep Madam wailing more thanten minutes. No further invitation was offered, and the coach rumbledaway in the direction of Gloucester. 

For a time Phoebe heard little of the conversation between the elderladies, and Rhoda, as usual in her grandmother's presence, was almostsilent. At length she woke up to a remark made by Lady Betty. 

"Then you think, Madam, to send for Gatty and Molly?"

"That is my design, my Lady Betty. 'Twill be a diversion for Rhoda; andSir Richard was so good as to say they should come if I would. "

"Indeed, I think he would be easy to have them from home, Madam, tillthey may see if Betty's disorder be the small-pox or no. "

"When did Betty return home, my Lady?"

"But last Tuesday. 'Tis not possible that her sisters have taken aughtof her, for she had been ailing some days ere she set forth, and theyhave bidden at home all the time. You will be quite safe, Madam. "

"So I think, my Lady Betty, " replied Madam. "Rhoda, have you beenlistening?"

"No, Madam, " answered Rhoda, demurely. 

"Then 'tis time you should, my dear, " said Madam, graciously. "I willacquaint you of the affair. I think to write to Lady Delawarr, and askthe favour of Mrs Gatty and Mrs Molly to visit me. Their sister MrsBetty, as I hear, is come home from the Bath, extreme distempered; and'tis therefore wise to send away Mrs Gatty and little Mrs Molly untilMrs Betty be recovered of her disorder. I would have you be very nicetoward them, that they shall find their visit agreeable. "

"How long will they stay, Madam?" inquired Rhoda. 

"Why, child, that must hang somewhat on Mrs Betty's recovering. I takeit, it shall be about a month; but should her distemper be tardy ofdisappearing, it shall then be something longer. "

"Jolly!" was the sound which seemed to Phoebe to issue in an undertonefrom the lips of Rhoda. But the answer which reached her grandmother'sears was merely a sedate "Yes, Madam. "

"I take it, my Lady Betty, " observed Madam, turning to her companion, "that the sooner the young gentlewomen are away, the better shall itbe. "

"Oh, surely, Madam!" answered Lady Betty. "'Tis truly very good of youto ask it; but you are always a general undertaker for your friends. "

"We were sent into this world to do good, my Lady Betty, " returnedMadam, sententiously. 

Unless Phoebe's ears were deceived, a whisper very like "Fudge!" camefrom Rhoda. 

The somewhat solemn drive was finished at last; Lady Betty was set downat the Maidens' Lodge; inquiries were made as to the health of MrsMarcella, who returned a reply intimating that she was a sufferingmartyr; and Rhoda and Phoebe at last found themselves free fromsuperveillance, and safe in their bedroom. 

"Now that's just jolly!" was Rhoda's first remark, with nothing inparticular to precede it. "Molly Delawarr's a darling! I don't muchcare for Gatty, and Betty I just hate. She's a prig and a fid-fad both. But Molly--oh, Phoebe, she's as smart as can be. Such parts she has!You know, she's really--not quite you understand--but really she'salmost as clever as I am!"

Phoebe did not seem overwhelmed by this information; she only said, "Isshe?"

"Well, nearly, " said Rhoda. "She knows fourteen Latin words, Mollydoes; and she always brings them in. "

"Into what?" asked Phoebe, with the little amused laugh which was veryrare with her. 

"Into her discourse, to be sure, child!" said Rhoda, loftily, "You don'tknow fourteen Latin words; how should you?"

"How should I, indeed, " rejoined Phoebe, meekly, "if father had nottaught me?"

"Taught you--taught you Latin?" gasped Rhoda. 

"Just a little Latin and Greek; there wasn't time for much, " humblyresponded Phoebe. 

"Greek!" shrieked Rhoda. 

"Very little, please, " deprecated Phoebe. 

"Phoebe, you dear sweet darling love of a Phoebe!" cried Rhoda, kissingher cousin, to the intense astonishment of the latter; "now won't you, like a dear as you are, just tell me one or two Greek words? I wouldgive anything to outshine Molly and make her look foolish, I would! Shedoesn't know one word of Greek--only Latin. Do, for pity's sake, tellme, if 'tis only one Greek word! and I won't say another syllable, notif Madam gives you a diamond necklace!"

Phoebe was laughing more than she had yet ever done at White-Ladies. She was far too innocent and amiable to think of playing Rhoda the trickof which Melanie's father was guilty, in _Contes a ma Fille_, when, under the impression that she was saying in Latin, "Knowledge gives theright to laugh at everything, " he cruelly caused her to remark inpublic, "I am a very ridiculous donkey. " Phoebe bore no malice. Sheonly said, still smiling, "I don't know what words to tell you. "

"Oh, any!" answered Rhoda, accommodatingly. "What's the Greek forugly?"

"I don't know, " said Phoebe, dubiously. "Kakos means _bad_. "

"And what is _good_ and _pretty_?"

"Agathos is _good_, " replied Phoebe, laughing; "and _beautiful_ iskallios. "

"That'll do!" said Rhoda, triumphantly. "'Tis plenty, --I couldn'tremember more. Let me see, --kaks, and agathos, and kallius--is thatright?"

Phoebe laughingly offered the necessary corrections. "All right!" saidRhoda. "I've no more to wish for. I'll take the shine out of Molly!"

At supper that evening, Madam announced that she had sent her note toLady Delawarr by a mounted messenger, and had received an answer, according to which Gatty and Molly might be expected to arrive atWhite-Ladies on Wednesday evening. Madam appeared to be in one of hermost gracious moods, for she even condescended to inform Phoebe thatMrs Gatty was two months older than Rhoda, and Mrs Molly four yearsher junior, --"two years younger than you, my dear, " said Madam, veryaffably. 

"Now, Phoebe, I'll tell you what we'll do, " asserted Rhoda, as she satdown before the glass that night to have her hair undressed by hercousin. "I'm not going to have Molly teasing about the old gentlewomendown yonder. I'll soon shut her mouth if she begins; and if Gatty wantsto go down there, well, she can go by herself. So I'll tell you what:you and I will drink a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly to-morrow, and we'llmake her finish her story. I only do wish the dear old tiresome thingwouldn't preach! Then I'll take you in to see Mrs Marcella, and we'llget that done. Then in the morning, you must just set out all my gownson the bed, and I'll have both you and Betty to sew awhile I must havesome lace on that blue. I'll make Madam give me a pair of new silverbuckles, too. I can't do unless I cut out those creatures somehow. Andthe only way to cut out Gatty is by dress, because she hasn't anythingin her, --'tis all on her. I cut out Molly in brains. But my LadyDelawarr likes to dress Gatty up, because she fancies the awkwardthing's pretty. She isn't, you know, --not a speck; but _she_ thinksso. "

Whether the last pronoun referred to Lady Delawarr or to Gatty, Rhodawas not sufficiently perspicuous to indicate. Phoebe went ondisentangling her hair in silence, and Rhoda likewise fell into a brownstudy. 

Of the nature of her thoughts that young lady gave but two intimations:the first, as she tied up her hair in the loose bag which then servedfor a night-cap, --

"I cannot abide that Betty!"

The second came a long while afterwards, just as Phoebe was dropping tosleep. 

"I say, Phoebe!"

"Yes?"

"Did you say `kakios?'"

Phoebe had to collect her thoughts. "Kakos, " she said. 

"Oh, all right; _they_ won't know. But won't I take the shine out ofthat Molly!"

Phoebe's arrested sleep came back to her as she was reflecting on thecurious idea which her cousin seemed to have of friendship. 

"Come along, Phoebe! This is the shortest way. "

"Oh, couldn't we go by the road?" asked Phoebe, drawing backapprehensively, as Rhoda sprang lightly from the top of the stile whichled into the meadow. 

"Of course we could, but 'tis ever so much further round, and not halfso pleasant. Why?"

"There are--cows!" said Phoebe, under her breath. 

Rhoda laughed more decidedly than civilly. 

"Cows! Did you never see cows before? I say, Phoebe, come along!Don't be so silly!"

Phoebe obeyed, but in evident trepidation, and casting many nervousglances at the dreaded cows, until the girls had passed the next stile. 

"Cows don't bite, silly Phoebe!" said Rhoda, rather patronisingly, fromthe height of her two years' superiority in age. 

"But they toss sometimes, don't they?" tremblingly demanded Phoebe. 

"What nonsense!" said Rhoda, as they rounded the Maidens' Lodge. 

Little Mrs Dorothy sat sewing at her window, and she nodded cheerily toher young guests as they came in. 

"What do you think, Mrs Dolly?--good evening!" said Rhoda, parenthetically. "If this foolish Phoebe isn't frighted of a cow!"

"Sure, my dear, that is no wonder, for one bred in in the town, " gentlydeprecated Mrs Dorothy. 

"So stupid and nonsensical!" said Rhoda. "I say, Mrs Dolly, are youafraid of anything?"

"Yes, my dear, " was the quiet answer. 

"Oh!" said Rhoda. "Cows?"

"No, not cows, " returned Mrs Dorothy, smiling. 

"Frogs? Beetles?" suggested Rhoda. 

"I do not think I am afraid of any animal, at least in this country, without it be vipers, " said Mrs Dorothy. "But--well, I dare say I ambut a foolish old woman in many regards. I oft fear things which I noteothers not to fear at all. "

"But what sort of things, Mrs Dolly?" inquired Rhoda, who had madeherself extremely comfortable with a large chair and sundry cushions. 

"I will tell you of three things, my dear, of which I have always feltafraid, at the least since I came to years of discretion. And mostfolks are not afraid of any of them. I am afraid of getting rich. I amafraid of being married. And I am afraid of judging my neighbours. "

"Oh!" cried Rhoda, in genuine amazement. "Why, Mrs Dolly, what _do_you mean? As to judging one's neighbours, --well, I suppose the Biblesays something against that; but we all do it, you know. "

"We do, my dear; more's the pity. "

"But getting rich, and being married! Oh, Mrs Dolly! Everybody wantsthose. "

"No, my dear, asking your pardon, " replied the old lady, in a tone ofdecision unusual with her. "I trust every Christian does not want to berich, when the Lord hath given him so many warnings against it. Andevery man does not want to marry, nor every woman neither. "

"Well, not every man, perhaps, " admitted Rhoda; "but every woman does, Mrs Dolly. "

"My dear, I am sorry to hear a woman say it, " answered Mrs Dorothy, with as much warmth as was consonant with her nature. "I hoped that wasa man's delusion. "

"Why, Mrs Dolly! I do, " said Rhoda, with great candour. 

"Then I wish you more wisdom, child. "

"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Didn't you, when you wereyoung, Mrs Dolly?"

"No, I thank God, nor when I was old neither, " replied Mrs Dorothy, inthe same tone. 

"But, Mrs Dolly! A maid has no station in society!" said Rhoda, usinga phrase which she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books. 

"My dear, your station is where God puts you. A maid has just as good astation as a wife; and a much pleasanter, to my thinking. "

"Pleasanter!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Why, Mrs Dolly, nobody thinks anythingof an old maid, except to pity her. "

"They may keep their pity to themselves, " said Mrs Dorothy, with alittle laugh. "We old maids can pity them back again, and with morereason. "

"Mrs Dolly, would you have all the world hermits?"

"No, my dear; nor do I at all see why people should always leap to theconclusion that an old maid must be an ill-tempered, lonely, disappointed creature. Sure, there are other relatives in this worldbeside husbands and children; and if she choose her own lot, what causehath she for disappointment? 'Tis but a few day since Mr Leightonsaid, in my hearing, `Of course we know, when a gentlewoman is unwed, 'tis her misfortune rather than her fault'--and I do believe the poorman thought he paid us women a compliment in so speaking. For me, Ifelt it an insult. "

"Why so, Mrs Dolly?"

"Why, think what it meant, my dear. `Of course, a woman cannot be soinsensible to the virtues and attractions of men that she should wish toremain unwed; therefore, if this calamity overtake her, it shows thatshe hath no virtues nor attractions herself. '"

"You don't think Mr Leighton meant that, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, laughing. 

"No, my dear; I think he did not see the meaning of his own words. Buttell me, if it is not a piece of great vanity on the part of men, thatwhile they never think to condole with a man who is unmarried, but takeit undoubted that he prefers that life, they take it as equallyundoubted that a woman doth not prefer it, and lament over her beingleft at ease and liberty as though she had suffered some greatmisfortune?"

"I never did see such queer notions as you have, Mrs Dolly! I can'tthink where you get them, " said Rhoda. "However, you may say what youwill; _I_ mean to marry, and I am going to be rich too. And I expect Ishall like both of them. "

"My dear!" and Mrs Dorothy laid down her work, and looked earnestly atRhoda. "How do you know you are going to be rich?"

"Why, I shall have White-Ladies, " answered Rhoda. "And of course AuntHarriet will leave me everything. "

"Have Madam and Mrs Harriet told you so, my dear?"

"No, " said Rhoda, rather impatiently. "But who else should they leaveit to?"

Mrs Dorothy let that part of the matter drop quietly. 

"`They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, '" she said, taking up her work again. 

"What snare?" said Rhoda, bluntly. 

"They get their hearts choked up, " said the old lady. 

"With what, Mrs Dolly?"

"`Cares, and riches, and pleasures of this life. ' O my dear, may theLord make your heart soft! Yet I am afraid--I am very sore afraid, thatthe only way of making some hearts soft is--to break them. "

"Well, I don't want my heart breaking, thank you, " laughed Rhoda; "and Idon't think anything would break it, unless I lost all my money, and wasleft an old maid. O Mrs Dolly, I can't think how you bear it! To comedown, now, and live in one of these little houses, and have peoplelooking down on you, instead of looking up to you--if anything of thesort would kill me, I think that would. "

"Well, it hasn't killed me, child, " said Mrs Dorothy, calmly; "butthen, you see, I chose it. That makes a difference. "

"But you didn't choose to be poor, Mrs Dolly?"

"Well, yes, in one sense, I did, " answered the old lady, a little tingeof colour rising in her pale cheek. 

"How so?" demanded Rhoda, who was not deterred from gaining informationby any delicacy in asking questions. 

"There was a time once, my dear, that I might have married a gentlemanof title, with a rent-roll of six thousand a year. "

"Mrs Dolly! you don't mean that?" cried Rhoda. "And why on earthdidn't you?"

"Well, my dear, I had two reasons, " answered Mrs Dorothy. "One was"--with a little laugh--"that as you see, I preferred to be one of thesesame ill-conditioned, lonely, disappointed old maids. And the otherwas"--and Mrs Dorothy's voice sank to a softer and graver tone--"Icould not have taken my Master with me into that house. I saw no trackof His footsteps along that road. And His sheep follow Him. "

"But God means us to be happy, Mrs Dolly?"

"Surely, my dear. But He knows better than we how empty and fleeting isall happiness other than is found in Him. 'Tis only because the Lord isour Shepherd that we shall not want. "

"Mrs Dolly, that is what good people say; but it always sounds sogloomy and melancholy. "

"What sounds melancholy, my dear?" inquired Mrs Dorothy, with slightsurprise in her tone. 

"Why, that one must find all one's happiness in reading sermons, andchanting Psalms, and thinking how soon one is going to die, " said Rhoda, with an uncomfortable shrug. 

"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs Dorothy, "when did you ever hear me sayanything of the kind?"

"Why, that was what you meant, wasn't it, " answered Rhoda, "when youtalked about finding happiness in piety?"

"And when did I do that?"

"Just now, this minute back, " said Rhoda in surprise. 

"My dear child, you strangely misapprehend me. I never spoke a word offinding happiness in piety; I spoke of finding it in God. And God isnot sermons, nor chanting, nor death. He is life, and light, and love. I never think how soon I shall die. I often think how soon the Lord maycome; but there is a vast difference between looking for the coming of athing that you dread, and looking for the coming of a person whom youlong to see. "

"But you will die, Mrs Dolly?"

"Perhaps, my dear. The Lord may come first; I hope so. "

"Oh dear!" said Rhoda. "But that means the world may come to an end. "

"Yes. The sooner the better, " replied the old lady. 

"But you don't _want_ the world to end, Mrs Dolly?"

"I do, my clear. I want the new heavens and the new earth, whereindwelleth righteousness. "

"Oh dear!" cried Rhoda again. "Why, Mrs Dolly, I can't bear to thinkof it. It would be an end of everything I care about. "

"My dear, " said the old lady, gravely and yet tenderly, "if the Lord'scoming will put an end to everything you care about, that must bebecause you don't care much for Him. "

"I don't know anything about Him, except what we hear in church, "answered Rhoda uneasily. 

"And don't care for that?" softly responded her old friend. 

Rhoda fidgeted for a moment, and then let the truth out. 

"Well, no, Mrs Dolly, I _don't_. I know it sounds very wicked andshocking; but how can I, when 'tis all so far off? It doesn't feelreal, as you do, and Madam, and all the other people I know. I can'ttell how you make it real. "

"_He_ makes it real, my child. 'Tis faith which sees God. How can yousee Him without it? But I am not shocked, my dear. You have only toldme what I knew before. "

"I don't see how you knew, " said Rhoda uncomfortably; "and I don't knowhow people get faith. "

"By asking the Lord for it, " said Mrs Dolly. "Phoebe, my child, is ita sorrowful thing to thee to think on Christ and His coming again?"

"Oh no!" was Phoebe's warm answer. "You see, Madam, I haven't anythingelse. "

"Dear child, thank God for it!" replied Mrs Dorothy softly. "`Ton sortn'est pas a plaindre. '"

"I declare, if 'tis not four o'clock!" cried Rhoda, springing up, andperhaps not sorry for the diversion. "There, now! I meant you tofinish your story, and we haven't time left. Come along, Phoebe! Weare going to look in a minute on Mrs Marcella, and then we must hurryhome. "

CHAPTER FIVE. 

GATTY'S TROUBLES. 

 "And I come down no more to chilling praise, To sneers, to wearing out of empty days, But rest, rejoicing in the power I've won, To go on learning, though my crying's done. "

 _Isabella Fyvie Mayo_. 

As the two girls turned into the little garden of Number Three, thelatch of the door was lifted, and Mrs Jane came out. 

"Good evening!" said she. "Come to see my sister, are you? I and myDeb are doing for her to-day, for her Nell has got a holiday--gone tosee her mother--lazy slut!"

"Which is the lazy slut, Mrs Jane?" asked Rhoda, laughing. 

"Heyday! they're all a parcel together, " answered Mrs Jane. "Nell andher mother, and her grandmother before them. And Marcella, too, she'sno better. Go in, if you want a string of complaints. You can come outwhen you've had plenty. "

"How many complaints are plenty, Mrs Jane?"

"One, " said Mrs Jane, marching off. "Plenty for me. "

Rhoda lifted the latch, and walked in, Phoebe following her. She tappedat the inner door. 

"Oh, come in, whoever it is, " said a querulous, plaintive voice. "Well, Mrs Rhoda, I thought you would have been to see me before. A poorlonely creature, that nobody cares for, and never has any comfort norpleasure! And who have you with you? I'm sure she's in a deepconsumption from the looks of her. Coltsfoot, my dear, and horehound, with plenty of sugar, boiled together; and a little mallow won't hurt. But they'll not do you much good, I should say; you're too far gone:still, 'tis a duty to do all one can, and some strange things do happen:like Betty Collins--the doctors all gave her up, and there she is, walking about, as well as anybody. And so may you, my dear, though youdon't look like it. Still, you are young--there's no telling: andcoltsfoot is a very good thing, and makes wonderful cures. Oh, thatcareless Jane, to leave me all alone, just when I wanted my pillowsshaking! And so inconsiderate of Nell to go home just to-day, of alldays, when she knew I was sure to be worse; I always am after afast-day. Fast-days don't suit me at all; they are very bad for sickpeople. They make one's spirits so low, and are sure to give me thevapours. Oh dear, that Jane!"

"What's the matter with that Jane?" demanded the bearer of the name, stalking in, as Phoebe was trying to brace up her courage to the pointof offering to shake the pillows. "Want another dose of castor oil?I've got it. "

A faint shriek of deprecation was the answer. 

"Oh dear! And you know how I hate it! Jane, do shake up my pillows. They feel as if there were stones instead of flocks in them, or--"

"Nutmegs, no doubt, " suggested Mrs Jane. "Shake them up? Oh yes, andyou too--do you both good. "

"Oh, don't, Jane! Have you an orange for me?"

"Sit down, my dears, " said Mrs Jane, parenthetically. "Can't affordthem, Marcella. Plenty of black currant tea. Better for you. "

"I don't like it!" said Mrs Marcella, plaintively. 

"Oranges are eightpence a-piece, and currants may be had for thegathering, " observed Mrs Jane, sententiously. 

"They give me a pain in my side!" moaned the invalid. 

"Well, the oranges would give you a pain in your purse. I'd rather haveone in my side, if I were you. "

"You don't know what it is to be ill!" said Mrs Marcella, closing hereyes. 

"Don't I? I've had both small-pox and spotted fever. "

"So long ago!"

"Bless you, child! I'm not Methuselah!" said Mrs Jane. 

"Well, I think you might be, Jane, for really, the way in which you cansit up all night, and look as fresh as a daisy in the morning, when youhave not had a wink of sleep, and I am perfectly worn-out withsuffering--just skin and bone, and no more--"

"There's a little tongue left, I reckon!" said Mrs Jane. 

"The way she will get up and go to market, my dears, after such a nightas that, " pursued Mrs Marcella, who always ran on her own line ofrails, and never shunted to avoid collision; "you never saw anythinglike her--the amount she can bear! She's as tough as a rhinoceros, andas strong as an elephant, and as wanting in feeling as--as--"

"A sensitive plant, " popped in Mrs Jane. "Now, Marcella, open yourmouth and shut your eyes, and take this. "

"Is it castor oil?" faintly screamed the invalid, endeavouring toprotect herself. 

"Stuff! 'Tis good Tent wine. Take it and be thankful. "

"Where did you get it, Jane?"

"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies, " said Mrs Jane. "Itwas honestly come by. "

"Well, I think we must be going, Mrs Marcella, " said Rhoda, rising. 

"Oh, my dear! Must you, really? And so seldom as you come to see apoor thing like me, who hasn't a living creature to care for her--exceptJane, of course, and she doesn't, not one bit! Dear! And to think thatI was once a pretty young maid, with a little fortune of my own; andthere was many a young gentleman, my dear, that would have given hisright hand for no more than a smile from me--"

"Heyday! how this world is given to lying!" interpolated Mrs Jane. 

"And we were a large family then--eight of us, my dear; and now they areall dead, and I am left quite alone, except Jane, you know. Oh dear, dear, but to think of it! But there is no thankfulness in the world, nor kindness neither. The people I have been good to! and now that Ihave _come down_ a little, to see how they treat me! Jane doesn't mindit; she has no tender feelings at all; she can stand all things, andnever say a word, I am sure I don't know how she does it. I am allfeeling! These things touch me so keenly. But Jane's just like astone. Well, good evening, my dear, if you must go. I think you mighthave come a little sooner, and you might come oftener, if you would. But that is always my lot, to be neglected and despised--a poor, lonely, ugly old maid, that nobody cares for. And it wasn't my fault, I amsure; I never chose such a fate. I cannot think why such afflictionshave been sent me. I am sure I am no worse than other people. Clarissais a great deal vainer than I am; and Jane is ever so much harder; andas to Dorothy, why, 'tis misery to see her--she is so cheerful and fullof mirth, and she has not a thing to be content with--it quite hurts meto see anyone like that. But people are so wanting in feeling! I amsure--"

"Go, if you want, " said Mrs Jane, shortly, holding the door open. 

"Oh, yes, go! Of course you want to go!" lamented Mrs Marcella. "Whatpleasure can there be to a bright young maid like you, to sit with apoor, sick, miserable creature like me? Dear, dear! And only tothink--"

Rhoda escaped. Phoebe followed, more slowly. Mrs Jane came out afterthem, and shut the door behind them. 

"She's in pain, this evening, " said the last-named person in her usualblunt style. "Some folks can bear pain, and some can't. And those thatcan must beat with those that can't. She'll be better of letting it outa bit. Good evening. "

"Oh, isn't it dreadful!" said Rhoda, when they were out of the gate. "Ijust hate going to see Mrs Marcella, especially when she takes one ofher complaining fits. If I were Mrs Jane, I should let her have it outby herself. But she is hard, rather--she doesn't care as I should. "

But Phoebe thought that a mistake. She had noticed the drawn brow ofthe silent sister, while the sufferer was detailing her string oftroubles, and the sudden quiver of the under lip, when allusion was madeto the eight of whom the family had once consisted: and Phoebe'sdeduction was, not that Jane Talbot bore no burden, but that she kept itout of sight. Perhaps that very characteristic bluntness of her mannerdenoted a tight curb kept upon her spirit. 

Rhoda had noticed nothing of all this. Herself a surface character, shecould not see below the surface in another. 

The Wednesday evening came, and with it Sir Richard Delawarr's coach, conveying his two younger daughters. They were extremely unlike inperson. Gatty was tall, calm, and deliberate; Molly was ratherdiminutive for her years, and exceedingly lively. While Gatty cameforward in a stately, courteous manner, courtesying to Madam, and kindlyanswering her inquiries after Betty, Molly linked her arm in Rhoda's, with--

"How goes it, old jade?"

And when Mr Onslow, who happened to be crossing the hall, stopped andinquired in a rather timid manner if Mrs Betty's health were improving, Molly at once favoured him with a slap on the back, and the counterquery, --

"What's that to you, you old thief?" Phoebe was horrified. If thesewere aristocratic manners, she preferred those of inferior quality. Butnoticing that Gatty's manners were quiet and correct, Phoebe concludedthat Molly must be an exceptional eccentricity. She contemplated theprospect of a month in that young lady's company with unmitigatedrepugnance. 

"Well, Mrs Molly, my dear, --as smart as ever!" remarked Madam, turningto Molly with a smile. "All right, old witch!" said Molly. And toPhoebe's astonishment, Madam smiled on, and did not resent theimpertinence. 

"Well!--how do you like Gatty and Molly?" said Rhoda to Phoebe, whenthey were safe in their own room. 

"Pretty well, Mrs Gatty, " replied Phoebe, leaving the question of Mollyundecided. 

"Don't you like Molly?" demanded Rhoda, laughing. "Ah! I see. She'srather too clever to please you. "

"I ask your pardon, but I don't see any cleverness in downrightrudeness, " timidly suggested Phoebe. 

"Oh, nobody cares what Molly says, " answered Rhoda. "They put up withall that, --she's so smart. You see, she's very, very ingenious, andeverybody thinks so, and she knows people think so. She's a rep. , yousee, and she has to keep it up. "

"I ask your pardon, " said Phoebe again; "a _what_, if you please?"

"A rep. , child, " answered Rhoda, in her patronising style. "Areputation, --a character for smartness, you know. Don't you see?"

"Well, I would rather have a character for something better, " saidPhoebe. 

"You may make yourself easy; you'll never get a character forsmartness, " responded her cousin with an unpleasant laugh. "Well, Isay, Phoebe, while they are here I shall have Molly in my room, and youmust sleep with Gatty. You can come in and dress me of a morning, youknow, and help me into bed at night; but we can't do with three in oneroom. "

Phoebe was inwardly thankful for it. What little she had seen of Gattywas rather negative than positive; but at least it had not, as in thecase of Molly revealed anything actively disagreeable. Rhoda washeartily welcome to Molly's society so far as Phoebe was concerned. Butit surprised and rather perplexed Phoebe to find that Rhoda actuallyliked this very objectionable maiden. 

"Panem?" asked Molly, the next morning at breakfast. Her Latin, such asit was, was entirely unburdened with cases and declensions. "Thank you, I will take kakos. "

"Fiddle-de-dee! what's that?" said Molly. Rhoda had completelyforgotten what the word meant. 

"Oh, 'tis the Greek for biscuit, " said she, daringly. 

Phoebe contrived to hide a portion of her face in her teacup, but Gattysaw her eyes, and read their meaning. 

"The Greek!" cried Molly. "Who has taught you Greek, Ne'er-do-well?"

"A very learned person, " said Rhoda, to whom it was delight to mystifyMolly. 

"Old Onslow?" demanded irreverent Molly, quite undeterred by theconsideration that the chaplain sat at the table with her. 

"You can ask him, " said Rhoda. 

"Did you, old cassock?" inquired Molly, who appeared to apply thatadjective in a most impartial manner. 

"Indeed, Mrs Molly, I did not--I never knew--" stammered the startledchaplain, quite shaken out of his propriety. 

"Never knew any Greek? I thought so, " responded audacious Molly, thereby evoking laughter all round the table, in which even Madamjoined. 

Phoebe, who had recovered herself, sat lost in wonder where thecleverness of all this was to be found. It simply disgusted her. Rhodawas not always pleasant to put up with, but Rhoda was sweetness andgrace, compared with Molly. Gatty sat quietly, neither rebuking hersister's sallies, nor apparently amused by them. And Rhoda _liked_ thisgirl! It was a mystery to Phoebe. 

When night came Phoebe found her belongings transferred to Gatty's room. She assisted Rhoda to undress, herself silent, but a perpetual chatterbeing kept up between Rhoda and Molly on subjects not by any meansinteresting to Phoebe. 

The latter was at length dismissed, and, with a sense of relief, shewent slowly along the passage to the room in which she and Gatty were tosleep. 

Though it was getting very late, the clock being on the stroke of ten, yet Gatty was not in bed. She seemed to have half undressed herself, and then to have thrown a scarf over her shoulders and sat down by thewindow. It was a beautiful night, and a flood of silvery moonlightthrew the trees into deep shadow and lit up the open spaces almost likeday. Phoebe came and stood at the window beside Gatty. Perhaps eachwas a little shy of the other; for some seconds passed in silence, andPhoebe was the first to speak. 

"You like it, " she said timidly. 

"Oh, yes. 'Tis so quiet, " was Gatty's answer. 

Phoebe was thinking what she should say next, when Gatty rose, took offher scarf, which she folded neatly and put away in the wardrobe, finished her undressing, and got into bed, without another word beyond"Good-night. "

For three weeks of the month which the visit was to last this proved tobe the usual state of matters. Gatty and Phoebe regularly exchangedgreetings, night and morning; but beyond this their conversation waslimited to remarks upon the weather, and an occasional request thatPhoebe would inspect the neat and proper condition of some part ofGatty's dress which she could not conveniently see. And Phoebe began tocome to the conclusion that Rhoda had judged rightly, --Gatty had nothingin her. 

But one evening, when Molly had been surpassingly "clever, " keepingRhoda in peals of laughter, and Phoebe in a state of annoyed disgust, --on reaching their bedroom, Phoebe found Gatty, still dressed, andsitting by the bed, with her face bowed upon her hands. 

"I ask your pardon, but are you not well?" said Phoebe, in asympathising tone. 

"Oh, yes. Quite well, " was Gatty's reply, in a constrained voice; butas she rose and moved her hands from her face, Phoebe saw that she hadbeen crying. 

"You are in trouble, " said Phoebe, gently. "Don't tell me anything, unless you like; but I know what trouble is; and if I could help you--"

"You can't, " said Gatty, shortly. 

Phoebe was silent. Her sympathy had been repulsed--it was not wanted. The undressing was, as usual, without a word. 

But when the girls had lain down in bed, Phoebe was a little surprisedto hear Gatty say suddenly, --

"Phoebe Latrobe!--does anybody love you?"

"God loves me, " said Phoebe, simply. "I am not sure that any one elsedoes. "

"I like you, " said Gatty. "You let me be. That's what nobody everdoes. "

"I am not sure that I understand you, " responded Phoebe. 

"I'll tell you, " replied Gatty, "for I think you can hold your tongue, and not be always chatter, chatter, chatter, like--like some people. You think there's only one Gatty Delawarr; and I'll be bound you thinkher a very dull, stupid creature. Well, you're about right there. Butthere are two: there's me, and there's the thing people want to make me. Now, you haven't seen me, --you've only seen the woman into whom I ambeing pinched and pulled. This is me that talks to you to-night, andperhaps you'll never see me again, --only that other girl, --so you hadbetter make the most of me now that you have me. I'm sure, if youdislike her as much as I do--! You see, Phoebe, there are three of us--Betty, and me, and Molly: and Mother's set her heart on our all making anoise in the world. Well, perhaps we could have managed better if wemight have made our own noise; but we have to make it to order, and wedon't do it well at all. Betty's the best off, because Mother hit onsomething that went with her nature, --she's the notable housewife. Soshe plays her play well. But when she set up Molly for a wit, and mefor a beauty, she made a great blunder. Molly hasn't a bit of wit, soshe falls back on rude speeches, and they go through me just as if sheran a knife into me. You did not think so, did you?"

"No, " said Phoebe, wonderingly; "I thought you did not seem to care. "

"That's the other Gatty. She does not care. She's been told, --oh, ahundred times over!--to compose herself and keep her features calm, andnot let her voice be ruffled; and move slowly, so that her elbows arenot square, and all on in that way; and she has about learned it by thistime. I know how to sit still and look unconcerned, if my heart bebreaking. And it is breaking, Phoebe. "

"Dear Mrs Gatty, what can I do for you?"

"You can't do anything but listen to me. Let me pour it out this once, and don't scold me. I don't mean anything wrong, Phoebe. I don't wishto complain of Mother, or Molly, or any one. I only want to tellsomebody what I have to bear, and then I'll compose myself again to mypart in the world's big theatre, and go away and bear it, like othergirls do. And you are the only person I have acquaintance with, that Ifeel as if I could tell. "

"Pray go on, Mrs Gatty; I can feel sorry, if I can do nothing else. "

"Well, --at home somebody is at me from morning to night. There's aposture-master comes once a week; and Mother's maid looks to my carriageat all times, 'tis an endless round of--`Gatty, hold your headup, '--`Gatty, put that plate down, and take it up with your armrounded, '--`Gatty, you must not laugh, '--`Gatty, you must notsneeze, '--`Gatty, walk slower, '--come, that's enough. Then there'sMolly on the top of it. And there's Betty on the top of Molly, --whocan't conceive why anybody should ruffle her mind about anything. Andthere's Mother above all, for ever telling me she looks to have me cut adash, and make a good match; and if I had played my cards rightly Iought to have caught a husband ere I was seventeen, --'tis disgracefulthat I should thus throw away my advantages. And, Phoebe, _I_ wantnothing but to creep into some little, far-away corner, and _be me_, andthrow away my patches and love-locks, and powder and pomatum, and neversee that other Gatty any more. That's how it was up to last month. "

Gatty paused a moment, and drew a long sigh. 

"And then, there came another on the scene, and I suppose the play grewmore entertaining to Mother, and Betty, and Molly, in the boxes. Peopledon't think, you know, when they look down at the prima donna, painted, and smiling, and decked with flowers, --they don't think if she has ahusband who ill-uses her, or a child dying at home. She has come thereto make them sport. Well, there came an old lord, --a man of sixty orseventy, --who has led a wild rakish life all these years, and now hethinks 'tis time to settle down, and he wants me to help him to makepeople think he's become respectable. And they say I shall marry him. Phoebe, they say I must, --there is to be no help for it. And I can'tbear him to look at me. If he touches my glove, I want to fling it intothe fire when it comes off. And this one month, here, at White-Ladies, is my last quiet time. When I go home--if Betty be recovered of herdistemper--I am to be married to this old man in a week's time. I amtied hand and foot, like a captive or a slave; and I have not even thepoor relief of tears. They make my eyes red, and I must not make, myeyes red, if it would save my life. But nothing will save me. Thelambs that used to be led to the altar are not more helpless than I. The rope is round my neck; and I must trot on beside the executioner, and find what comfort I can in the garland of roses on my head. "

There was a silence of a few seconds after Gatty finished her miserabletale. And then Phoebe's voice asked softly, --

"Dear Mrs Gatty, have you asked God to save you?"

"What's the use?" answered Gatty, in a hopeless tone. 

"Because He would do it, " said Phoebe. "I don't know how. It might beby changing my Lady Delawarr's mind, or the old lord's, or yours; ormany another way; I don't know how. But I do know that He has promisedto bring no temptation on those that fear Him, beyond what they shall beable to bear. "

"Oh, I don't know!" said Gatty, in that tone which makes the word soundlike a cry of pain. 

"Have you tried entreating my Lady Delawarr?"

"Tried! I should think so. And what do you think I get by it? `Gatty, my dear, 'tis so unmodish to be thus warm over anything! Composeyourself, and control your feelings. Love!--no, of course you do notlove my Lord Polesworth, while you are yet a maid; 'twould be highlyindecorous for you to do any such thing. But when you are his wife, you'll be perfectly content; and that is all you can expect. My dear, do compose yourself, or your face will be quite wrinkled; and let mehear no more of this nonsense, I beg of you. Maids cannot look tochoose for themselves, 'tis not reasonable. ' That is what I get, Phoebe. "

"And your father, Mrs Gatty?"

"My father? Oh! `Really, Gatty, I can't interfere, --'tis your mother'saffair; you must make up your mind to it. We can't have always what welike, '--and then he whistles to his hounds, and goes out a-hunting. "

"Well, Mrs Gatty, suppose you try God?"

"Suppose I have done, Phoebe, and got no answer at all?"

"Forgive me, I cannot suppose it. "

"Is He so good to _you_, Phoebe?"

The question was asked in a very, very mournful tone. 

"Mrs Gatty, " said Phoebe, softly, "He has given me Himself. I do notthink He has given me anything else of what my heart longs for. Butthat is enough. In Him I have all things. "

"What do you mean?" came in accents of perplexity from the bed in theopposite corner. 

"I am afraid, " said Phoebe, "I cannot tell you. I mean, I could notmake you understand it. "

"`Given you Himself!'" repeated Gatty. "I can fancy how He could rewardyou or make you happy; but, `give you Himself!'"

"Well, I cannot explain it, " said Phoebe. "Yes, it means givinghappiness; but it means a great deal more. I can feel it, but I cannotput it in words. "

"I don't understand you the least bit!"

"Will you talk awhile with Mrs Dolly Jennings, and see if she canexplain it to you? I do not think any one can, in words; but I guessshe would come nearer to it than I could. "

"I like Mrs Dolly, " said Gatty, thoughtfully; "she is very kind. "

"Very, " assented Phoebe. 

"I think I should not mind talking to her, " said Gatty. "We will walkdown there to-morrow, if we can get leave. "

"And now, had we not better go to sleep?" suggested Phoebe. 

"Well, we can try, " sighed Gatty. "But, Phoebe, 'tis no good telling meto pray, because I have done it. I said over every collect in thePrayer-book--ten a day; and the very morning after I had finished them, that horrid man came, and Mother made--I had to go down and sit half anhour listening to him. Praying does no good. "

"I am not sure that you have tried it, " said Phoebe. 

"Didn't I tell you, this minute, I said every--"

"I ask your pardon for interrupting you, but saying is not praying. Didyou really pray them?"

"Phoebe, I do not understand you! How could I pray them and not saythem?"

"Well, I did not quite mean that, " said Phoebe; "but please, Mrs Gatty, did you feel them? Did you really ask God all the collects say, or didyou only repeat the words over? You see, if I felt cold in bed, I mightask Mrs Betty to give me leave to have another blanket; but if I onlykept saying that I was cold, to myself, over and over, and did not tellMrs Betty, I should be long enough before I got the blanket. Did yousay the collects to yourself, Mrs Gatty, or did you say them to theLord?"

There was a pause before Gatty said, in rather an awed voice, "Phoebe, when you pray, is God there?"

"Yes, " said Phoebe, readily. 

"He is not, with me, " replied Gatty. "He feels a long, long way off;and I feel as if my collects might drop and be lost before they can getup to Him. Don't you?"

"Never, " answered Phoebe. "But I don't send my prayers up bythemselves; I give them to Jesus Christ to carry. He never drops one, Mrs Gatty. "

"'Tis all something I don't understand one bit, " said Gatty, wearily. "Go to sleep, Phoebe; I won't keep you awake. But we'll go and see MrsDolly. "

The next afternoon, when Rhoda and Molly had disappeared on theirprivate affairs, Gatty dropped a courtesy to Madam, and requested herpermission to visit Mrs Dolly Jennings. 

"By all means, my dear, " answered Madam, affably. "If Rhoda has nooccasion for her, let Phoebe wait on you. "

The second request which had been on Gatty's lips being thusforestalled, the girls set forth--without consulting Rhoda, which Gattywas disinclined to do, and which Phoebe fancied that she had done--andreached the Maidens' Lodge without falling in with any disturbingelement, such as either Rhoda or Molly would unquestionably have been. Mrs Dorothy received them in her usual kindly manner, and gave them teabefore they entered on the subject of which both the young minds werefull. Then Gatty told her story, if very much the same terms as she hadgiven it to Phoebe. 

"And I can't understand Phoebe, Mrs Dolly, " she ended. "She says Godhas given her Himself; and I cannot make it out. And she says she givesher prayers to Jesus Christ to carry. I don't know what she means. Itsounds good. But I don't understand it--not one bit. "

Mrs Dorothy came up to where Gatty was sitting, and took the girl'shead between her small, thin hands. It was not a beautiful face; but itwas pleasant enough to look on, and would have been more so, but for thediscipline which had crushed out of it all natural interest and youthfulanticipation, and had left that strange, strained look of care andforced calm upon the white brow. 

"Dear child, " she said, gently, "you want rest, don't you?"

Gatty's grey eyes filled with tears. 

"That is just what I do want, Mrs Dolly, " she said, "somewhere where Icould be quiet, and be let alone, and just be myself and not somebodyelse. "

"Ah, my dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, shaking her head, "you never get letalone in this world. Satan won't let you alone, if men do. But to beyourself--that is what God wants of you. At least 'tis one half of whatHe would have; the other half is that you should give yourself to Him. "

"'Tis no good praying, " said Gatty, as before. 

"Did the Lord tell you that, my dear?"

"No!" said Gatty, looking up in surprise. 

"Well, I would not say it till He does, child. But what did you prayfor?"

"I said all the collects over. "

"Very good things, my dear; but were they what you wanted? I thoughtyou had a special trouble at this time. "

"But what could I do?" asked Gatty, apparently rather bewildered. 

"Dear child, thou couldst sure ask thy Father to help thee, without moreado. But `bide a wee, ' as my old friend, Scots Davie, was wont to say. There is a great deal about prayer in the Word of God. Let us look at alittle of it. " Little Mrs Dorothy trotted to her small work-table, which generally stood at her side, and came back with a well-worn brownBible. Gatty watched her with a rather frightened look, as if shethought that something was going to be done to her, and was not surewhether it might hurt her. 

"Now hearken: `Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer andsupplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known untoGod. ' Again: `Whatsoever ye shall ask in My Name, that will I do. 'These are grand words, my dear. "

"But they can't mean that Mrs Dorothy! Why, only think--if I were toask for a fortune, should I get it?"

"I must have two questions answered, my dear, ere I can tell that. Whoare the _you_ in these verses?"

"I thought it meant everybody. "

"Not so. Listen again: `If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you. ' 'Tis noteverybody doth that. "

"But I don't know what that means, Mrs Dorothy. "

"Then, my dear, you have answered my second question--Are you one ofthese? For if you know not even what the thing is, 'tis but reasonableto conclude you have never known it in your own person. "

"I suppose not, " said Gatty, sorrowfully. 

"You see, my dear, 'tis to certain persons these words are said. If youare not one of these persons, then they are not said to you. "

"I am not. " And Gatty shook her head sadly. "But, Mrs Dorothy, whatdoes it mean?"

"Dear, " said the old lady, "when we do truly abide in Christ, we desirefirst of all that His will be done. We wish for this or that; but wewish more than all that He choose all things for us--that He have Hisown way. Our wills are become His will. It follows as a certainty, that they shall be done. We must have what we wish, when it is what Hewishes who rules all things. `Ye shall ask what ye will. ' He guides uswhat to ask, if we beg Him to do so. "

"Is any one thus much perfect?" inquired Gatty, doubtfully. 

"Many are trying for it, " said Mrs Dolly. "There may be but few thathave fully reached it. "

"But that makes us like machines, Mrs Dolly, moved about at another'swill. "

"What, my dear! Love makes us machines? Never! The very last thingthat could be, child. "

"I don't know much about love, " said Gatty, drearily. 

"About love, or about being loved?" responded Mrs Dolly. 

"Both, " answered the girl, in the same tone. 

"Will you try it, my dear? 'Tis the sweetener of all human life. "

Gatty looked up with a surprised expression. 

"_I_ can't make people love me, " she said. 

"Nor can you make yourself love others, " added Mrs Dorothy. "But youcan ask the Lord for that fairest of all His gifts, saving JesusChrist. "

"Ask God for a beau! O Mrs Dorothy!" exclaimed Gatty in a shockedtone. 

"My dear, I never so much as named one, " responded Mrs Dorothy, with alittle laugh. "Sure, you are not one of those foolish maids that thinkthey must be loveless and forlorn without they have a husband?"

Gatty had always been taught to think so; and she looked bewildered andmystified. A more eligible husband than old Lord Polesworth was theonly idea that associated itself in her mind with the word love. 

"But what else did you mean?" she asked. 

"Ay me!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if to herself. "How do men misunderstandGod! Child, wert thou never taught the first and great commandment?`Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thymind, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength?'"

"Oh, of course, " said Gatty, as if she were listening to some scientificformula about a matter wherein she was not at all concerned. 

"Have you done that, my dear?"

"Done what?" demanded Gatty in a startled tone. 

"Have you loved God with all your heart?"

Gatty looked as if she had been suddenly roused from sleep, and wasunable to take in the circumstances. 

"I don't know! I--I suppose, so. "

"You suppose so! Dear child, how can you love any, and not know it?"

"But that is quite another sort of love!" cried Gatty. 

"There is no sort but one, my dear. Love is love. "

"Oh, but we can't _love_ God!" said Gatty, as if the idea quite shockedher. "That means--it means reverence, you know, and duty, and so on. It can't mean anything else, Mrs Dorothy. "

Mrs Dorothy knitted very fast for a moment. Phoebe saw that her eyeswere filled with tears. 

"Poor lost sheep!" she said, in a grieved voice. "Poor straying lamb, whom the wolf hath taught to be frightened of the Shepherd! You did notfind that in the Bible, my dear. "

"Oh, but words don't mean the same in the Bible!" urged Gatty. "Surely, Mrs Dorothy, 'twould be quite unreverent to think so. "

"Surely, my dear, it were more unreverent to think that God does notmean what He saith. When He saith, `I will punish you seven times foryour sins, ' He means it, Mrs Gatty. And when He saith, `I will be aFather unto you, ' shall we say He doth not mean it? O my dear, don't doHim such an injury as that!"

"Do God an injury!" said Gatty in an awed whisper. 

"Ay, a cruel injury!" was the answer. "Men are always injuring God. Either they try to persuade themselves that He means not what He sayswhen He threatens: or else they shut their hearts up close, and thenfancy that His heart is shut up too. My dear, He did not tarry to offerto be your Father, until you came and asked Him for it. `He _first_loved you. ' Child, what dost thou know of the Lord Jesus Christ?"

Ah, what did she know? For Gatty lived in a dreary time, when religionwas at one of its lowest ebb-tides, and had sunk almost to the level ofheathen morality. If Gatty had been required to give definitions of thegreatest words in the language, and had really done it from the bottomof her heart, according to her own honest belief, the list would haverun much in this way:--

"God. --The Great First Cause of all things, who has nothing to do withanything now, but will, at some remote period, punish murderers, thieves, and very wicked people. 

"Christ. --A supernaturally good man, who was crucified seventeen hundredyears ago. 

"Heaven. --A delightful place, where everybody is happy, to which allrespectable people will go, when they can't help it any longer. 

"Bible. --A good book read in church; intensely dry, as good books alwaysare no concern of mine. 

"Salvation, peace, holiness, and the like. --Words in the Prayer-Book. 

"Faith, hope, love, etcetera. --Duties, which of course we all perform, and therefore don't need to trouble ourselves about them. 

"Prayer. --An incantation, to be repeated morning and evening, if youwish to avert ill luck during the day. "

These were Gatty's views--if she could be said to have any. Howdifferent from those of Mrs Dorothy Jennings! To her, God was theCreator, from whom, and by whom, and to whom, were all things: theFountain of Mercy, who had so loved the world as to give Hisonly-begotten Son for its salvation: the Father who, having loved herbefore the world was, cared for everything, however insignificant, whichconcerned her welfare. Christ was the Friend who sticketh closer than abrother--the Lamb who had been slain for her, the High Priest who wastouched with every feeling of human infirmity. Heaven was the homewhich her Father had prepared for her. The Bible was the means wherebyher Father talked with her; and prayer the means whereby she talked withHim. Salvation was her condition; holiness, her aim; faith, love, peace, the very breath she drew. While, in Gatty's eyes, all this wasunknown and unreal, to Mrs Dorothy it was the most real thing in allthe world. 

Gatty answered her friend's query by a puzzled look. 

"It comes in church, " she said. "He is in the Creed, and at the end ofthe prayers. I don't know!"

"Child, " replied Mrs Dorothy, "you don't know Him. And, Mrs Gatty, mydear, you must know Him, if you are ever to be a happy woman. O poorchild, poor child! To think that the Man who loved you and gave Hislife for you is no more to you than one of a row of figures, a name setto the end of a prayer!"

Gatty was taken by surprise. She looked up with both unwonted emotionand astonishment in her eyes. 

"Mrs Dolly, " she said, with feeling, "I cannot tell, but I think'twould be pleasant to feel like you. It sounds all real, as if you hada live friend. "

"That is just what it is, my dear Mrs Gatty. A Friend that loves meenough to count the very hairs of my head, --to whom nothing is a littlematter that can concern me. And He is just as ready to be your Friendtoo. "

"What makes you think so, Mrs Dolly?"

"My dear, He died on purpose to save you. "

"The world, not me!" said Gatty. 

"If there had been no world but you, " was the answer, "He would havethought it worth while. "

Gatty's answer was not immediate. When it came, it was--

"What does He want me to do?"

"He wants you to give Him your heart, " said the old lady. "Do thatfirst, and you will very soon find out how to give Him your hands andyour head. "

"And will He keep away my Lord Polesworth?" asked the girl, earnestly. 

"He will keep away everything that can hurt you. Not, maybe, everythingyou don't like. Sometimes 'tis just the contrary. The sweet cake thatyou like might harm you, and the physic you hate might heal you. If so, He will give you the physic. But, child, if you are His own, He willput the cup into your had with a smite which will make it easy to take. "

"I should like that, " said Gatty, wistfully. "But could it be right towed with my Lord Polesworth, when I could not love nor honour him in myheart at all?"

"It can never be right to lie. Ask God to make you a way of escape, ifso it be. "

"What way?"

"Leave that to Him. "

Mrs Dorothy's little clock struck four. 

"I think, if you please, Mrs Gatty, " said Phoebe's hitherto silentvoice, "that Madam will be looking for us. "

"Yes, I guess she will, " answered Gatty, rising, and courtesying. "Ithank you, Mrs Dolly. You have given me a ray of hope--if 'twill notdie away. "

Mrs Dorothy drew the girl to her, and kissed her cheek. 

"Christ cannot die, my child, " she replied. "And Christ's love isdeathless as Himself. `Death hath no more dominion over Him. ' And Hesaith to His own, `Because I live, ye shall live also. '"

"It should be a better life than this, " said Gatty, with a sigh. 

"This is not the Christian's life, my dear. `His life is hid withChrist in God. ' 'Tis not left in his own hands to keep; he would soonlose it, if it were. Farewell, dear child; and may the Lord keep thee!"

Gatty looked up suddenly. "Tell me what to say to Him. "

Mrs Dorothy scarcely hesitated a moment. 

"`Teach me to do Thy will, '" she answered. "That holds everything. Youcannot do His will unless you are one of His redeemed. He must saveyou, and hold you up, and guide you to glory, if you do His will--notbecause you do it, for the salvation cometh first; but without the one, there cannot be the other. And he that doeth the will of God soonlearns to love it, better than any mortal thing. `Oh, how love I Thylaw!' saith David. `There is nothing on earth that I desire incomparison of Thee. '"

She kissed both the girls again, and they went away. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

TRAPS LAID FOR RHODA. 

 "La souveraine habilite consiste a bien connoitre le prix des choses. "

 _La Rochefoucauld_. 

There was an earnest, wistful, far-away look in Gatty's eyes, as thoughsome treasure-house had been opened to her, the existence of which shehad never previously suspected; but neither she nor Phoebe said a wordto each other as they crossed the Park, and went up the wide white stepsof the Abbey. 

"Where on earth have you been, you gadabouts?" came in Rhoda's voicefrom the interior of the hall. "Oh, but I've such a jolly piece of newsfor you! Molly and me heard it from Madam. Guess what it is. "

Rhoda's grammar was more free and easy than correct at all times; andPhoebe could not help thinking that in that respect, as in others, shehad perceptibly deteriorated by contact with Molly. 

"I don't care to hear it, thank you, " said Gatty, rather hastily, walking straight upstairs. 

"Oh, don't you, Mrs Prim?" demanded Rhoda. "Well, it doesn't concernyou much. Now, Phoebe, guess!"

Phoebe felt very little in tune for the sort of amusement usuallypatronised by Rhoda. But she set herself to gratify that ratherexacting young lady. 

"I don't guess things well, " she said. "Is one of your aunts coming?"

"My aunts!" repeated Rhoda, in supreme scorn. "Not if I know it, thankyou. I said it was jolly. Why, Phoebe! to guess such a thing as that!"

"Well, I should be pleased enough if mine were coming to see me, " saidPhoebe, good-temperedly. "I don't know what else to guess. Has someone given you a present?"

"Wish they had!" ejaculated Rhoda. "No, I'm sorry to say nobody's hadso much good sense. But there's somebody--I shall have to tell yousooner or later, you stupid goose, so I may as well do it now--somebody's coming to Number Four. Mrs Eleanor Darcy, a cousin of myLord Polesworth--only think!--and (that's best of all) she's got anephew. "

"How is that best of all?" asked Phoebe. 

"Mr Marcus Welles--isn't it a pretty name?--and he will come with her, to settle her in her new house. `_Why_?' Oh, what a silly Phoebe youare! He has three thousand a year. "

"Then I should think he might take better care of his aunt than let herbe an indigent gentlewoman, " said Phoebe, rather warmly. 

"As if he would want to be pothered with an old aunt!" cried Rhoda. "But I'll tell you what (you are so silly, you want tellingeverything!)--I mean to set my cap at him. "

"Won't you have some cleaner lace on it first?" suggested Phoebe, withthe exceedingly quiet, dry fun which was one of her characteristics. 

"You stupid, literal thing!" said Rhoda. "I might as well talk to thecat. Oh, here you come, Molly! Now for tea, if 'tis ready, and then--"

Madam was already at the tea-table, and Baxter was just bringing in thekettle. 

"I trust you have had a pleasant walk, my dears, " said she, kindly, asthe four girls filed in--Molly first, Phoebe last. 

"Middling, " said Molly, taking the initiative as usual. "Robbedseventeen birds' nests, climbed twenty-four trees, and jumped over adozen five-barred gates. "

"Oh, did you!" murmured Phoebe, in a shocked tone, too horrified forsilence. 

Rhoda went into convulsions behind her handkerchief. 

"Innocent little darling!" exclaimed Molly; "she thinks we did!"

"You said so, " answered Phoebe, reproachfully. 

"You are so smart, my dear Mrs Molly, " said Madam, smilingly. "Did youall walk together?"

"No, I thank you!" responded Molly. "Gatty and the innocent little dearwent to a Quakers' meeting. "

Had Madam taken the assertion literally, she would have been alarmed andhorrified indeed; for at that time all Dissenters were considereddangerous characters, and Quakers the worst of all. But, recognising itas one of Molly's flights of intellect, she smiled placidly, and said nomore. 

"My dear, I think you will be acquainted with Mrs Eleanor Darcy?" askedMadam, addressing herself to Gatty. 

"She has visited my mother, but only once, " answered Gatty. 

"Oh, the pootsy-bootsy!" broke in Molly. "Isn't she a sweet, charming, handsome creature?--the precious dear!"

"I fear she doth not please you, Mrs Molly?" asked Madam, interpretingMolly's exclamation by the rule of contrary. 

"She's the ugliest old baboon that ever grinned!" was Molly'scomplimentary reply. 

"What say you, Mrs Gatty?"

"She is certainly not handsome, " answered Gatty, apparently with somereluctance; "but I have heard her well spoken of, as very kind andgood. "

"Have you met with Mr Welles, her nephew, my dear?"

Molly had clasped her hands, leaned back, lifted her eyes with anexpression of sentimental rapture, and was executing an effective_tableau vivant_. 

"Yes, I have seen him two or three times, " said Gatty. 

"Is he a young man of an agreeable turn?" inquired Madam. 

"He is very handsome, " replied Gatty, rather doubtfully, as if shehardly knew what to say. 

"Pleasant as a companion?" pursued Madam. 

"People generally think so, I believe, " answered Gatty, with studiedvagueness. 

"You dear old concatenation, you'll get nothing out of my wretch of asister, " impetuously cried Molly. 

"I'll tell you all about Marcus. He's the brightest eyes that evershone, and the sweetest voice that praised your fine eyes, and the mostdelightful manners! White hands, and a capital leg, and never treads onyour corns. Oh, there's nobody like him. I mean to marry him. "

"Molly!" said Gatty. It was the first time she had offered anythinglike a reproof to her sister. 

"Now, you hold your tongue, Mrs Prude!" responded Molly. "You're not abit better than I am. "

Gatty made no reply. 

"Don't you set up to be either a prig or a saint!" continued Molly, angrily. "Betty's enough. She isn't a saint; but she's a prig. Ifever you're either, I'll lead you a life!"

And there could be little doubt of Molly's fulfilling her threat. 

The next day, Gatty and Molly Delawarr went home. Betty had quiterecovered, and was gone to stay with a friend near Bristol; the househad been thoroughly disinfected, and was pronounced free from alldanger; and Lady Delawarr thought there was no longer need for the girlsto remain away. 

"I wonder what will become of me without you, Molly!" said Rhoda, dolefully. 

"Oh, you'll have plenty to do, old Gatepost, " observed Molly, apparentlyin allusion to Rhoda's uneventful life. "You've got to fall in lovewith Marcus. I'll cut you into slices if you do, and make butteredtoast of you. "

"Good-bye!" said Rhoda laughing. 

"_Vale_!" responded Molly. 

"Good-bye, dear little Phoebe!" was Gatty's farewell. "I wonder whatwould have become of me if I had not met you and Mrs Dorothy. For Ihave asked Him to be my Friend, --you know, --and I think, I _think_ Hewill. "

"I am sure of it. Good-bye. "

And so Gatty and Molly passed out of the life at White-Ladies. 

On returning to the old order of things, Phoebe found Rhoda, as sheexpected, considerably changed for the worse. What had been a sort ofgood-humoured condescension was altered into absolute snappishness, andPhoebe was sorely tried. But the influence of Molly, bad as it hadbeen, proved temporary. Rhoda sank by degrees--or shall I say rose?--into her old self, and Phoebe presently had no more to bear than beforethe visit from Delawarr Court. 

About a fortnight after the departure of Gatty and Molly, as Phoebe wassitting at the parlour window with her work, she perceived Mrs JaneTalbot, hooded, cloaked, and pattened, --for the afternoon was damp, --marching up to the side door. The fact was communicated to Madam, whorose and glanced at herself in the chimney-glass, and ringing her littlehand-bell, desired Baxter to show Mrs Jane into the parlour. 

"Good afternoon, Mrs Jane; 'tis a pleasure I did not look for, " saidMadam, as she rose. 

"Your servant, Madam, " returned Mrs Jane, who had divested herself ofcloak and pattens in the hall. 

"Pray be seated, Mrs Jane. And what brings you hither?--for methinkssome matter of import will have called you out on so rainy a day asthis. "

"Easy to guess, " answered Mrs Jane, taking a seat as requested, anddelivering her communication in short, blunt sentences, like small shot. "A whim of Marcella's. Got a fancy for Port O Port. Sent me to beg asup of you, Madam. Fancies it will cure her. Fiftieth time she hasthought so, of something. All nonsense. Can't help it. "

"Indeed, my dear Mrs Jane, I am happy to be capable of helping MrsMarcella to her fancy, and trust it may be of the advantage shethinks. --Phoebe! tell Betty to bid Baxter bring hither a bottle of thebest Port O Port--that from the little ark in the further cellar. --Andhow does Mrs Marcella this afternoon?"

"As cross as two sticks, " said Mrs Jane. 

"She is a great sufferer, " observed Madam, in her kindest manner. 

Mrs Jane made no reply, unless her next remark could properly be calledone. 

"Mrs Darcy came last night. "

"Last night!" answered Madam, in accents of surprise. "Dear! I quiteunderstood she was not to arrive before this evening. You have seenher, Mrs Jane?"

"Seen her! Oh dear, yes; I've seen her. We were schoolfellows. "

"Were you, indeed? That I did not know. 'Twill be a pleasure to you, Mrs Jane, to have an old schoolfellow so near. "

"Depends, " said Mrs Jane sententiously. 

"No doubt, " answered Madam. "Were you and Mrs Eleanor friends atschool, Mrs Jane?"

"No, Madam. "

"Not? Perhaps you were not near enough of an age. "

"Only six months between. No; that wasn't it. I was a sillyscapegrace, and she was a decent, good maid. Too good for me. Ihaven't got any better. And she hasn't got any handsomer. "

"Pray forgive me, " replied Madam, with a smile, "but I cannot think thatname applies to you now, Mrs Jane. And was her nephew with MrsEleanor; as he engaged?"

"Large as life, " said Mrs Jane. 

"And how large is that, in his case?" inquired Madam. 

"Asking him or me?" retorted Mrs Jane. "_I_ should say, about as bigas a field mouse. He thinks himself big enough to overtop all theelephants in creation. Marcus Welles! Oh, yes, I'll mark him well, --you trust me. "

It was tolerably evident that Mr Welles had not succeeded infascinating Mrs Jane, whatever he might do to other people. 

"I was told he was extreme handsome?" remarked Madam, in a tone ofinquiry. 

Mrs Jane's exclamation in response sounded very like--"Pish!"

"You think not, Mrs Jane?"

"Folks' eyes are so different, Madam, " answered Mrs Jane. "Chinamen'sbeauties wouldn't go for much in England, I guess. He's a silly, whimsical, finnicking piece--that's what he is! Pink velvet coat, lacedwith silver. Buff breeches. White silk stockings with silver clocks. No cloak. And raining cats and dogs and pitchforks. Reckon Eleanor gotall the sense that was going in that family. None left for MrMark-me-well. Missed it, anyhow. "

From that day forward, behind his back, Mark-me-well was the only namebestowed by Mrs Jane on the young man in question. To his face shegave him none, --an uncivil proceeding in 1714; but Mrs Jane beingallowedly an eccentric character, no one expected her to conform toconventional rules on all occasions. 

It would seem that Mr Welles wished to lose no time in paying his courtto Madam; for that very evening, as soon as calling-hours began, he putin an appearance at White-Ladies. 

Calling-hours and visiting-days were as common then as now; but thehours were not the same. From five to eight o'clock in the evening wasthe proper time for a visit of ceremony; candles were always lighted, there was a special form of knock, and the guests sat round the room ina prim circle. 

Perhaps the "cats, dogs, and pitchforks" alluded to before had spoiledthe pink and buff suit which had roused the scorn of Mrs Jane. Thecolours in which Mr Welles chose to make his _debut_ at White-Ladieswere violet and white. A violet velvet coat, trimmed with silver lace, was fastened with little silver hasps; white satin breeches leddownwards to violet silk stockings with silver clocks, girt below theknee with silver garters. A three-cornered hat, of violet silk andsilver lace, was heavily adorned with white plumes, and buttoned up atone side with a diamond. He wore shoes with silver buckles and veryhigh red heels, white-silver fringed gloves, a small muff of violetvelvet; and carried in his hand a slender amber-headed cane. Being aLondon beau of fashion, he was afflicted with a slight limp, and alsowith intense short-sightedness, which caused him to wear a goldeye-glass, constantly in use--except when alone, on which occasions MrWelles became suddenly restored to the full use of his faculties. 

He certainly was very handsome, and his taste was good. His wig wasalways suited to his complexion, and he rarely wore more than twocolours, of which one was frequently black or white. Mr Welles washighly accomplished and highly fashionable; he played ombre and basset, the spinnet and the violin; he sang and danced well, composed anagramsand acrostics, was a good rider, hunted fearlessly and gamed high, interlarded his conversation with puns, and was a thorough adept atsmall talk. He was personally acquainted with every actor on the Londonstage, and by sight with every politician in the Cabinet. His mannerswere of the new school then just rising--which means, that they werevery free and easy, removed from all the minute and often cumbersomeceremonies which had distinguished the old school. He generally roseabout noon, dined at three p. M. , spent the evening at the opera ortheatre, and went to bed towards morning. Add to this, that hecollected old china, took much snuff, combed his wig in public, and wasunable to write legibly or spell correctly--and a finished portrait ispresented of Mr Marcus Welles, and through him of a fashionable Londongentleman of his day. 

The impression made by Mr Welles on the ladies at the Abbey was ofvaried character. Madam commended him, but with that faint praise whichis nearly akin to censure. He was well favoured, she allowed, andseemed to be a man of parts; but in her young days it was consideredcourteous to lead a lady to a chair before a gentleman seated himself;and it was not considered courteous to omit the Madam in addressing her. Rhoda said very little in her grandmother's presence, reserving heropinion for Phoebe's private ear. But as soon as they were alone, thegirls stated their ideas explicitly. 

"Isn't he a love of a dear?" cried Rhoda, in ecstasy. 

"No, I don't think he is, " responded Phoebe, in a tone of unmistakabledisgust. 

"Why, Phoebe! Are you not sensible of the merit of such a man as that?"

"No, I am sure I did not see any, " said Phoebe, as before. 

"Oh, Phoebe! Such taste as he has! And his discourse! I never saw soquick a wit. I am sure he is a man of great reach, and a man of figuretoo. I shall think the time long till I see him again. "

"Dear me! I shan't!" exclaimed Phoebe. "Taste? Well, I suppose youmay dress a doll with taste. His clothes are well enough, only they aretoo fine for anything but visiting. "

"Well, wasn't he visiting, you silly Phoebe?"

"And he may be a man of figure--I don't know; but as to reach! I wonderwhat you saw in his discourse to admire; it seemed to me all aboutnothing. "

"Why, that's just his parts!" said Rhoda. "Any man can talk aboutsomething; but to be able to talk in a clever, sprightly way aboutnothing--that takes a man of reach. "

"Well! he may take his reach out of my reach, " answered Phoebe, in adisgusted tone. "I shall think the time uncommonly short, I can promiseyou, till I see him again; for I never wish to do it. "

"Phoebe, I do believe you haven't one bit of discernment!"

But Phoebe held her peace. 

Madam called in due form on her new guest at the Maidens' Lodge, andMrs Darcy returned the visit next day. She proved to be a short, stout, little woman, with a face which, while undeniably and excessivelyplain, was so beaming with good humour that it was difficult to rememberher uncomeliness after the first _coup d'oeil_. Mr Welles accompaniedher on the return visit. What had induced him to take up his quartersat the Bear, at Tewkesbury, was an enigma to the inhabitants ofWhite-Ladies. Of course he could not live at the Maidens' Lodge, Madambeing rigidly particular with respect to the intrusion of what Bettycalled "he creeturs" into that enchanted valley, and not tolerating thehabitual presence even of a servant of the obnoxious sex. According tothe representations of Mr Welles himself, he was fascinated by theconverse and character of Madam, and was also completely devoted to hisdear Aunt Eleanor. But Mr Welles had not favoured the Bear with verymuch of his attention before it dawned upon one person at least thatneither Madam nor Mrs Eleanor had much to do with his frequent visitsto Cressingham. Mrs Dorothy Jennings quickly noticed that Mr Welleswas quite clever enough to discover what pleased different persons, andto adapt himself accordingly with surprising facility; and she soonperceived that the attraction was Rhoda, or rather Rhoda's prospects asthe understood heiress of White-Ladies. Mr Welles accommodated himselfskilfully to the prejudices of Madam; his manners assumed a graver andmore courtly air, his conversation a calm and sensible tone; and Madamat length remarked to her grand-daughters, how very much that young manhad improved since his first arrival at Cressingham. 

With Rhoda, in the absence of her grandmother, he was an entirelydifferent being. A great deal of apparent interest in herself, anddeference to her opinions; a very little skilful flattery, toodelicately administered for its hollowness to be perceived; a quickapprehension of what pleased and amused her, and a ready adaptation toher mood of the moment--these were Mr Welles' tactics with the heiressfor whom he was angling. As to Phoebe, he simply let her alone. Hesoon saw that she was of no account in Rhoda's eyes, and was not herchosen _confidante_, but simply the person to whom she talked for wantof any other listener. There was not, therefore, in his opinion, anyreason why he should trouble himself to propitiate Phoebe. 

Ever since the visit of the Delawarrs, Rhoda had seemed disinclined foranother call on Mrs Dorothy Jennings. Now and then she went to seeMrs Clarissa, when the conversation usually turned on the fashions andcognate topics; sometimes she drank tea with Lady Betty, whose discoursewas of rather a more sensible character. Rarely, she looked in on MrsMarcella. Mrs Jane had thoroughly estranged her by persisting in hersarcastic nickname for Rhoda's chosen hero, and letting off littleshafts against him, more smart than nattering. On Mrs Darcy she calledperpetually, perhaps with a view to meet him at her house; but all MrWelles' alleged devotion to his dear Aunt Eleanor scarcely ever seemedto result in his going to see her at the Maidens' Lodge. When Rhoda methim, which she very often did, it was either by his calling at theAbbey, or by an accidental _rencontre_--if accidental it were--in somesecluded glade of the Park. 

At length, one day, without any warning, a horse cantered up to the sidedoor, and Molly Delawarr's voice in its loudest tones (and very loudthey were) demanded where all those stupid creatures were who ought tobe there to take her horse. Then Miss Molly, having been helped off, came marching in, and greeted her friends with a recitative--

"Lucy Locket lost her pocket; `Kitty Fisher found it!'"

"My dear Mrs Molly, I am quite rejoiced to see you!"

"No! you aren't, are you?" facetiously responded Molly. "Rhoda--I vow, child, you're uglier than ever!--mother wants you for a while. There'sthat jade Betty going to come of age, and she means to make the biggestfuss over it ever was heard. She said she would send Wilson over, but Ijumped on my tit, and came to tell you myself. You'll come, won't you, old hag?"

Rhoda looked at her grandmother. 

"My dear, of course you will go!" responded Madam, "since my LadyDelawarr is so good. 'Tis so kind in Mrs Molly to take thus muchtrouble on herself. "

"Fiddle-de-dee!" ejaculated Molly. "I'm no more kind than she's good. She wants a fuss, and a lot of folks to make it; and I wanted a ride, and some fun with Rhoda. Where's the goodness, eh?"

"Shall I take Phoebe?" asked Rhoda, doubtfully. 

"You'd better, " returned Molly, before Madam could speak. "You'll wantsomebody to curl your love-locks and stitch your fal-lals; and I'm notgoing to do it--don't you fancy so. Oh, I say, Rhoda! you may haveMarcus Welles, if you want him. There's another fellow turned up, witha thousand a year more, that will suit me better. "

"Indeed! I thank you!" said Rhoda, with a little toss of her head. 

"My dear Mrs Molly, you are so diverting, " smiled Madam. 

"You don't say so!" rejoined that fascinating young person. "You'll puton your Sunday bombazine, Rhoda. We're all going to be as fine asfiddlers. As for you"--and Molly's bold eyes surveyed Phoebe, seemingto take in the whole at a glance--"it won't matter. You aren't anheiress, so you can come in rags. "

Phoebe said nothing. 

"I don't think, " went on Molly, in a reflective tone, "that you can makea catch; but you can try. There is the chaplain--horrid old centipede!And there's old Walford"--Molly never favoured any man with a Mr to hisname--"an ugly, spiteful old bear that nobody'll have: he's rich enough;and he might look your way if you play your cards well. Any way, you'llnot have much chance else; so you'd better keep your eyes pretty wellopen. Now, Rhoda, come along, and we'll have some fun. "

And away went Molly and Rhoda, with a smiling assent from Madam. 

What a very repulsive, vulgar disagreeable girl this Molly Delawarr is!True, my gentle reader. And yet--does she do much more than say, inplain language, what a great number of Mollys are not ashamed to think?

Phoebe's sensations, in view of the coming visit to the Court, were farremoved from pleasure. Must she go? She braced up her courage, andventured to ask. 

"If you please, Madam--"

"Well, child?" was the answer, in a sufficiently gracious tone toencourage Phoebe to proceed. 

"Must I go with Mrs Rhoda to Delawarr Court, if you please, Madam?"

"Why, of course, child. " Madam's tone expressed surprise, though notdispleasure. 

Phoebe swallowed her regret with a sigh, and tried to comfort herselfwith the thought of meeting Gatty, which was the only bright spot in thedarkness. But would Gatty be there?

Rhoda and Molly came in to tea arm-in-arm. 

"And how has my Lady Delawarr her health, Mrs Molly?" inquired Madam, as she poured out the refreshing fluid. 

Molly had allowed no time for inquiries on her first appearance. 

"Oh, _she's_ well enough, " said Molly, carelessly. 

"And Mrs Betty is now fully recovered of her distemper?"

"She's come out of the small-pox, and tumbled into the vapours, " saidMolly. 

"The vapours" was a most convenient term of that day. It coveredeverything which had no other name, from a pain in the toe to a pain inthe temper, and was very frequently descriptive of the latter ailment. Betty's condition, therefore, as subject to this malady, excited littleregret. 

"And how goes it with Mrs Gatty? Is she now my Lady Polesworth?"

"My Lady Fiddlestrings!" responded Molly. "Not she--never will. OldPolesworth wanted a pretty face, and after Gatty's small-pox, why, youcouldn't--"

"Small-pox!" cried Madam and Rhoda in concert. 

"What, didn't you know?" answered Molly. "To be sure--took it theminute she got home. But that wasn't all, neither. Old Polesworth toldMum"--which meant Lady Delawarr--"that he might have stood small-pox, but he couldn't saintship; so Saint Gatty lost her chance, and muchshe'll ever see of such another. Dad and Mum were as mad as hornets. Dad said he'd have horsewhipped her if she'd been out of bed. Couldn't, _in_ bed, you see--wouldn't have looked well. "

"But, my dear, she could not help taking the small-pox?"

"Maybe not, but she might have helped taking the saint-pox, " said Molly. "I believe she caught it from you, " nodding at Phoebe. "But what vexedMum most was that the grey goose actually made believe to be pleasedwhen she lost her chance of the tinsel. Trust me, but Mum blew her up--a little! All leather and prunella, you know, of course. Pleased to bean old maid!--just think, what nonsense. She will be an old maid now, sure as eggs are eggs, unless she marries some conventicle preacher. That would be the best end of her, I should think. "

Phoebe sat wondering why Molly paid so poor a compliment to her owndenomination as to suppose that the natural gravitation of piety wastowards Dissent. But Molly's volatile nature passed to a differentsubject the next moment. 

"I say, old Roadside, bring a white gown. The Queen's coming to theBath, and a lot of folks are trying to make her come on to Berkeley; andif she do, a whole parcel of young gentlewomen are to be there tocourtesy to her, and give her a posy, and all that sort of flummery. And Mum says she'll send us down, if they do it. "

"Who's to give the posy?" eagerly asked Rhoda. 

"Don't know. Not you. You won't have a chance, old Fid-fad. No moreshan't I. It'll be some thing of quality. I'll tread on her tail, though, --see if I don't. "

"Whose?" whispered Rhoda; for Molly's last remark had been confidential. "You don't mean the Queen?"

"Of course I do, --who better? Her grandmother was a baronet's daughter;what else am I? I'll have a snip of her gown, if I can. "

"O Molly!" exclaimed Rhoda in unfeigned horror. 

"Why not? I've scissors in my pocket. "

"Molly, you never could!"

"Don't you lay much on those odds, my red currant bush. I can do prettynear anything I've a mind--when I _have_ a mind. "

Rhoda was not pleased by Molly's last vocative, which she took as anuncomplimentary allusion to the faint shade of red in her hair, --asubject on which she was peculiarly sensitive. This bit of confidencehad been exchanged out of the hearing of Madam, who had gone to acabinet at the other end of the long room, but within that of Phoebe, who grew more uncomfortable every moment. 

"Well, 'tis getting time to say ta-ta, " said Molly, rising shortly aftertea was over. "Where's that tit of mine?"

"My dear, I will send to fetch your horse round, " said Madam, "Pray, make my compliments to my Lady Delawarr, and tell her that I cannot butbe very sensible of her kindness in offering Rhoda so considerable apleasure. "

Madam was about to add more, but Molly broke in. 

"Come now! Can't carry all that flummery. My horse would fall lameunder the weight. I'll say you did the pretty thing. Ta-ta! See youon Monday, old gentlewoman. " She turned to Rhoda; threw a nod, withoutwords, to Phoebe, and five minutes afterwards was trotting across thePark on her way home to Delawarr Court. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

DELAWARR COURT. 

 "Le coeur humain a beaucoup de plis et de replis. "

 _Madame de Motteville_. 

"And how goes it, my dear, with Madam and Mrs Rhoda?" inquired littleMrs Dorothy as she handed a cup to Phoebe. 

"They are well, I thank you. Mrs Dolly, I have come to ask yourcounsel. "

"Surely, dear child. Thou shalt have the best I can give. What is thytrouble?"

"I have two or three troubles, " said Phoebe, sighing. "You know Rhodais going to-morrow to Delawarr Court; and I am to go with her. I wish Ineed not!"

"Why, dear child?"

"Well, I am afraid it must sound silly, " answered Phoebe, with a littlelaugh at herself; "but really, I can scarce tell why. Do you never feelthus unwilling to do a thing, Mrs Dorothy, almost without reason?"

"Ah, there is a reason, " said the old lady: "and it comes either fromyour body or your mind, Phoebe. If 'tis from your body, let your mindgovern it in any matter you _must_ do. If it come from your mind, either you see a clear cause for it, or you do not. "

"I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen. "

Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen. 

"There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from somedisorder of the body. "

"What, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Discontent, my child. "

"But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled. 

"Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin. '"

"Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?"

"What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do herFather's will?"

Phoebe's face became grave. 

"Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord. ' Havea care!--Well, what is your next trouble?"

"I have had a letter from mother, " said Phoebe, colouring and lookinguncomfortable. 

"Is that a trouble, child?"

"No, --not that. Oh no! But--"

"But a trouble sticks to it. Well, --what?"

"She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for meto do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be thebest chance. "

Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to MrsLatrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe. 

"I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy, " said Phoebeuneasily. "And ought I?"

"I suppose somebody had better ask you first, " was Mrs Dorothy's dryanswer. 

"I would rather live with Mother, " continued Phoebe. And suddenly a crybroke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wishMother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill ofthe fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!"

Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together onher little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe. 

"Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whomno love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have itotherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one ofthose, Phoebe?"

"I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"

"Dear child, He knows. Canst thou not trust Him? `Dieu est tonBerger. ' The Shepherd takes more care of the sheep, Phoebe, than thesheep take care of themselves. Poor, blundering creatures that we are!always apt to think, in the depth of our hearts, that God would rathernot save us, and that we shall have to take a great deal of trouble topersuade Him to do it. Nay! it is the Shepherd that longs to have thelamb safe folded, and the poor silly lamb that is always straying away. Phoebe, `the Father Himself loveth thee. '"

"Oh, I know! But I can't see Him, Mrs Dorothy. "

"I suppose He knows that, too, " answered her old friend, softly. "Heknows how much easier it would be to believe if we could see and feel. Maybe 'tis therefore He hath pronounced so special a blessing upon suchas have not seen, and yet have believed. "

"Mrs Dorothy, "--and Phoebe looked up earnestly, --"don't you thinkliving is hard work?"

"I did once, my maid. But I am beyond the burden and the heat of theday now. My tools are gathered together and put away, and I am waitingfor the Master to call me in home to my rest. Thou too wilt come tothat, child, if thy life be long enough. And to some, even here, --toall, afterward, --it is given to see where the turns were taken in thepath, and whereto the road should have led that we took not. Ah, child, one day thy heaviest cause of thankfulness may be that in this or thatmatter--perchance in the matter that most closely engaged thee in thislife--thy Father did not give thee the desire of thine heart. "

"Yet that is promised as a blessing?" said Phoebe, interrogatively, looking up. 

"As a blessing, dear child, when thy will is God's will. Can it be anyblessing, when thy will and His run contrary the one to the other?"

"Then you think I should not wish to be loved!" said Phoebe, with aheavy sigh. 

"I think God's child will do well to leave the choice of all things toher Father. "

"I must leave it. He will have it. "

"He will have it, " repeated Mrs Dorothy solemnly; "but, Phoebe, you canleave it in loving submission, or you can have it wrenched from you injudgment. Though it may be that you must loose your hold on a gem, yetyou please yourself whether you yield it as a gift, or wait to have ittorn away. "

"I see, " said Phoebe. 

"Was there any further trouble, my dear?"

"Only that, " replied Phoebe. "Life seems hard. I get so tired!"

"Thou art young to know that, child, " said Mrs Dorothy, with a rathersad smile. 

"Well, I don't know, " answered Phoebe, doubtfully. "I think I havealways been tired. And don't you know some people rest you, and somepeople don't? When there is nobody that rests one-- Father used--but--"

Mrs Dorothy thought there was not much difficulty in reading the storyhidden behind Phoebe's broken sentences. 

"So life is hard?" she echoed. "Poor child! Dear, it was harder to Himthat sat on the well at Sychar, wearied with His journey. He has notforgotten it, Phoebe. Couldst thou not go and remind Him of it, and askHim to bless and rest thee?"

"Mrs Dolly, do you feel tired like that?"

A little amused laugh was Mrs Dolly's answer. 

"Thou hast not all the sorrows of life in thine own portion, littlePhoebe. I have felt it. I do not often now. The journey is too nearat an end to fret much over the hard fare or the rough road. When therebe only a few days to pass ere you leave school, your mind is more seton the coming holidays than on the length or hardness of the lessonsthat lie betwixt. "

"I wish I hadn't to go to Delawarr Court!" sighed Phoebe. "There willbe a great parcel of people, and not one I know but Rhoda, and MrsGatty, and Mrs Molly; and Rhoda always snubs me when Mrs Molly'sthere. "

"Molly is trying, " admitted the old lady. "But I think, dear child, youmight make a friend of Gatty. "

"Perhaps, " said Phoebe. 

"And, Phoebe, strive against discontent, " said Mrs Dorothy; adding, with a smile, "and call it discontent, and not vapours. There is agreat deal in giving names to things. So long as you call your prideself-respect and high spirit, you will reckon yourself much better thanyou are; and so long as you call your discontent low spirits or vapours, you will reckon yourself worse used than you are. Don't split on thatrock, Phoebe. The worst thing you can do with wounds is to keep pullingoff the bandage to see how they are getting on; and the worst thing youcan do with griefs and wrongs is to nurse them and brood over them. Carry them to the Lord and show them to Him, and ask His help to bearthem or right them, as He chooses; and then forget all about them asfast as you can. Dear old Scots Davie gave me that counsel, and throughfifty years I have proved how good it was. "

"You never finished your story, Mrs Dolly, " suggested Phoebe. 

"I did not, my dear. Yet there was little to finish. I did but tarryat Court till the great plague-time, when all was broke up, and I wenthome to nurse my mother, who took the plague and died of it. After thatI continued to dwell with my father. For a while after my mother'sdeath, he was very low and melancholical, saying that God had now metwith him and was visiting his old sins upon him. And then, the verynext year, came the fire, and we were burned out and left homeless. Then he was worse than ever. 'Twas like the curse pronounced on David, said he, that the sword should never depart from his house: he couldnever look to know rest nor peace any more; God hated him, and pursuedhim to the death. No word of mine, though I strove to find many fromthe Word of God, seemed to bring him any comfort at all. They were notfor him, he said, but for them toward whom God had purposes of mercy, and there was none for him. He had sinned against light and knowledge;and God would none of him any more. 

"One morning, about a week after the fire, as I was coming back from mymarketing to the little mean lodging where we had took shelter, and wasjust going in at the door, I was sorely started to feel a great warmhand on my shoulder, and a loud, cheery voice saith, `Dolly Jennings, whither away so fast thou canst not see an old friend?' I looked up, and there was dear old Farmer Ingham, in his thick boots and countryhomespun; but I declare to you, child, that in my trouble his face wasto me as that of an angel of God. I brake down, and sobbed aloud. `Come, come, now!' saith he, comfortably; `not so bad as that, is it?I've been seeking thee these four days, Dolly, child. I knew I couldfind thee if I came myself, though the Missis said I never should; andI've asked at one, and asked at another, and looked up streets and downstreets, till this morning I saw a young maid, with her back to me, a-going down an alley; and says I, right out loud, "That's Dolly's back, or else I'm a Dutchman!" So I ran after thee, and only just catchedthee up. I'm not so lissome as thou; nay, nor so lissome as I was atthy years. However, here I am, and here thou art; so that's all right. And there's a good bed and a warm welcome for everyone of you at IngleNook'--that was the name of his farm, my dear--`and I've brought up acart and the old tit to drag it, and we'll see if we can't make theelaugh and be rosy again. ' Dear old man! no nay would he take, norsuffer so much as a word from father about our being any cost andtrouble to him. `Stuff and nonsense!' said he; `I've got money saved, and the farm's doing well, and only my two bits of maids to leave it to;and who should I desire to help in this big trouble, if not my ownfoster-child, and hers?' So father yielded, and we went down to IngleNook. 

"Farmer Ingham very soon found what was wrong with father. `Eh, poorsoul!' said he to me, `he's the hundredth sheep that's got lost out onthe moor, and he reckons the Shepherd'll bide warm in the fold with theninety and nine, and never give a thought to him, poor, starved, straying thing! Dear, dear!--and as if _I'd_ do such a thing, sinnerthat I am!--as if I could eat a crust in peace till I'd been after mysheep, poor wretch!--and to think the good Lord'd do it!--and the poorthing a-bleating out there, and wanting to get home! Dear, dear! how wepoor sinners do wrong the good Lord!' I said, `Won't you say a word tohim, daddy?' That was what I had always called him, my dear, since Iwas a little child. `Eh, child!' says he, `what canst thou be thinkingon? The like of me to preach to a parson, all regular done up, bandsand cassock and shovel hat and all! But I'll tell thee what--there'sDr Bates a-coming to bide with me a night this next week, on his wayfrom the North into Sussex, and I'll ask him to edge in a word. He's agrand man, Dolly! "Silver-tongued Bates. " Thou'lt hear. '

"Well, I knew, for I had heard talk of it at the time, that Dr Bateswas one of them that gave up their livings when the Act of Uniformitycame in, so that he was regarded as no better than a conventicler; and Iwondered how father should like to be spoke to by Dr Bates any morethan by Farmer Ingham, because to him they would both be laymen alike. But at that time I was learning to tarry the Lord's leisure--ah! that'sa grand word, Phoebe! For His leisure runs side by side with ourprofit, and He'll be at leisure to attend to you the minute that youreally need attending to. So I waited quietly to see what would come. Dr Bates came, and he proved to be no common hedge-preacher, but alearned man that had been to the University, and had Greek and Hebrewpat at his tongue's end. I could see that it was pleasant to father totalk with such a man; and maybe he took to him the rather because he hadthe look of one that had known sorrow. When a man is suffering, he willconverse more readily with a fellow-sufferer than with a hale man. Sothey talked away of their young days, when they were at school andcollege, and father was much pleased, as I could see, to find that DrBates and he were of the same college, though not there at the sametime: and a deal they had to say about this and that man, that bothknew, but of course all strangers to me. I thought I had never seenFather seem to talk with the like interest and pleasure since mymother's death. 

"But time went on, and their talk, and not a word from Dr Bates of thefashion I desired. I went to bed somewhat heavy. The next morning, however, as I was sat at my sewing by the parlour window--which wasopen, the weather being very sultry--came Dr Bates and father, andstood just beyond the window. The horse was then saddling for Dr Batesto be gone. All at once, they standing silent a moment, he laid hishand on father's shoulder, and saith very softly, `"I will hearken whatthe Lord God will say concerning me. "' Father turns and stares at him, as started. But he goes on, and saith, `"For the iniquity of hiscovetousness was I wroth, and smote him: I hid Me and was wroth, and hewent on frowardly in the way of his heart. I have seen his ways, andwill heal him; I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him andto his mourners. I create the fruit of the lips. Peace, peace to himthat is far off"'--he said it twice--`"peace to him that is far off, andto him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him. "' He did notadd one word, but went and mounted his horse, and when he had bidfarewell to all else, just as he was turning away from the door, hecalls out, in a cheerful voice, `Good morning, Brother Jennings. ' Then, as it were, Father seemed to awake, and he runs after, and puts his handin Dr Bates's, who drew bridle, and for a minute they were busy inearnest discourse. Then they clasped hands again, and father saith, `God bless you!' and away rode Dr Bates. But after that Father wasdifferent. He said to me--it was some weeks later--`Dolly, if it pleaseGod, I shall never speak another word against the men that turned out inSixty-Two. They may have made blunders, but some at least of them wereholy men of God, for all that. '"

"I was always sorry for them, " said Phoebe. "And Father said so too. "

"True, my dear. Yet 'tis not well we should forget that the parsonswere turned out the first, and the conventiclers afterward. There werefaults on both sides. "

"But, Mrs Dolly, why can't good men agree?"

"Ah, child! `They shall see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring againZion. ' No sooner. Thank God that He looketh on the heart. I believethere may be two men in arms against each other, bitter opposers of eachother, and yet each of them acting with a single eye to the honour oftheir Lord. He knows it, and He only, now. But how sorry they will befor their hard thoughts and speeches when they come to understand eachother in the clear light of Heaven!"

"It always seems to me, " said Phoebe, diffidently, "that there are agreat many things we shall be sorry for then. But can anybody be sorryin Heaven?"

Mrs Dorothy smiled. "We know very little about Heaven, my dear. Lessthan Madam's parrot or Mrs Clarissa's dog understands about anyonewriting a letter. "

"Dogs do understand a great deal, " remarked Phoebe. "Our Flossie did. "

"My dear, I have learned no end of lessons from dogs. I only wish weChristians minded the word of our Master half as well as they do theirs. I wish men would take pattern from them, instead of starving andkicking them, or tormenting them with a view to win knowledge. We maybe the higher creatures, but we are far from being the better. You maytake note, too, that your dog will often resist an unpleasant thing--adose of medicine, say--just because he does not understand why you wantto give it to him, and does not know the worse thing that wouldotherwise befall him. Didst thou never serve thy Master like that, dear?"

"I am afraid so, " said Phoebe, softly. 

"We don't trust Him enough, Phoebe. It does seem as if the hardestthing in all the world was for man to trust God. You would not think Ipaid you much of a compliment if you heard me say, `I'll trust PhoebeLatrobe as far as I can see her. ' Yet that is what we are always doingto God. The minute we lose sight of His footsteps, we begin to murmurand question where He is taking us. But, my dear, I must not let youtarry longer; 'tis nigh sundown. "

"Oh, dear!" and Phoebe looked up and rose hurriedly. "I trust Madamwill not be angry. 'Tis much later than I thought. "

She found Madam too busy to notice what time she returned. Rhoda'swardrobe was being packed for her visit, under the supervision of hergrandmother, by the careful hands of Betty. The musk-coloured damask, which she had coveted, was the first article provided, and acherry-coloured velvet mantle, lined with squirrel-skins, was to be wornwith it. A blue satin hood completed this rather showy costume. Awadded calico wrapper, for morning wear; a hoop petticoat wider thanRhoda had ever worn before; the white dress stipulated by Molly; smalllace head-dresses, instead of the old-fashioned commode; aprons ofvarious colours, silk and satin; muslin and lace ruffles; a blue camletriding-habit, laced with silver (ladies rode at this time dressedexactly like gentlemen, with the addition of a long skirt); and anevening dress of cinnamon-colour, brocaded with large green leaves andsilver stems, with a white and gold petticoat under it--were the chiefitems of Rhoda's wardrobe. A new set of body-linen was also added, madeof striped muslin. Since our fair ancestresses made their night-dressesof "muslin, " it would appear that they extended the term to some stoutermaterial than the thin and flimsy manufacture to which we restrict it. Rhoda's boots were of white kid, goloshed with black velvet. There werealso "jessamy" gloves--namely, kid gloves perfumed with jessamine; ablack velvet mask; a superb painted fan; a box of patches, another ofviolet powder, another of rouge, and a fourth of pomatum; one of theIndia scarves before alluded to; a stomacher set with garnet, a pearlnecklace, and a silver box full of cachou and can-away comfits, to betaken to church for amusement during long sermons. The enamelledpicture on the lid Rhoda would have done well to lay to heart, as itrepresented Cupid fishing for human beings, with a golden guinea on hishook. Rhoda was determined to be the finest dressed girl at DelawarrCourt, and Madam had allowed her to order very much what she pleased. Phoebe's quiet mourning, new though it was, looked very mean incomparison--in her cousin's eyes. 

No definite time was fixed for Rhoda's return home. She was to stay aslong as Lady Delawarr wished to keep her. 

"Phoebe, my dear!" said Madam. 

"Madam?" responded Phoebe, with a courtesy. 

"Come into my chamber; I would have a few words with you. "

Phoebe followed, her heart feeling as if it would jump into her mouth. Madam shut the door, and took her seat on the cushioned settle whichstretched along the foot of her bed. 

"Child, " she said to Phoebe, who stood modestly before her, "I thinkmyself obliged to tell you that I expect Rhoda to settle in life on theoccasion of this visit. I apprehend that she will meet with diversyoung gentlemen, with any of whom she might make a good match; and shecan then make selection of him that will be most agreeable to her. "

Phoebe privately wondered how the gentleman whom Rhoda selected was tobe induced to select Rhoda. 

"Then, " pursued Madam, "when she returns, she will tell me her design;and if on seeing the young man, and making inquiries of such as areacquainted with him, I approve of the match myself, I shall endeavourthe favour of his friends, and doubt not to obtain it. Rhoda will havean excellent fortune, and she is of an agreeable turn enough. Now, mydear, at the same time, I wish you to look round you, and see if you canlight on some decent man, fit for your station, that would not bedisagreeable to you. I have apprised myself that Sir Richard's chaplainhath entered into no engagements, and if he were to your taste, I woulddo my best to settle you in that quarter, I cannot think he would proveuneasy to me, should I do him the honour; at the same time, if you findhim unpleasant to you, I do not press the affair. But 'tis high timeyou should look out, for you have no fortune but yourself, and what Imay choose to give with you: and if you order yourself after my wish, Iengage myself to undertake for you--in reason, my dear, of course. Thechaplain is very well paid, for Sir Richard finds him in board and ahorse, and gives him beside thirty-five pound by the year, which is morethan many have. He is, I learn, a good, easy man, that would not belikely to give his wife any trouble. Not very smart, but that can wellbe got over; and of good family, but indigent--otherwise it may well bereckoned he would not be a chaplain. So I bid you consider him well, mydear, and let me know your thoughts when you return hither. "

Phoebe's thoughts just then were chasing each other in wild confusion:the principal one being that she was a victim led to the sacrifice witha rope round her neck. 

"I ask your pardon, Madam; but--"

"Well, my dear, if you have something you wish to say, I am ready tolisten to it, " said Madam, with an air of extreme benignity. 

Phoebe felt her position the more difficult because of her grandmother'sgraciousness. She so evidently thought herself conferring a favour on aportionless and unattractive girl, that it became hard to say anopposing word. 

"If you please, Madam, and asking your pardon, must I be married?"

"Must you be married, child!" repeated Madam in astonished tones, "Why, of course you must. The woman is created for the man. You would notdie a maid?"

"I would rather, if you would allow me, Madam, " faltered Phoebe. 

"But, my dear, I cannot allow it. I should not be doing my duty by youif I did. The woman is made for the man, " repeated Madam, sententiously. 

"But--was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?" askedpoor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of hergrandmother. 

"Of course, child--no doubt of it, " said Madam. 

"Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I wasmade for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour. 

"When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for, "oracularly replied Madam. 

Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very differentthing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom shehad met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have beencreated for the benefit of one another. 

"And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, youwill look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in yourstation, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter forRhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was yourage, Phoebe. "

Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever asif she were being led to the slaughter. There was just thisuncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feelanything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold goodthere. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well toventure on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined thatrepresentations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. MrsLatrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe didwhat was better, --carried her trial and perplexity to her Father inHeaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, itwas a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily inthis style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change wasalways welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superiorposition of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presentedsuperior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, athing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yetbelieving that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarilywasted. 

"Here you are, old Rattle-trap!" cried Molly, from the head of thestairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. "Brought that whiterag? We're going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out, --here's Betty. "

Rhoda's hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken, rather good-looking girl, very little scarred from her recent illness. 

"Phoebe Latrobe?" said Betty, turning kindly to her. "I know your name, you see. I trust you will be happy here. Your chamber is this way, Rhoda. "

It was a long, narrow room, with a low whitewashed ceiling, across whichran two beams. A pot-pourri stood on the little table in the centre, and there were two beds, one single and one double. 

"Who's to be here beside me?" inquired Rhoda. 

"Oh, Mother would have given you and Phoebe a chamber to yourselves, "replied Betty, "but we are so full of company, she felt herself obligedto put in some one, so Gatty is coming to you. "

"Can't it be Molly?" rather uncivilly suggested Rhoda. 

Phoebe privately hoped it could not. 

"Will, I think not, " answered Betty, smiling. "Lady Diana Middlehamwants Molly. She's in great request. "

"Who is, --me?" demanded Molly, appearing as if by magic in the doorway. "Of course. I'm not going to sleep with you, Pug-nose. Not going tosleep at all. Spend the night in tickling the people I like, andrunning pins into those I don't. Fair warning!"

"I wonder whether it is better to be one you like, Molly, or one youdon't like, " said Rhoda, laughing. 

"I hope you don't like me in that regard, " said Betty, laughing too. 

"Well, I don't particularly, " was Molly's frank answer, "so you'll getthe pins. Right about face! Stand--at--ease! Here comes Mum. "

A very gorgeously dressed woman, all flounces and feathers as it seemedto Phoebe, sailed into the room, kissed Rhoda, told her that she waswelcome, in a languishing voice, desired Betty to see her madecomfortable, informed Molly that her hair was out of curl, took nonotice of Phoebe, and sailed away again. 

"I'm off!" Molly announced to the world. "There's MrWhat-do-you-call-him downstairs. Go and have some fun with him. " AndMolly vanished accordingly. 

Then Rhoda's unpacking had to be seen to by herself and Phoebe; that isto say, Phoebe did it, and Rhoda sat and watched her, Betty flittedabout, talking to Rhoda, and helping Phoebe, till her name was calledfrom below, and away she went to respond to it. Phoebe, at least, missed her, and thought her pleasant company. Whatever else she mightbe, she was good-natured. When the unpacking was finished to hersatisfaction, Rhoda declared that she was perishing for hunger, and musthave something before she could dress. Before she could make up hermind what to do, a rap came on the door, and a neat maid-servant enteredwith a tray. 

"An't please you, Madam, Mrs Betty bade me bring you a dish of tea, "said she; "for she said 'twas yet two good hours ere supper, and youshould be the better of a snack after your journey. Here is both teaand chocolate, bread and butter, and shortcake. " And setting down thetray, she left them to enjoy its contents. 

"Long life to Betty!" said Rhoda. "Here, Phoebe! pour me a dish ofchocolate. I never get any at home. Madam has a notion it makes peoplefat. "

"But does she not like you to take it?" asked Phoebe, pausing, with thesilver chocolatiere in her hand. 

"Oh, pother! go on!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Give it me, if your tenderconscience won't let you. I say, Phoebe, you'll be a regular prig andprude, if you don't mind. "

"I don't know what those are, " replied Phoebe, furtively engaged inrubbing her hand where Rhoda had pinched it as she seized the handle ofthe chocolate pot. 

"Oh, don't you?" answered Rhoda. "I do, for I've got you to look at. Aprig is a stuck-up silly creature, and a prude is always thinkingeverything wicked. And that's what you are. "

Phoebe wisely made no reply. Tea finished, Rhoda condescended to bedressed and have her hair curled and powdered, gave Phoebe very fewminutes for changing her own dress, and then, followed by her cousin andhandmaid, she descended to the drawing-room. To Phoebe's consternation, it seemed full of young ladies and gentlemen, in fashionable array; andthe consternation was not relieved by a glimpse of Mr Marcus Welles, radiant in blue and gold, through a vista of plumes, lace lappets, andfans. Betty was there, making herself generally useful and agreeable;and Molly, making herself the reverse of both. Phoebe scanned thebrilliant crowd earnestly for Gatty. But Gatty was nowhere to be seen. 

Rhoda went forward, and plunged into the crowd, kissing and courtesyingto all the girls she recognised. She was soon the gayest of the gayamong them. No one noticed Phoebe but Betty, and she gave her a kindlynod in passing, and said, "Pray divert yourself. " Phoebe's diversionwas to retire into a corner, and from her "loop-hole of retreat, to peepat such a world. "

A very young world it was, whose oldest inhabitant at that moment wasunder twenty-five. But the boys and girls--for they were little more--put on the most courtier-like and grown-up airs. The ladies sat roundthe room, fluttering their fans, or laughing behind them: in some casesgliding about with long trains sweeping the waxed oak floor. Thegentlemen stood before them, paying compliments, cracking jokes, anduttering airy nothings. Both parties took occasional pinches of snuff. For a few minutes the scene struck Phoebe as pretty and amusing; butthis impression was quickly followed by a sensation of sadness. Anumber of rational and immortal beings were gathered together, and allthey could find to do was to look pretty and be amusing. Why, a bird, adog, or a monkey, could have done as much, and more. 

And a few words came into Phoebe's mind, practically denied by the massof mankind then as now, "Thou hast created all things, and _for Thypleasure_ they are. "

How apt man is to think that every creature and thing around him wascreated for _his_ pleasure! or, at least, for his use and benefit. Thenatural result is, that he considers himself at liberty to use them justas he pleases, quite regardless of their feelings, especially when anyparticular advantage may be expected to accrue to himself. 

But "the Lord hath made all things for Himself, " and "He cometh to judgethe earth. "

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

RHODA IS TAKEN IN THE TRAP. 

 "That busy hive, the world, And all its thousand stings. "

Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various membersof the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becomingdiversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemenin evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close byher. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr. 

"'Tis really true, then, " demanded the other--a round-faced man, withbrilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church--"'tisreally true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?"

"_I_ had it from an excellent hand, I assure you, " returned Sir Richard. "Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that 'twasthe main cause of her sudden death. "

"It really was so?"

"Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs RosamondHarley. "

"Ha! then 'tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, ofD'Urfey's jest on the Princess Sophia?--ha, ha, ha!" and the Bishoplaughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly. 

"No, I scarce think I did, my Lord. "

"Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queenextreme diversion. 

 "`The crown is too weighty For shoulders of eighty-- She could not sustain such a trophy: Her hand, too, already Has grown so unsteady, She can't hold a sceptre: So Providence kept her Away--poor old dowager Sophy!'"

Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment. Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the PrincessSophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?

"Capital good jest!" said the Baronet, his amusement over. "I heardfrom a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastlywell this summer--quite rid of her gout. "

"So do I hear, " returned the Bishop. "What think you of the price seton the Pretender's head?"

Sir Richard whistled. 

"The Queen's own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers, "continued the Bishop. 

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Five thousand, I was told?"

"Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it. "

"Well--I--don't--know!" slowly answered Sir Richard. "I cannot but feelvery doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price onthe head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord--sounds bad!Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen's brother, yet 'tis unnaturalfor his sister to set a price on his head. "

By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard's intellect was not ofthe first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightlycontemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment. 

"`The Prince of Wales!'" repeated he. "Surely, Sir, you have more witthan to credit that baseless tale? Why not set a price on thePretender?"

Be it known to the reader, though it was not to Sir Richard, that onthat very morning Bishop Atterbury had forwarded a long letter to thePalace of Saint Germain, in which he addressed the aforesaid Pretenderas "your Majesty, " and assured him of his entire devotion to hisinterests. 

"Oh, come, I leave the whys and wherefores to yon gentlemen of the blackrobe!" answered Sir Richard, laughing. "By the way, talking of prices, have you heard the prodigious price Sir Nathaniel Fowler hath given forhis seat in the Commons? Six thousand pounds, 'pon my honour!"

"Surely, Sir, you have been misinformed. Six thousand! 'Tis amazing. "

"Your Lordship may well say so. Why, I gave but eight hundred for mine. By the way, there is another point I intended to acquaint you of, myLord. Did you hear, ever, that there should be a little ill-humour withmy Lord Oxford, on account of--you know?"

"On account? Oh!" and the Bishop's right hand was elevated to his lips, in the attitude of a person drinking. "Yes, yes. Well, I cannot say Iam entirely ignorant of that affair. Sir Jeremy's lady assured me sheknew, beyond contradiction, that my Lord Oxford once waited on her, somewhat foxed. "

Of course, "she" was the Queen. But why a fox, usually as sober a beastas others, should have been compelled to lend its name to the vocabularyof intoxication, is not so apparent. 

"Absolutely drunk, I heard, " responded Sir Richard; "and she wasprodigiously angered. Said to my Lady Masham, that if it were everrepeated, she would take his stick from him that moment. Odd, if theministry were to fall for such a nothing as that. "

"Well, 'twas not altogether reverential to the sovereign, " said theBishop; "and the Queen is extreme nice, you know. "

The threat of taking the stick from a minister was less figurative inQueen Anne's days than now. The white wand of office was carried beforeevery Cabinet Minister, not only in his public life, but even inprivate. 

At this point a third gentleman joined the others, and they moved away, leaving Phoebe in her corner. 

Phoebe sat meditating, for nobody had spoken to her, when she felt asoft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look upinto a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger. Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr. 

The small-pox had changed her terribly--far more than her sister. Noone could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft, peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty's best point, was replacedby a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease. 

"You did not know me at first, " said Gatty, quietly, as if stating afact, not making an inquiry. 

"I do now, " answered Phoebe, returning Gatty's smile. 

"Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a roughone, Phoebe. "

"I am afraid you must have suffered _very_ much, Mrs Gatty. "

"Won't you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered, Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then. "

Phoebe's face, not her tongue, said, "In what manner?"

"'Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, andtelling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I couldhave stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one'selbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but Icould have stood that, though I don't like it. But 'tis hard to be toldI have disappointed my mother's dearest hopes, and that she will nevertake any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in mycradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes theleast slip, it will be directly, `Oh, your saints are no better thanother folks!' Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered. "

"Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!--well, Gatty, then, as youare so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose. "

"I wonder for what!" said Gatty. 

"Well, we can't tell yet, you see, " replied Phoebe, simply. "I supposeyou will find out by and bye. "

"I wish I could find out, " said Gatty, sighing. 

"I think He will show you, when He is ready, " said Phoebe. "Father usedto say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than itdid to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the samewith us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nicework, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a goodwhile. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doingwith us while He does it, but only when He has finished. "

"Nice, " at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that ofdelicately particular. 

"I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had beenliving now. "

"Oh!" very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish. 

"Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?"

"My patience!" repeated astonished Phoebe. 

"Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know. "

"I can't tell you, I am sure!" answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzledtone. "I didn't know I was patient. I don't think I have often askedfor that, specially. Very often, I ask God to give me what He sees Ineed; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gaveit me. "

The admiring look in Gatty's eyes was happily unintelligible to Phoebe. 

"Now then!" said Molly's not particularly welcome voice, close by them. "Here's old Edmundson. Clasp your hands in ecstasy, Phoebe. Mum saysyou and he have got to fall in love and marry one another; so make hasteabout it. He's not an ill piece, only you'll find he won't get upbefore noon unless you squirt water in his face. Now then, fall to, andsay some pretty things to one another!"

Of course Molly had taken the most effectual way possible to prevent anysuch occurrence. Phoebe did not dare to lift her eyes; and the chaplainwas, if possible, the shyer of the two, and had been dragged thereagainst his will by invincible Molly. Neither would have known what todo, if Gatty had not kindly come to the rescue. 

"Pray sit down, Mr Edmundson, " she said, in a quiet, natural way, as ifnothing had happened. "I thought I had seen you riding forth, half anhour ago; I suppose it must have been some one else. "

"I--ah--yes--no, I have not been riding to-day, " stammered the perturbeddivine. 

"Twas a very pleasant morning for a ride, " said mediating Gatty. 

"Very pleasant, Madam, " answered the chaplain. 

"Have you quite lost your catarrh, Mr Edmundson?"

"Quite, I thank you, Madam. "

"I believe my mother wishes to talk with you of Jack Flint, MrEdmundson. "

"Yes, Madam?"

"The lad hath been well spoken of to her for the under-gardener's boy'splace. I think she wished to have your opinion of him. "

"Yes, Madam. "

"Is the boy of a choleric disposition?"

"Possibly, Madam. "

"But what think you, Mr Edmundson?"

"Madam, I--ah--I cannot say, Madam. "

"I think I see Mr Lamb beckoning to you, " observed Gatty, wishful torelieve the poor _gauche_ chaplain from his uncomfortable position. 

"Madam, I thank you--ah--very much, Madam. " And Mr Edmundson made adive into the throng, and disappeared behind a quantity of silk brocadeand Brussels lace. Phoebe ventured to steal a glance at him as hedeparted. She found that the person to whom she had been sounceremoniously handed over, alike by Madam, Lady Delawarr, and Molly, was a thickset man of fifty years, partially bald, with small, expressionless features. He was not more fascinating to look at than totalk to, and Phoebe could only entertain a faint hope that his preachingmight be an improvement upon both looks and conversation. 

A little later in the evening, as Phoebe sat alone in her corner, looking on, "I say!" came from behind her. Her heart fluttered, for thevoice was Molly's. 

"I say!" repeated Molly. "You look here. I'm not all bad, you know. Ididn't want old Edmundson to have you. And I knew the way to keep himfrom it was to tell him he must. I think 'tis a burning shame to treata maid like that. They were all set on it--the old woman, and Mum, andeverybody. He's an old block of firewood. You're fit for somethingbetter. I tease folks, but I'm not quite a black witch. Ta-ta. _He'll_ not tease you now. "

And Molly disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. There was noopportunity for Phoebe to edge in a word. But, for once in her life, she felt obliged to Molly. 

The next invader of Phoebe's peace was Lady Delawarr herself. She satdown on an ottoman, fanned herself languidly, and hoped dear Mrs Rhodawas enjoying herself. 

Phoebe innocently replied that she hoped so too. 

"'Twill be a pretty sight, all the young maids in white, to meet theQueen at Berkeley, " resumed Lady Delawarr. "There are fourteen goingfrom this house. My three daughters, of course, and Lady Diana--she isto hand the nosegay--and Mrs Rhoda, and Mrs Kitty Mainwaring, and MrsSophia Rich, and several more. Those that do not go must have somelittle pleasure to engage them whilst the others are away. I thoughtthey might drink a dish of chocolate in yon little ivy-covered tower inthe park, and have the young gentlemen to wait on them and divert them. The four gentlemen of the best families and fortunes will wait on thegentlewomen to Berkeley: that is, Mr Otway, Mr Seymour, my nephew MrGeorge Merton, and Mr Welles. I shall charge Mr Derwent yonder towait specially on you, Mrs Phoebe, while Mrs Rhoda is away. "

Phoebe perceived that she was not one of the fourteen favoured ones. Alittle flutter of anxiety disturbed her anticipations. What would go onwith Rhoda and Mr Welles?

Lady Delawarr sat for a few minutes, talking of nothing in particular, and then rose and sailed away. It was evident that the main object ofher coming had been to give Phoebe a hint that she must not expect tojoin the expedition to Berkeley. 

As Phoebe went upstairs that evening, feeling rather heavy-hearted, shesaw something gleam and fall, and discovered, on investigation, that atassel had dropped from Rhoda's purse, which that young lady had desiredher to carry up for her. She set to work to hunt for it, but for someseconds in vain. She had almost given up the search in despair, when astrange voice said behind her, "Le voici, Mademoiselle. "

Phoebe turned and faced her countrywoman--for so she considered her--with an exclamation of delight. 

"Ah! you speak French, Mademoiselle?" said the girl. "It is a pleasure, a pleasure, to hear it!"

"I am French, " responded Phoebe, warmly. "My father was a Frenchman. My name is Phoebe Latrobe: what is yours?"

"Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr's woman. I have been here two long, long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles herdaughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She willtalk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah, it is dreadful!"

"From what part of France do you come?"

"From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?"

"The same. Then you are of the religion?"

This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged tothem. Louise's eyes lighted up. 

"We are daughters of the Church of the Desert, " she said. "And we aresisters in Jesus Christ. "

From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. Itwas well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty, and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing andundressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarrkept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz, puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden whokept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to belate for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he didnot notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after themeeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise wasat hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrangeMademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh andstylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle!--if you were but a rich, rich lady, and I might beyour maid!" sighed Louise. "This is a dreary world; and a drearycountry, this England; and a dreary house, this Cour de la Warre!Madame is--is--ah, well, she is my mistress, and it is not right tochatter all one thinks. Still one cannot help thinking. MademoiselleBetti--if she were in my country, we should call her Elise, which ispretty--it is ugly, Betti!--well, Mademoiselle Betti is verygood-natured--very, indeed; and Mademoiselle Henriette--ah, this drollcountry! her name is Henriette, and they call her Gatti!--she is verygood, very good and pleasant Mademoiselle Henriette. And since she hadthe small-pox she is nicer than before. It had spoiled her face tobeautify her heart. Ah, that poor demoiselle, how she suffers!Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it is not right that I should tell you, even you;but she suffers so much, this good demoiselle, and she is so patient!But for Mademoiselle Marie--ah, there again the droll name, Molli!--doesnot Mademoiselle think this a strange, very strange, country?"

The great expedition was ready to set out at last. All the girls weredressed exactly alike, in white, and all the gentlemen in blue turned upwith white. They were to travel in two coaches to Bristol, where allwere to sleep at the house of Mrs Merton, sister-in-law to LadyDelawarr; the next day the bouquet was to be presented at Berkeley, andon the third day they were to return. By way of chaperone, thehousekeeper at the Court was to travel with them to and from Bristol, out Mrs Merton herself undertook to conduct them to Berkeley. 

Rhoda was in the highest spirits, and Phoebe saw her assisted into thecoach by Mr Marcus Welles with no little misgiving. Molly, as shebrushed past Phoebe, allowed the point of a steel scissors-sheath topeep from her pocket for an instant, accompanying it with the mysteriousintimation--"You'll see!"

"What will she see, Molly?" asked Lady Diana, who was close beside her. 

"How to use a pair of scissors, " said Molly. "What's to be cut, Molly?"Sophia Rich wished to know. 

"A dash!" said Molly, significantly. And away rolled the coachestowards Bristol. Phoebe turned back into the house with a ratherdesolate feeling. For three days everybody would be gone. Those whowere left behind were all strangers to her except Mr Edmundson, and shewanted to get as far from him as she could. True, there was Louise; butLouise could hardly be a companion for her, even had her work for LadyDelawarr allowed it, for she was not her equal in education. The othergirls were engaged, as usual, in idle chatter, and fluttering of fans. Lady Delawarr, passing through the room, saw Phoebe sitting ratherdisconsolately in a corner. 

"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, come and help me to make things ready forto-morrow, " she said, good-naturedly; and Phoebe followed her verywillingly. 

The picnic was a success. The weather was beautiful, and the youngpeople in good temper--two important points. Lady Delawarr herself, inthe absence of her housekeeper, superintended the packing of the lightvan which carried the provisions to the old tower. There was to be agipsy fire to boil the kettle, with three poles tied together over it, from which the kettle was slung in the orthodox manner. Phoebe, who wastrying to make herself useful, stretched out her hand for the kettle, when Lady Delawarr's voice said behind her, "My dear Mrs Phoebe, youmay be relieved of that task. Mr Osmund Derwent--Mrs Phoebe Latrobe. Mrs Latrobe--Mr Derwent. "

There was one advantage, now lost, in this double introduction; if thename were not distinctly heard in the first instance, it might be caughtin the second. 

Phoebe looked up, and saw a rather good-looking young man, whose goodlooks, however, lay more in a pleasant expression than in any specialbeauty of feature. A little shy, yet without being awkward; and alittle grave and silent, but not at all morose, he was one with whomPhoebe felt readily at home. His shyness, which arose from diffidence, not pride, wore off when the first strangeness was over. It was evidentthat Lady Delawarr had given him, as she had said, a hint to wait onPhoebe. 

The peculiarity of Lady Delawarr's conduct rather puzzled Phoebe. Attimes she was particularly gracious, whilst at others she utterlyneglected her. Simple, unworldly Phoebe did not guess that while RhodaPeveril and Phoebe Latrobe were of no consequence in the eyes of herhostess, the future possessor of White-Ladies was of very much. LadyDelawarr never felt quite certain who that was to be. She expected itto be Rhoda; yet at times the conviction smote her that, after all, there was no certainty that it might not be Phoebe. Madam wasimpulsive; she had already surprised people by taking up with Phoebe atall; and Rhoda might displease her. In consequence of thesereflections, though Phoebe was generally left unnoticed, yetoccasionally Lady Delawarr warmed into affability, and cultivated thegirl who might, after all, come to be the heiress of Madam's untoldwealth. For Lady Delawarr's mind was essentially of the earth, earthy;gold had for her a value far beyond goodness, and pleasantness ofdisposition or purity of mind were not for a moment to be set incomparison with a suite of pearls. 

Mr Derwent took upon himself the responsibility of the kettle, andchatted pleasantly enough with Phoebe, to whom the other damsels wereonly too glad to leave all trouble. He walked home with her, insistingwith playful persistence upon carrying her scarf and the little basketwhich she had brought for wild flowers; talked to her about his motherand sisters, his own future prospects as a younger son who must make hisway in the world for himself, and took pains to make himself generallyagreeable and interesting. Under his kindly notice Phoebe opened like aflower to the sun. It was something new to her to find a sensible, grown-up person who really seemed to take pleasure in talking with her--except Mrs Dorothy Jennings, and she and Phoebe were not on a level. In conversation with Mrs Dorothy she felt herself being taught andcounselled; in conversation with Mr Derwent she was entertained andgratified. 

Judging from his conduct, Mr Derwent was as much pleased with Phoebe asshe was with him. During the whole time she remained at Delawarr Court, he constituted himself her cavalier. He was always at hand when shewanted anything, at times supplying the need even before she haddiscovered its existence. Phoebe tasted, for the first time in herlife, the flattering ease of being waited on, instead of waiting onothers; the delicate pleasure of being listened to, instead of snubbedand disregarded; the intellectual treat of finding one who was willingto exchange ideas with her, rather than only to impart ideas to her. Was it any wonder if Osmund Derwent began to form a nucleus in herthoughts, round which gathered a floating island of fair fancies andgolden visions, all the more beautiful because they were vague?

And all the while, Phoebe never realised what was happening to her. Shelet herself drift onwards in a pleasant dream, and never thought ofpausing to analyse her sensations. 

The absentees returned home in the afternoon of the third day. Andbeyond the roll of the coaches, and the noise and bustle inseparablefrom the arrival of eighteen persons, the first intimation of it whichwas given in the drawing-room was caused by the entrance of Molly, whoswept into the room with tragi-comic dignity, and mounting a chair, cleared her voice, and held forth, as if it had been a sceptre, a minutebow of black gauze ribbon. 

"Ladies and gentlewomen!" said Molly with solemnity. "(The gentlemendon't count. ) Ladies and gentlewomen! I engaged myself, before leavingthe Court, to bring back to you in triumph a snip from the Queen's gown. Behold it! (Never mind how I got it, --here it is. ) Upon honour, assure as my name is Mary--('tisn't, --I was christened Maria)--but, assure as there is one rent and two spots of mud on this white gown whichdecorates my charming person, --the places whereof are best known tomyself, --this bow of gauze, on which all your eyes are fixed, --nowthere's a shame! Sophy Rich isn't looking a bit--this bow was on thegown of Her Majesty Queen Anne yesterday morning! _Plaudite vobis_!"

And down came Miss Molly. 

"If I might be excused, Mrs Maria, " hesitatingly began Mr Edmundson, who seemed almost afraid of the sound of his own voice, "_vobis_ is, asI cannot but be sensible, not precisely the--ah--not quite the word--ah--"

"You shut up, old Bandbox, " said Molly, dropping her heroics. "None ofyour business. Can't you but be sensible? First time you ever were!"

"I ask your pardon, Mrs Maria. I trust, indeed, --ah--I am not--ah--insensible, to the many--ah--many things which--"

The youthful company were convulsed with laughter. They were all awarethat Molly was intentionally talking at cross purposes with her pastor;and that while he clung to the old signification of sensible, namely, tobe aware of, or sensitive to, a thing, she was using it in the new, nowuniversally accepted, sense of sagacious. The fun, of course, wasenhanced by the fact that poor Mr Edmundson was totally unacquaintedwith the change of meaning. 

"I don't believe she cut it off a bit!" whispered Kitty Mainwaring. "She gave a guinea to some orange-girl who was cousin to some other maidin the Queen's laundry, --some stuff of that sort. Cut it off!--howcould she? Just tell me that. "

Before the last word was well out of Kitty's lips, Molly's small, brightscissors were snapped within an inch of Kitty's nose. 

"Perhaps you would have the goodness to say that again, Mrs CatherineMainwaring!" observed that young person, in decidedly menacing tones. 

"Thank you, no, I don't care to do, " replied Kitty, laughing, butshrinking back from the scissors. 

"When I say I will do a thing, I will do it, Madam!" retorted Molly. 

"If you can, I suppose, " said Kitty, defending herself from anotherthreatening snap. 

"Say I can't, at your peril!"

And Molly and her scissors marched away in dudgeon. 

"You are very tired, I fear, Mrs Gatty, " said Phoebe, when Gatty cameup to the room they shared, for the night. 

"Rather, " answered Gatty, with a sad smile on her white face. 

But she did not tell Phoebe what had tired her. It was not the journey, nor the ceremony, but her mother's greeting. 

"Why, Betty, you are quite blooming!" Lady Delawarr had said. "It hathdone you good, child. And Molly, too, as sprightly as ever! Child, didyou get touched?"

"I did, Madam, " answered Molly, with an extravagant courtesy. 

"Ah!" said her mother, in a tone of great satisfaction. "Then we needapprehend no further trouble from the evil. I am extreme glad. OGatty! you poor, scarred, wretched creature! Really, had it not beenthat the absence of one of my daughters would be remarked on, I vow Iwish you had not gone! 'Tis such a sight to show, that dreadful face ofyours. You will never give me any more comfort--that is certain. "

"Pos. !" echoed Molly, exactly in the same tone. 

"I would not mind, Gatty!" was Betty's kindly remark. 

"Thank you, " said Gatty, meekly. "I wish I did not!"

Gatty did not repeat this to Phoebe. But Phoebe saw there was somethingwrong. 

Rhoda came rustling in before much more could be said. She was full ofdetails of the journey. What the Queen looked like, --a tall, stoutwoman, with such blooming cheeks that Rhoda felt absolutely certain shewore rouge, --how she was dressed, --all in black, with a black calash, orhigh, loose hood, and adorned with diamonds--how she had beenreceived, --with ringing cheers from the Tory part of the population, butominous silence, or very faint applause, from such as were known to beWhigs: how Sophia Rich had told Rhoda that all the Whig ladies of markhad made up their minds to attend no drawing-rooms the next season: howit was beginning to be dimly suspected that Lord Mar was coquetting withthe exiled members of the royal family, and more than suspected that theDuke and Duchess of Marlborough were no longer all powerful with QueenAnne, as they had once been: how the Queen always dined at three p. M. , never drank French wine, held drawing-rooms on Sundays after service, would not allow any gentleman to enter her presence without afull-bottomed periwig: all these bits of information Rhoda dilated on, passing from one to another with little regard to method, and wound upwith an account of the presentation of the bouquet, and how the Queenhad received it from Lady Diana with a smile, and, "I thank you all, young gentlewomen, " in that silver voice which was Anne's pre-eminentcharm. 

But half an hour later, when Gatty was asleep, Rhoda said to Phoebe, --

"I have made up my mind, Phoebe. "

"Have you?" responded Phoebe. "What about?"

"I mean to marry Marcus Welles. "

"Has he asked you?" said Phoebe, rather drily. 

"Yes, " was Rhoda's short answer. 

Phoebe lay silent. 

"Well?" said Rhoda, rather sharply. 

"I think, Cousin, I had better be quiet, " answered Phoebe; "for I amafraid I can't say what you want me. "

"What I want you!" echoed Rhoda, more sharply than ever. "What do Iwant you to say, Mrs Prude, if you please?"

"Well, I suppose you would like me to say I was glad: and I am not: so Ican't. "

"I don't suppose it signifies to us whether you are glad or sorry, "snapped Rhoda. "But why aren't you glad?--you never thought he'd marryyou, surely?"

Phoebe said "No" with a little laugh, as she thought how very far shewas from any such expectation, and how very much farther from any wishfor it. But Rhoda was not satisfied. 

"Well, then, what's the matter?" said she. 

"Do you want me to say, Cousin?"

"Of course I do! Should I have asked you if I didn't?"

"I am afraid he does not love you. "

Rhoda sat up on her elbow, with an ejaculation of amazement. 

"If I ever heard such nonsense? What do you know about it, you poorlittle white-faced thing?"

"I dare say I don't know much about it, " said Phoebe, calmly; "but Iknow that if a man really loves one woman with all his heart, he won'tlaugh and whisper and play with the fan of another, or else he is notworth anybody's love. And I am afraid what Mr Welles wants is justyour money and not you. I beg your pardon, Cousin Rhoda. "

It was time. Rhoda was in a towering passion. What could Phoebe mean, she demanded with terrible emphasis, by telling such lies as those? Didshe suppose that Rhoda was going to believe them? Did Phoebe know whatthe Bible said about speaking ill of your neighbour? Wasn't shecompletely ashamed of herself?

"And I'll tell you what, Phoebe Latrobe, " concluded Rhoda, "I don'tbelieve it, and I won't! I'm not going to believe it, --not if you godown on your knees and swear it! 'Tis all silly, wicked, abominablenonsense!--and you know it!"

"Well, if you won't believe it, there's an end, " said Phoebe, quietly. "And I think, if you please, Cousin, we had better go to sleep. "

"Pugh! Sleep if you can, you false-hearted crocodile!" said Rhoda, poetically, in distant imitation of the flowers of rhetoric of herfriend Molly. "I shan't sleep to-night. Not likely!"

Yet Rhoda was asleep the first. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

SOMETHING ALTERS EVERYTHING. 

 "To-night we sit together here, To-morrow night shall come--ah, where?"

 _Robert Lord Lytton_. 

"There! Didn't I tell you, now?" ejaculated Mrs Jane Talbot. 

"I am sure I don't know, Jane, " responded her sister, in queruloustones. "You are always talking about something. I never can tell howyou manage to keep continually talking, in the way you do. I could notbear it. I never was a talker; I haven't breath for it, with my poorchest, --such a perpetual rattle, --I don't know how you stand it, I'msure. And to think what a beautiful singer I was once! Young SirSamuel Dennis once said I entranced him, when he had heard my singing toMrs Lucy's spinnet--positively entranced him! And Lord JamesMorehurst--"

"An unmitigated donkey!" slid in Mrs Jane. 

"Jane, how you do talk! One can't get in a word for you. What was Isaying, Clarissa?"

"You were speaking of Lord James Morehurst, dear Marcella. 'Tis allvery well for Jane to run him down, " said Mrs Vane in a languishingstyle, fanning herself as she spoke, "but I am sure he was the mostcharming black man I ever saw. He once paid me such a compliment on myfine eyes!"

"More jackanapes he!" came from Mrs Jane. 

"Well, I don't believe he ever paid you such an one, " said MrsClarissa, pettishly. 

"He'd have got his ears boxed if he had, " returned Mrs Jane. "Theimpudence of some of those fellows!"

"Poor dear Jane! she never had any taste, " sighed Mrs Marcella. "Iprotest, Clarissa, I am quite pleased to hear this news. As muchpleased, you know, as a poor suffering creature like me can be. But Ithink Mrs Rhoda has done extreme well. Mr Welles is of a good stockand an easy fortune, and he has the sweetest taste in dress. "

"Birds of a feather!" muttered Mrs Jane. "Ay, I knew what Mark-Me-Wellwas after. Told you so from the first. I marked him, be sure. "

"I suppose he has three thousand a year?" inquired Mrs Clarissa. 

"Guineas--very like. Not brains--trust me!" said Mrs Jane. 

"And an estate?" pursued Mrs Clarissa, with languid interest. 

"Oh dear, yes!" chimed in the invalid; "I would have told you about it, if Jane could ever hold her tongue. Such a--"

"I've done, " observed Mrs Jane, marching off. 

"Oh, my dear Clarissa, you can have no conception of what I suffer!"resumed Mrs Marcella, sinking down to a confidential tone. "I lovequiet above all things, and Jane's tongue is never still. Ah! if Icould go to the wedding, as I used to do! I was at all the grandweddings in the county when I was a young maid. I couldn't tell you howmany times I was bridesmaid. When Sir Samuel was married--and really, after all the fine things he had said, and the way he used to ogle methrough his glass, I _did_ think!--but, however, that's neither here northere. The creature he married had plenty of money, but absolutely nocomplexion, and she painted--oh, how she did paint! and a turn-upnose, --the ugliest thing you ever saw. And with all that, the airs sheused to give herself! It really was disgusting. "

"O, my dear! I can't bear people that give themselves airs, " observedMrs Clarissa, with a toss of her head, and "grounding" her fan. 

"No, nor I, " echoed Mrs Marcella, quite as unconscious as her friend ofthe covert satire in her words. "I wonder what Mrs Rhoda will bemarried in. I always used to say I would be married in white andsilver. And really, if my wretched health had not stood in the way, Imight have been, my dear, ever so many times. I am sure it would havecome to something, that evening when Lord James and I were sitting inthe balcony, after I had been singing, --and there, that stupid Jane mustneeds come in the way! I always liked a pretty wedding. I should thinkit would be white and silver. And what do you suppose Madam will giveher?"

"Oh, a set of pearls, I should say, if not diamonds, " answered MrsClarissa. 

"She will do something handsome, of course. "

"Suppose you do something handsome, and swallow your medicine without alozenge, " suggested Mrs Jane, walking in and presenting a glass to hersister. "'Tis time. "

"I am sure it can't be, Jane! You are always making me swallow somenasty stuff. And as to taking it without a lozenge, I couldn't do sucha thing!"

"Stuff! You could, if you did, " said Mrs Jane. "Come, then, --here itis. I shouldn't want one. "

"Oh, you!--you have not my fine feelings!" responded Mrs Marcella, sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at itsreddish-brown contents. 

"Come, sup it up, and get it over, " said her sister. "O Jane!--youunfeeling creature!"

"'Twill be no better five minutes hence, I'm sure. "

"You see what I suffer, Clarissa!" wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping downthe medicine, and pulling a terrible face. "Jane has no feeling for me. She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for. Well, I suppose I must bear it. 'Tis my fate. But what I ever did tobe afflicted in this way! Oh, the world's a hard place, and life's avery, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!"

Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at theMaidens' Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when MrsMarcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took herleave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in thestyle of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with aslow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She hadleft her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last. 

"Just in time for a dish of tea, child!" said little Mrs Dorothy, witha beaming smile. "Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and Iwill have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have youenjoyed your visit? You look tired, child. "

"Yes, I feel tired, " answered Phoebe. "I scarce know how I enjoyed thevisit, Mrs Dorothy--there were things I liked, and there were things Ididn't like. "

"That is generally the case, my dear. "

"Yes, " said Phoebe, abstractedly. "Mrs Dorothy, did you know MrsMarcella Talbot when she was young?"

"A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now. "

"Was she always as discontented as she is now?"

"That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe, " said Mrs Dorothy, gravely. 

Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it, " she replied. "But Ishould not wish to be like Mrs Marcella. "

"I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy dispositionis not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of ourneighbours without we praise them. "

"Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madamsent me down to tell all of you. "

"She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what sheexpected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good. "

"Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieveover. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when theprodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking afterthe manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisenand have gone to his father. "

"Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can findpeace, Mrs Dorothy?"

"`Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I amafraid, yes. "

"I am so sorry, " said Phoebe. 

"Dear child, the last thing the prodigal will do is to arise and go tothe Father. He will try every sort of swine's husks first. He doth notvalue the delicates of the Father's house--he hath no taste for them. The husks are better, to his palate. What wonder, then, if he tarry yetin the far country?"

"But how are you to get him to change his taste, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Neither you nor he can do that, my dear. Most times, either the husksrun short, or he gets cloyed with them. That is, if he ever go back tothe Father. For some never do, Phoebe--they stay on in the far country, and find the husks sweet to the end. "

"That must be saddest of all, " said Phoebe, sorrowfully. 

"It is saddest of all. Ah, child!--thank thy Father, if He have madethy husks taste bitter. "

"But all things are not husks, Mrs Dorothy!"

"Certainly not, my dear. Delight in the Lord's works in nature, or inthe pleasures of the intellect such things as these are right enough intheir place, Phoebe. The danger is of putting them into God's place. "

"Mrs Dolly, " asked Phoebe, gravely, "do you think that when we carevery much for a person or a thing, we put it into God's place?"

"If you care more for it than you do for Him. Not otherwise. "

"How is one to know that?"

"Ask your own heart how you would feel if God demanded it from you. "

"How ought I to feel?"

"Sorry, perhaps; but not resentful. Not as though the Lord had no rightto ask this at your hands. Grief is allowed; 'tis murmuring thatdispleases Him. "

When Mrs Dorothy said this, Phoebe felt conscious of a dim conviction, buried somewhere very deep down, that there was something which shehoped God would not demand from her. She did not know herself what itwas. It was not exactly that she would refuse to give it up; but ratherthat she hoped she would never be called upon to do it--that if she wereit would be a very hard thing to do. 

Phoebe left the Maidens' Lodge, and walked slowly across the Park toWhite-Ladies. She was feeling for the unknown cause of this sentimentof vague soreness at her heart. She had not found it, when a voicebroke in upon her meditations. 

"Mrs Latrobe?"

Phoebe came to a sudden stop, and with her heart heating wildly, lookedup into the face of Osmund Derwent. 

"I am too happy to have met with you, " said he. "I was on my way toWhite-Ladies. May I presume to ask your good offices, Mrs Phoebe, tofavour me so far as to present me to Madam Furnival!"

Phoebe courtesied her assent. 

"Mrs Rhoda, I trust, is well?"

"She is very well, I thank you. "

"I am rejoiced to hear it. You will not, I apprehend, Mrs Phoebe, suffer any surprise, if I tell you of my hopes with regard to MrsRhoda. You must, surely, have seen, when at Delawarr Court, what was myambition. Think you there is any chance for me with Madam Furnival?"

It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of whatwas going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked besidehim so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flashof lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at God'scall. 

It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting tohim, simply as being in his mind associated with Rhoda. And Rhoda didnot want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so. 

So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome, "she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she standspromised already. "

Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often dothink so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain, " and whohave to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they darespeak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendlyat Delawarr Court. 

"To whom?" he asked, almost angrily. 

"Mr Marcus Welles. "

"That painted fop!" cried Derwent. 

Phoebe was silent. 

"You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?"

"She is promised to him. "

Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she werein a dream: all these events which were passing around her never couldbe real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though sheheard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--tobe left alone with God. 

Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expectedmuch more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, inthe moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe didnot understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She hadnever loved anybody--that was plain!

And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her, taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost. 

She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house, where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade ofa clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one ofthem. 

It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of aSyrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her lovefor Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopelessthing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall. 

"But Thou remainest!"

The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones ofher father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text ofthe last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he hadsaid to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always, there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ. " The tears camenow. There was relief and healing in them. 

"But Thou remainest!"

"Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?"

Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempestwhich had swept over her heart. 

"Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment, " said Madam that eveningafter prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda. 

"Yes, Madam. " Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting. 

Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room. Then she said, "Child, I have writ a letter to your mother. "

"I thank you, Madam, " replied Phoebe. 

"And I have sent her ten guineas. "

"I thank you very much, Madam. "

"I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible ofthe propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I thinkmyself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have doneso much as this. "

"I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you. "

"And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of MrEdmundson. "

"If you please, Madam, I did not like him, " said Phoebe, honestly; "norI think he did not me. "

"That would not much matter, my dear, " observed Madam, referring to thelast clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would besorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better. "

"If you would allow me to say so, Madam, " answered Phoebe, modestly, yetdecidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am. "

Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herselffor a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, thoughshe was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well!go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come tome at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night. "

"I say, Fib, " said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not verycomplimentary diminutive for her cousin's name, but only used it whenshe was in a good humour--"I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?"

"To know what I thought of Mr Edmundson. "

"What fun! Well, what did you?"

"Why, I hoped his sermons would be better than himself: and theyweren't. "

"Did you tell Madam that?" inquired Rhoda, convulsed with laughter. 

"No, not exactly that; I said--"

"O Fib, I wish you had! She thinks it tip-top impertinence in any womanto presume to have an opinion about a sermon. My word! wouldn't youhave caught it!"

"Well, I simply told her the truth, " replied Phoebe; "that I didn't likehim, and I didn't think he liked me. "

Rhoda went off into another convulsion. 

"O Fib, you are good--nobody better! What did she say to that?"

"She said his not fancying me wouldn't signify. But I think it wouldsignify a good deal to me, if I had to be his wife. "

"Well, she wouldn't think so, not a bit, " said Rhoda, still laughing. "She'd just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in hisplace, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn'tI like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon. "

This last elegant expression was caught from Molly. 

"Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly. "

"Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all. You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think. "

"Which is the wrong side of fifty?" suggestively asked Phoebe. 

"I wish you wouldn't murder me with laughing, " said Rhoda. "Look herenow: what shall I be married in?"

"White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning. "

("This morning!" Phoebe's words came back no her. Was it only thismorning?)

"Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I'll have pink anddove-colour. What do you say?"

"I don't think I would have pink, " said Phoebe, mentally comparing thatcolour with Rhoda's red and white complexion. "Blue would suit youbetter. "

"Well, blue does become me, " answered Rhoda, contemplating herself inthe glass. "But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it shouldbe blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? Isay!"--and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe--"what doesMadam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twicewhile we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can itmean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?"

"I am sure I don't know, Cousin, " said Phoebe. 

"I shouldn't wonder if she is. I dare say she'll leave you one or twohundred pounds, " said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. "Really, I wishshe would. You're a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims. "

"Thank you, Cousin, " said Phoebe, meekly. 

And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other. 

The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe. Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears. 

"Rhoda!--did you hear that?" she asked. 

"Hear what?" demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice. 

"I fancied I heard a bell, " said Phoebe, trying to listen. 

"Oh, nonsense!" answered Rhoda, rather more awake. "Go to sleep. You've been dreaming. "

And Phoebe, accepting the solution, took the advice. She was scarcelyasleep again, as it seemed to her, when the door was softly opened, andBetty came in. 

"Mrs Rhoda, my dear, you'd better get up. "

"What time is it?" sleepily murmured Rhoda. 

"You'd better get up, " repeated Betty. "Never mind the time. "

"Betty, is there something the matter?"

Betty ignored Phoebe's question. 

"Come, my dear, jump up!" she said, still addressing Rhoda. "You'll bewanted by-and-bye. "

"Who wants me?" inquired Rhoda, making no effort to rise. 

"Well, Mr Dawson, the lawyer, is coming presently, and you'll have tosee him. "

"I!" Rhoda's eyes opened pretty wide. "Why should I see him? 'TisMadam wants him, not me. "

To the astonishment of both the girls, Betty burst out crying. 

"Betty, I am sure something has happened, " said Phoebe, springing up. "What is the matter?"

"O, my dear, Madam's gone!" sobbed Betty. "Poor dear gentlewoman!She'll never see anybody again. Mrs Rhoda, she's died in the night. "

There was a moment of silent horror, as the eyes of the cousins met. Then Phoebe said under her breath--

"That bell!"

"Yes, poor dear Madam, she rang her bell, " said Betty; "but she couldnot speak when I got to her. I don't think she was above ten minutesafter. I've sent off sharp for Dr Saunders, and Mr Dawson too; but'tis too late--eh, poor dear gentlewoman!"

"Did you send for Mr Leighton?" asked Rhoda, in an awe-struck voice. 

"Oh dear, yes, I sent for him too; but la! what can he do?" answeredBetty, wiping her eyes. 

They all came in due order: Dr Saunders to pronounce that Madam hadbeen dead three hours--"of a cardial malady, " said he, in aprofessionally mysterious manner; Mr Leighton, the Vicar of Tewkesbury, to murmur a few platitudes about the virtues and charity to the poorwhich had distinguished the deceased lady, and to express his firmconviction that so exalted a character would be at once enrolled amongthe angelic host, even though she had not been so happy as to receivethe Holy Sacrament. Mr Dawson came last, and his concern appeared tobe awakened rather for the living than the dead. 

"Sad business this!" said he, as he entered the parlour, where thecousins sat, close together, drawn to one another by the fellowship ofsuffering, in a manner they had never been before. "Sad business! Wasto have seen me to-day--important matter. Humph!"

The girls looked at him, but neither spoke. 

"Do you know, " he pursued, apparently addressing himself to both, "howyour grandmother had arranged her affairs?"

"No, " said Rhoda and Phoebe together. 

"Humph! Pity! Been a good deal better for you, my dear younggentlewoman, if she had lived another four-and-twenty hours. "

Neither said "Which?" for both thought they knew. 

"Poor Phoebe!" said Rhoda, pressing her hand. "But never mind, dear;I'll give it you, just right, what she meant you to have. We'll seeabout it before I'm married. Oh dear!--that will have to be put off, Isuppose. "

"You are going to be married?" asked the lawyer. 

"Yes, " said Rhoda, bridling. 

"Humph!--good thing for you. "

Mr Dawson marched to the window, with his hands in his pockets, andstood there softly whistling for some seconds. 

"Got any money?" he abruptly inquired. 

"I? No, " said Rhoda. 

"No, no; your intended. "

"Oh! Yes--three thousand a year. "

"Humph!" Mr Dawson whistled again. Then, making as if he meant toleave the room, he suddenly brought up before Phoebe. 

"Are _you_ going to be married?"

"No, Sir, " said Phoebe, blushing. 

"Humph!" ejaculated the lawyer, once again. 

Silence followed for a few seconds. 

"Funeral on Sunday, I suppose? Read the will on Monday morning--eh?"

"Yes, if you please, " said Rhoda, who was very much subdued. 

"Good. Well!--good morning! Poor girl!" The last words were in anundertone. 

"I am so sorry for it, Phoebe, dear, " said Rhoda, who was always at herbest under the pressure of trial. "But never you mind--you shall haveit. I'll make it up to you. "

Rhoda now naturally assumed the responsibility of mistress, and gaveorders that no visitor should be admitted excepting the Vicar and MrWelles. The evening brought the latter gentleman, who had apparentlyspent the interval in arraying himself in faultless mourning. 

"I am so grieved, my charmer!" exclaimed Mr Marcus Welles, dropping onone knee, and lifting Rhoda's hand to his lips. "Words cannot paint mydistress on hearing of your sorrow. Had I been a bird, I would haveflown to offer you consolation. Pray do not dim your bright eyes, myfair. 'Tis but what happens to all, and specially in old age. Oldfolks must die, you know, dearest Madam; and, after all, did they not, young folks would find them very often troublesome. But you have now noone over you, and you see your slave at your feet. "

And with a most unexceptionable bow, Mr Marcus gently possessed himselfof Rhoda's fan, wherewith he began fanning her in the most approvedmanner. It occurred to Phoebe that if the gentleman's grief had beenreally genuine, it was doubtful whether his periods would have beenquite so polished. Rhoda's sorrow, while it might prove evanescent, washonest while it lasted: and had been much increased by the extremesuddenness of the calamity. 

"I thank you, Sir, " she said quietly. "And I am sure you will begrieved to hear that my grandmother died just too soon to make thatprovision she intended for my cousin. So the lawyer has told us thismorning. You will not, I cannot but think, oppose my wish to give herwhat it was meant that she should have. "

"Dearest Madam!" and Mr Welles' hand went to his heart, "you cannothave so little confidence in me as to account it possible that I couldoppose any wish of yours!"

Engaged persons did not, at that time, call each other by the Christianname. It would have been considered indecorous. 

"I was sure, Sir, you would say no less, " answered Rhoda. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

MR. WELLES DOES IT BEAUTIFULLY. 

 "Thy virtues lost, thou would'st not look Me in thy chains to hold? Know, friend, thou verily hast lost Thy chiefest virtue--gold. "

Nine o'clock on the Monday morning was the hour appointed for readingMadam's will. When Rhoda and Phoebe, in their deep mourning, enteredthe parlour, they were startled to find the number of persons alreadyassembled. Not only all the household and outdoor servants, but all theinmates of the Maidens' Lodge, excepting Mrs Marcella, and severalothers, stood up to receive the young ladies as they passed on to theplace reserved for them. 

Mr Dawson handed the girls to their places, and then seated himself atthe table, and proceeded to unfold a large parchment. 

"It will be well that I should remark, " said he, looking up over hisspectacles, "that the late Madam Furnival had intended, at the time ofher death, to execute a fresh will. I am sorry to say it was notsigned. This, therefore, is her last will, as duly executed. It bearsdate the fourteenth of November, in the year 1691--"

An ejaculation of dismay, though under her breath, came from Rhoda, thelawyer went on:--

"--When Mrs Catherine Peveril, mother of Mrs Rhoda here, was justmarried, and before the marriage of Mrs Anne Furnival, mother to MrsPhoebe Latrobe, who is also present. The intended will would have madeprovision for both of these young gentlewomen, grand-daughters to MadamFurnival. By the provisions of the present one, one of them isworsened, and the other bettered. "

Rhoda's alarm was over. The last sentence reassured her. 

Mr Dawson cleared his voice, and began to read. The will commencedwith the preamble then usual, in which the testatrix declared herreligious views as a member of the Church of England; and went on tostate that she wished to be buried with her ancestors, in the familyvault, in the nave of Tewkesbury Abbey. One hundred pounds wasbequeathed to the Vicar of Tewkesbury, for the time being; twenty poundsand a suit of mourning to every servant who should have been in heremploy for five years at the date of her death; six months' wages tothose who should have been with her for a shorter time; a piece of blacksatin sufficient to make a gown, mantua, and hood, and forty pounds inmoney, to each inmate of the Maidens' Lodge. Mourning rings were leftto the Maidens, the Vicar. Dr Saunders, Mr Dawson, and severalfriends mentioned by name, of whom Sir Richard Delawarr was one. Thenthe testatrix gave, devised, and bequeathed to her "dear daughterCatherine, wife of Francis Peveril, Esquire, with remainder to the heirsof her body, the sum of two thousand pounds of lawful money. "

Rhoda's face grew eager, as she listened for the next sentence. 

"Lastly, I give, devise, and bequeath the Abbey of Cressingham, commonlycalled White-Ladies, and all other my real and personal estatewhatsoever, not hereinbefore excepted, to my dear daughter AnneFurnival, her heirs, assigns, administrators, and executors for ever. "

The effect was crushing. That one sentence had changed everything. NotRhoda, but Phoebe, was the heiress of White-Ladies. 

Mr Dawson calmly finished reading the signatures and attestationclause, and then folded up the will, and once more looked over hisspectacles. 

"Mrs Phoebe, as your mother's representative, give me leave to wish youjoy. Shall you wish to write to her? I must, of course. The letterscould go together. "

Phoebe looked up, half-bewildered. 

"I scarcely understand, " she said. "There is something left to Mother, is there not?"

"My dear young gentlewoman, there is everything left to her. She is thelady of the manor. "

"Just what is there for Rhoda?" gasped Phoebe, apparently not at allelated by her change of position. 

"A poor, beggarly two thousand pounds!" burst out Rhoda. "'Tis a shame!And I always thought I was to have White-Ladies! I shall just benobody now! Nobody will respect me, and I can never cut any figure. Well! I'm glad I am engaged to be married. That's safe, at any rate. "

The elevation of Mr Dawson's eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips, might have implied a query on that score. 

"I'm so sorry, dear!" said Phoebe, gently. "For you, of course, I mean. I could not be sorry that there was something for Mother, because sheis not well off; but I am very sorry you are disappointed. "

"You can't help it!" was Rhoda's rather repelling answer. Still, through all her anger, she remembered to be just. 

"Certainly not, my dear Mrs Phoebe, " said the lawyer. "'Tis nobody'sfault--not even Madam Furnival's, for the new will would have givenWhite-Ladies to Mrs Rhoda, and five thousand pounds to Mrs AnneLatrobe. Undoubtedly she intended, Mrs Rhoda, you should have it. "

"Then why can't I?" demanded Rhoda, fiercely. 

Mr Dawson shook his head, with a pitying smile. "The law knows nothingof intentions, " said he: "only of deeds fully performed. Still, it maybe a comfort in your disappointment, to remember that this was meant foryou. "

"Thank you for your comfort!" said Rhoda, bitterly. "Why, it makes itall the worse. "

"I wish--" but Phoebe stopped short. 

"Oh, I don't blame you, " said Rhoda, impetuously. "'Tis no fault ofyours. If she'd done it now, lately, I might have thought so. But awill that was made before either you or me was born--" Rhoda's grammaralways suffered from her excitement--"can't be your fault, nor anybodyelse's. But 'tis a shame, for all that. She'd no business to let me goon all these years, expecting to have everything, and knew all the whileher will wasn't right made. 'Tis too bad! My Lady Betty!--MrsDorothy!--don't you think so?"

"My dear, " said Lady Betty, "I am indeed grieved for yourdisappointment. But there is decorum, my dear Mrs Rhoda--there isdecorum!"

"No, my dear, " was Mrs Dorothy's answer. "I dare not call anything badthat the Lord doth. Had it been His will you should have White-Ladies, be sure you would have had it. "

"Well, you know, " said Rhoda, in a subdued tone, and folding one of herblack gauze ribbons into minute plaits, "of course, one can't complainof God. "

"Ah, child!" sighed Mrs Dorothy, "I wish one could not!"

"O my dear Mrs Rhoda, I feel for you so dreadfully!" accompanied thetragically clasped hands of Mrs Clarissa. "My feelings are so keen, and run away with me so--"

"Then let 'em!" said Mrs Jane Talbot's voice behind. "Mine won't. Mydears, I'm sorry you've lost Madam. But as to the money and that, I'llwait ten years, and then I'll tell you which I'm sorry for. "

"Well, I'm sorry for both of you, " added Mrs Eleanor Darcy. "I don'tthink, Mrs Phoebe, my dear, you'll lie on roses. "

No one was more certain of that than Phoebe herself. 

She wrote a few lines to her mother, which went inside Mr Dawson'sletter. Mrs Latrobe was in service near Reading. Her daughter feltsure that she would lose no time in taking possession. The event provedthat she was right. The special messenger whom Mr Dawson sent with theletters returned with an answer to each. Phoebe's mother wrote to herthus:--

 "Child, --Mr Dawson hath advertized me of the deth of Madam Furnivall, my mother. I would have you, on rect of this, to lett your cousen know that shee need not lieve the house afore I come, wich will be as soon as euer I can winde all upp and bee wth you. I would like to make aquaintance wth her ere anything be settled. I here from the layer [by which Mrs Latrobe meant _lawyer_] that she is to be maried, and it will be soe much ye better for you. I trust you may now make a good match yrself. But I shal see to all yt when I com. 

 "Yr mother, A. Latrobe. "

Phoebe studied every word of this letter, and the more she studied it, the less she liked it. First, it looked as if Mrs Latrobe did meanRhoda to leave the house, though she graciously intimated her intentionof making acquaintance with her before she did so. Secondly, she wasevidently in a hurry to come. Thirdly, she congratulated herself onRhoda's approaching marriage, because it would get rid of her, and leavethe way open for Phoebe. And lastly, she threatened Phoebe with "a goodmatch. " Phoebe thought, with a sigh, that "the time was out of joint, "and heartily wished that the stars would go back into their courses. 

Mrs Latrobe managed to wind all up in a surprisingly short time. Shereached her early home in the cool of a summer evening, Rhoda havingsent the family coach to meet her at Tewkesbury. Phoebe had saidnothing to her cousin of any approaching change, which she thought itbest to leave to her mother; so she contented herself by saying thatMrs Latrobe wished to make the acquaintance of her niece. Lady Bettykindly came up to help the inexperienced girls in making due preparationfor the arrival of the lady of the manor. When the coach rolled up tothe front door, Phoebe was standing on the steps, Lady Betty and Rhodafurther back in the hall. 

Mrs Latrobe was attired in new and stylish mourning. 

"Ah, child, here you are!" was her first greeting to Phoebe. "The oldplace is grown greyer. Those trees come too near the windows; I shallcut some of them down. Where is your cousin?"

Rhoda heard the inquiry, and she stepped forward. 

"Let us look at you, child, " said Mrs Latrobe, turning to her. "Ah, you are like Kitty--not so good-looking, though. "

"Mother, " said Phoebe, gently, "this is my Lady Betty Morehurst. Shewas so kind as to help us in getting ready for you. "

Mrs Latrobe appraised Lady Betty by means of one rapid glance. Thenshe thanked her with an amount of effulgence which betrayed eithersubservience or contempt. Lady Betty received her thanks with a quietdignity which refused to be ruffled, kissed Rhoda and Phoebe, and tookher leave, declining to remain even for the customary dish of tea. MrsLatrobe drew off her gloves, sat down in Madam's cushioned chair, anddesired Phoebe to give her some tea. 

"Let me see, child!" she said, looking at Rhoda. "You are nearone-and-twenty, I suppose?"

Rhoda admitted the fact. 

"And what do you think of doing?"

Rhoda looked blankly first at her aunt, then at her cousin. Phoebe camehastily to the rescue. 

"She is shortly to be married, Mother; did you forget?"

"Ah!" said Mrs Latrobe, still contemplating Rhoda. "Well--if it hold--you may as well be married from hence, I suppose. Is the day fixed?"

"No, Aunt Anne. "

"I think, my dear, " remarked Mrs Latrobe, sipping her tea, "'twould bebetter if you said Madam. --Why, Phoebe, what old-fashioned china! Sureit cannot have been new these forty years. I shall sweep away all thatrubbish. --Whom are you going to marry? Is he well off?--Phoebe, thoseshoe-buckles of yours are quite shabby. I cannot have you wear suchtrumpery. You must remember what is due to you. --Well, my dear?"

Rhoda had much less practice in the school of patience than Phoebe, andshe found the virtue difficult just then. But she restrained herself aswell as she could. 

"I am engaged in marriage with Mr Marcus Welles; and he has an estate, and spends three thousand pounds by the year. "

"Welles! A Welles of Buckinghamshire?"

"His estate is in this shire, " said Rhoda. 

"Three thousand! That's not much. Could you have done no better? Heexpected you would have White-Ladies, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. I did, " said Rhoda, shortly. 

"My dear, you have some bad habits, " said Mrs Latrobe, "which Phoebeshould have broken you of before I came. 'Tis very rude to answerwithout giving a name. "

"You told me not to give you one, Aunt Anne. "

"You are slow at catching meanings, my dear, " replied Mrs Latrobe, withthat calm nonchalance so provoking to an angry person. "I desired youto call me Madam, as 'tis proper you should. "

"Phoebe doesn't, " burst from Rhoda. 

"Then she ought, " answered Mrs Latrobe, coolly examining the crest on atea-spoon. 

"Oh, I will, Rhoda, if Mother wishes it, " put in Phoebe, anxious aboveall things to keep the peace. 

Rhoda vouchsafed no reply to either. 

"Well!" said the lady of the manor, rising, "you will carry me to mychamber, child, " addressing Rhoda. "You can stay here, Phoebe. Yourcousin will wait on me. "

It was something new for Rhoda to wait on anyone. She swallowed herpride with the best grace she could, and turned to open the door. 

"I suppose you have had the best room made ready for me?" inquired MrsLatrobe, as she passed out. 

"Madam's chamber, " replied Rhoda. 

"Oh, but--not the one in which she died?"

"Yes, " answered Rhoda; adding, after a momentary struggle with herself, "Madam. "

"Oh, but that will never do!" said Mrs Latrobe, hastily. "I couldn'tsleep there! A room in which someone died scarce a month ago! Where ismy woman? Call her. I must have that changed. "

Rhoda summoned Betty, who came, courtesying. Her mistress was too muchpreoccupied in mind to notice the civility. 

"Why, what could you all be thinking of, to put me in this chamber? Imust have another. This is the best, I know; but I cannot think ofsleeping here. Show me the next best--that long one in the south wing. "

"That is the young gentlewomen's chamber, Madam, " objected Betty. 

"Well, what does that matter?" demanded Mrs Latrobe, sharply. "Can'tthey have another? I suppose I come first!"

"Yes, of course, Madam, " said subdued Betty. 

Rhoda looked dismayed, but kept silence. She was learning her lesson. Mrs Latrobe looked into the girls' room, rapidly decided on it, andordered it to be got ready for her. 

"Then which must the young gentlewomen have, Madam?" inquired Betty. 

"Oh, any, " said Mrs Latrobe, carelessly. "There are enough. "

"Which would you like, Mrs Rhoda?" incautiously asked Betty. 

Before Rhoda could reply, her aunt said quickly, --

"Ask Mrs Phoebe, if you please. "

And Betty remembered that the cousins had changed places. It was a verybitter pill to Rhoda; and it was not like Rhoda to say--yet she said it, as soon as she had the opportunity--

"Phoebe, Aunt Anne means you to choose our room: please don't have alittle stuffy one. "

"Dear Rhoda, which would you like?" responded Phoebe at once. 

A little sob escaped Rhoda. 

"Oh, Phoebe, you are going to be the only one who is good to me! Ishould like that other long one in the north wing, that matches ours;but don't choose it if you don't like it. "

"We will have that, " said Phoebe, reassuringly; "at least, if Motherleaves it to me. "

Thus early it was made evident that the old nature in Anne Latrobe wasscotched, not killed. Sorrow seemed to have laid merely a repressivehand upon her bad qualities, and to have uprooted none but good ones. The brilliance and playfulness of her early days were gone. The _coeurleger_ had turned to careless self-love, the impetuosity had becomepeevish obstinacy. 

"Old Madam never spoke to me in that way!" said Betty. "She liked tohave her way, poor dear gentlewoman, as well as anybody; and shewouldn't take a bit of impudence like so much barley-sugar, I'll not sayshe would; but she was a gentlewoman, every inch of her, that she was. And that's more than you can say for some folks!"

The next morning, all the Maidens--the invalid, as usual, excepted--cametrooping up one after another, to pay their respects to the new lady ofthe manor. 

Lady Betty came first; then Mrs Dorothy and Mrs Eleanor, together;after a little while, Mrs Clarissa; and lastly, Mrs Jane. 

"My dear Mrs Anne, I remember you well, though perhaps you can scarcerecollect me, " said Mrs Dorothy, "for you were but nine years old thelast time that I saw you. May the Lord bless you, my dear, and make youa blessing!"

"Oh, I don't doubt I shall do my duty, " was the response of MrsLatrobe, which very much satisfied herself and greatly dissatisfied MrsDorothy. 

"'Tis delightful to see you back, dear Madam Latrobe!" said MrsClarissa, gushingly. "How touching must it be to return to the home ofyour youth, after so many years of banishment!"

Mrs Latrobe had not felt in the least touched, and hardly knew how toreply. "Oh, to be sure!" she said. "Glad to see you, " said Mrs Jane. "Great loss we've had in Madam. Hope you'll be as good as she was. Mysister desired me to make her compliments. Can't stir off the sofa. Fine morning!"

When the Maidens left the Abbey--which they did together--they comparednotes on the new reign. 

Lady Betty's sense of decorum was very much shocked. Mrs Latrobe hadnot spoken a word of her late mother, and had hinted at changes inmatters which had existed at White-Ladies from time immemorial. 

Mrs Clarissa was charmed with the new lady's manners and mourning, bothwhich she thought faultless. 

Mrs Eleanor thought "she was a bit shy, poor thing! We must makeallowances, my dear friends--we must make allowances!"

"Make fiddlestrings!" growled Mrs Jane. "She's Anne Furnival still, and she'll be Anne Furnival to the end of the chapter. As if I didn'tknow Nancy! Ever drive a jibbing horse?"

Mrs Clarissa, who was thus suddenly appealed to, declared in a shockedtone that she never drove a horse of any description since she was born. 

"Ah, well! I have, " resumed Mrs Jane, ignoring the scandalised tone ofher sister Maiden: "and that's just Nancy Furnival. She's as sleek inthe coat as ever a Barbary mare. But you'll not get her along the roadto Tewkesbury, without you make her think you want to drive her toGloucester. I heard plenty of folks pitying Madam when she bolted. Myword!--but I pitied somebody else a vast deal more, and that was CharlesLatrobe. I wouldn't have married her, if she'd been stuck all over withdiamonds. "

"I fancy she drove him, " said Mrs Eleanor with a smile. 

"Like enough, poor soul!" responded Mrs Jane. "Only chance he had ofany peace. He was a decent fellow enough, too, --if only he had keptclear of Nancy. "

"What made him marry her?" thoughtfully asked Mrs Eleanor. 

"Deary me!" exclaimed Mrs Jane. "When did you ever see a man thatcould fathom a woman? Good, simple soul that he was!--she made himthink black was white with holding up a finger. She glistened bravely, and he thought she was gold. Well!--_we_ shan't have much peace now, --take my word for it. Eh, this world!--'tis a queer place as ever Isaw. "

"True, my dear, " replied Mrs Dorothy: "let us therefore be thankfulthere is a better. "

But her opinion of Mrs Latrobe was not given. 

The same evening, as Phoebe sat in the parlour with her mother, Bettycame in with a courtesy. 

"Mr Marcus Welles, to speak with Madam. "

"With Mrs Rhoda?" asked Phoebe, rising. "I will go seek her. "

"No, if you please, Mrs Phoebe: Mr Welles said, Madam or yourself. "

"Phoebe, my dear, do not be such a fid-fad!" entreated Mrs Latrobe. "If Rhoda is wanted, she can be sought. --Good evening, Sir! I am trulydelighted to have the pleasure of seeing you, and I trust we shall bebetter acquainted. "

Mr Welles bowed low over Mrs Latrobe's extended hand. 

"Madam, the delight is mine, and the honour. Mrs Phoebe, yourservant, --your most humble servant. "

It was the first time that Mr Welles had ever addressed Phoebe withmore than a careless "good evening. "

"Ready to serve you, Sir, " said she, courtesying. "Shall I seek mycousin? She has wanted your company, I think. "

This was a very audacious speech for Phoebe: but she thought it soextraordinary that Mr Welles had not paid one visit to his betrothedsince the funeral, that she took the liberty of reminding him of it. 

"Madam, " said Mr Welles, with a complacent smile, toying with his goldchatelaine, "I really could not have visited you sooner, under thecircumstances in which I found myself. "

"Phoebe! have you lost your senses?" inquired Mrs Latrobe, sharply. 

"I am sure, " resumed Mr Marcus Welles, with an extremely graceful waveof his hand towards Mrs Latrobe, "that Madam will fully enter into mymuch lacerated feelings, and see how very distressing 'twould have beenboth to myself and her, had I forced my company on Mrs Rhoda, asmatters stand at present. "

Phoebe sat listening with a face of utter bewilderment. By what meanshad Mr Welles' feelings been lacerated?--and why should it be moredistressing for him to meet Rhoda now than before?--But she keptsilence, and Mrs Latrobe said, --

"I think, Sir, I have the honour to understand you. "

"Madam!" replied Mr Marcus Welles, with his courtliest bow, "I am surethat a gentlewoman of your parts and discretion can do no less, I cannotbut be infinitely sensible of the severe and cruel loss I am about tosustain: still, to my small estate, any other dealing would be of suchmischievous consequence, that I think myself obliged to resign the viewsI proposed to myself. "

Phoebe tried to understand him, and found it impossible. 

"This being the case, " continued he, "you will understand, dear Madam, that I thought myself engaged to wait until I might be honoured by somediscourse with you: and meanwhile to abstain from any commerce ofdiscourse in other quarters, till I had permission to acquaint you ofthe affair. I have indeed been in pain until I was able to wait uponyou. I shall now be something eased. You, I am certain, dearest Madam, will contrive the business far better than my disordered mind wouldallow me; and I doubt not 'twould be more agreeable to all parties tocommunicate by that canal. "

"If you wish it, Sir, it shall certainly be so, " answered Mrs Latrobe, who seemed to be under no doubt concerning Mr Welles' meaning. "I amyours to serve you in the matter. "

"Dearest Madam, you are an angel of mercy! The sooner I retire, then, the better. "

He kissed Mrs Latrobe's hand, and came round to Phoebe. 

"Mr Welles, you have not seen Rhoda yet. I do not understand!" saidPhoebe blankly, as he bowed iver her hand. 

"Madam, I have but just now engaged myself--"

"Phoebe, don't be a goose!" burst from her mother. "You must be a babyif you do not understand. Cannot you see that Mr Welles, in a mosthonourable manner, which does him infinite credit, withdraws allpretensions to your cousin's hand, leaving her free to engage herselfelsewhere? Really, I should have thought you had sense enough forthat. "

For a moment Phoebe looked, with a bewildered air, from her mother toMr Welles. Then shyness, fear and reserve gave way before indignation. She did understand now. 

"You mean to desert Rhoda, because she has lost the paltry money thatyou expected she would have?"

For once in his life, Mr Marcus Welles seemed startled and taken at adisadvantage. 

"I was afraid you wanted her chiefly for her money, but I did notbelieve you capable of this! So you do not care for her at all? Andyou run away, afraid to face the pangs you have created, and to meet theeyes of the maid you have so foully wronged. Shame on you!"

"Phoebe, you must be mad!" exclaimed Mrs Latrobe, rising. "Don'tlisten to her, dear Mr Welles; 'tis a most distressing scene for you tobear. I am infinitely concerned my daughter should have so farforgotten herself as to address you with such vulgar abuse. I can onlyexcuse her on the ground--"

"Dearest Madam, there is every excuse, " said Mr Welles, with thesweetest magnanimity. "Sweet Mrs Phoebe is a woodland bird, untrammelled as yet by those fetters which we men and women of the worldmust needs bear. 'Tis truly delightful to see the charming generosityand the admirable fire with which she plays the knight-errant. Indeed, Madam, such disinterested warmth and fervour of heart are seen but tooseldom in this worn old world. Suffer me to entreat you not to chideMrs Phoebe for her charming simplicity and high spirit. "

"Since Mr Welles condescends to intercede for you, Phoebe, notwithstanding your shocking behaviour, I am willing to overlook itthis time; but I warn you I shall not prove thus easy another time. "

"I am sure I hope there will never be another time!" cried Phoebe, hereyes flashing. 

"Phoebe, go to your chamber, and don't let me hear one word more, " saidMrs Latrobe, severely. 

And Phoebe obeyed, rushing upstairs with feet that seemed to keep pacewith the whirlwind in her heart. 

"Phoebe, I wonder whether of these ribbons, the silk or the gauze, wouldgo best with-- Why, whatever in the world is the matter?" said Rhoda, breaking off. 

"You may well ask, my dear, " answered the voice of Mrs Latrobe, behindPhoebe. "Your cousin has been conducting herself in a most impropermanner--offering gross insults to my guests in my house. "

"Phoebe!" cried Rhoda, as if she could not believe her ears. 

"Yes, Phoebe. She really has. I can only fear--indeed, I had almostsaid hope--that her wits are something impaired. What think you of hertelling a gentleman who had acted in a most noble and honourablemanner--exactly as a gentleman should do--that she could not havebelieved him capable of such baseness? and she cried shame on him!"

"Not Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda again, looking from one to the other verymuch as Phoebe had done. "Why, Phoebe, what does all this mean?"

"Oh, Rhoda, I can't tell you!" said Phoebe, sobbing, for the reactionhad come. "Mother, you will have to tell her. I can't. "

"Of course I shall tell her, " calmly answered Mrs Latrobe. "I came forthat very thing. Rhoda, my dear, I am sure you are a maid of sense anddiscretion. "

"I hope so, Madam. "

"So do I, child: and therefore you will hear me calmly, and not fly intopassions like that silly maid yonder. My dear, you must haveremembered, I am certain, that when you promised yourself to Mr Welles, you were in a very different situation from now. "

Rhoda only bowed. Perhaps, on that subject, she was afraid to trust hervoice. 

"And, of course, it has also occurred to you, my dear, that this beingthe case, you could not in honour hold Mr Welles bound to you anylonger, if he wished to be free?"

"But we don't wish to be free, " said Rhoda, in a puzzled tone. 

"You are mistaken, my dear, so far as one of you is concerned. Perhapsit had been yet more graceful had you been the one to loose the bond:yet Mr Welles has done it with so infinite a grace and spirit that Ican scarce regret your omission. My dear, you are now entirely free. He sets you completely at liberty, and has retired from all pretensionto you. "

"But what, Aunt Anne--I do not understand you!" exclaimed Rhoda, inaccents of bewildered amazement, which had a ring of agony beneath, asthough she was struggling against the comprehension of a grief she wasreluctant to face. 

"Surely, my dear, you must have understood me, " said Mrs Latrobe. "MrWelles resigns his suit to you. "

"He has given me up?" bursts from Rhoda's lips. 

"He has entirely given you up. You cannot have really expected anythingelse?"

"I thought _he_ was true!" said Rhoda through her set teeth. "Are yousure you understood him? Phoebe, you tell me, --did he mean that?"

"O Rhoda! poor Rhoda! I am afraid he did!" said Phoebe, as distinctlyas tears would let her. 

"But, my dear, " interposed Mrs Latrobe, remonstratingly, "surely youcannot be surprised? When Mr Welles engaged himself to you, it was (ashe thought) to the heiress of a large estate. You could not expect himto encumber himself with a wife who brought him less than one year'sincome of his own. 'Tis not reasonable, child. No man in his senseswould do such a thing. We live in the world, my dear, --not in Utopia. "

"We live in a hard, cold, wicked, miserable world, and the sooner we areout of it the better!" came in a constrained voice from Rhoda. 

"I beg, my dear, " answered Mrs Latrobe, "you will not make extravagantspeeches. There might be not another man in the world, that you shouldgo into such a frenzy. We shall yet find you a husband, never fear. "

"Not one like him, I hope!" murmured Phoebe. "And I don't think Rhodawants anybody else. "

"Phoebe, " said her mother, "I am extreme concerned at the coarseness ofyour speeches. I had hoped you were a gentlewoman. "

"Well, Mother, " said Phoebe, firing up again, "if Mr Welles be agentleman, I almost hope not!"

"My dear, " said Mrs Latrobe, "Mr Welles is a gentleman. The style inwhich he announced his desire to withdraw from his suit to your cousin, was perfect. A prince could not have done it better. "

"I should hope a prince would not have done it at all!" was the bluntresponse from Phoebe. 

"You are not a woman of the world, my dear, but a very foolish, ignorantchild, that does not know properly what she is saying. 'Tis so nearbed-time you need not descend again. You will get over yourdisappointment, Rhoda, when you have slept, and I shall talk with youpresently. Good-night, my dears. "

And Mrs Latrobe closed the door, and left the cousins together. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

PHOEBE IN A NEW CHARACTER. 

 "We mend broken china, torn lace we repair; But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair. "

"Did _she_ ever love anybody?" came in a low voice from Rhoda, when MrsLatrobe had withdrawn, "Oh, I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe, who was cryingviolently, and might have seemed to a surface observer the more unhappyof the two. 

"Don't weep so, " said Rhoda. "I'm sure you don't need. Aunt Anne willnever be angry long--she does not care enough about anything to keep itup. "

"Oh, it is not for myself, Rhoda--poor Rhoda!"

"For me? Surely not, Phoebe. I have never been so good to you as towarrant that. "

"I don't know whether you have been good to me or you have not, Cousin;but I am so sorry for you!"

Phoebe was kneeling beside the bed. Rhoda came over to her, and kissedher forehead, and said--what was very much for Rhoda to say--"I scarcethink I deserve you should weep for me, Phoebe. "

"But I can't help it!" said Phoebe. 

"Well! I reckon I should have known it, " said Rhoda, in a rather hardtone. "I suppose that is what all men are like. But I did think he wastrue--I did!"

"I never did, " responded Phoebe. 

"Well!" sighed Rhoda again. "Let it pass. Perhaps Mrs Dorothy isright--'tis best to trust none of them. "

"I don't think Mrs Dorothy said that, " replied Phoebe, heaving a longsigh, as she sat up and pushed back her ruffled hair. "I do hope Iwasn't rude to Mother. "

"Nothing she'll care about, " said Rhoda. "I wondered he did not come, Phoebe. "

"So did I, and I told him as much. But--Rhoda, I think perhaps we shallforgive him sooner if we don't talk about it. "

"Ah! I have not come to forgiving yet, " was Rhoda's answer. "Perhaps Ishall some time. Well! I shall be an old maid now, Phoebe, like MrsDorothy, I suppose you'll be the one to marry. "

"Thank you, I'd rather not!" said Phoebe, quickly. "I am not sure Ishould like it at all; and I am quite sure I don't want to be marriedfor my money, or for what people expect me to have. "

"Oh, there's nothing else in this world!" answered Rhoda, with an air ofimmense experience. "Don't you expect it. Every man you come across isan avaricious, designing creature. Oh dear! 'tis a weary weary world, and 'tis no good living!"

"Yes, Rhoda dear, there is one good in living, and 'tis always left tous, whatever we may lose, " said Phoebe, earnestly. "Don't you rememberwhat the Lord Jesus said to His disciples--`My meat is to do the will ofHim that sent Me?' There is always that, Rhoda. "

"Ah, that is something I don't know anything about, " said Rhoda, wearily. "And I always think 'tis right down shabby of people to turnreligious, just because they have lost the world, and are disappointedand tired. And I was never cut out for a saint, Phoebe--'tis no use!"

"Rhoda, dear, when people give all their days to Satan, and then turnreligious, as you say, just at last, when they are going to die, orthink they are--don't you think that right down shabby? The longer youkeep away from God, the less you have to give Him when you come. Andas--"

"I thought you Puritans always said we hadn't anything to give to God, but He gave everything to us, " objected Rhoda, pettishly. 

Phoebe passed the tone by, and answered the words, "I think there aretwo things we can give to God, Cousin: our sins, that He may cast theminto the depths of the sea; and ourselves, that He may save and trainus. And the longer you stay away, the more sin you will have to bring;and the less time there will be for loving and serving Him. You will besorry, when you do come, that you were not sooner. "

"How do you know I shall? I tell you, I wasn't cut out for a saint. "

"I think you will, Cousin, because I have asked Him to bring you, " saidPhoebe, simply; "and it must be His will to hear that; because Hewilleth not the death of a sinner. "

"So you count me a sinner! I am sure I'm very much obliged to you!"said Rhoda, more in her old style than before. 

"Yes, dear Cousin, I count you a sinner; and so do I myself, and everybody else, " said Phoebe, gently. 

"Oh, well, I suppose we are all sinners, " admitted Rhoda. "Don't I keeptelling you I am not made for a saint?"

"But you were, Rhoda; God made you for Himself, " said Phoebe. 

"Oh, well 'tis no use talking!" and Rhoda got up, and began to pull downher elaborately-dressed hair, with hasty, uncareful fingers. "We'dbetter go to bed. "

"Perhaps it isn't much use talking, " said Phoebe, as she rose to helpher. "But it is sure to be some praying, so I shall go on. "

It was a few days later, and Phoebe was crossing the Park on her way tothe Maidens' Lodge, carrying a basket of fruit sent by Mrs Latrobe toLady Betty. From all the Maidens, except Lady Betty, Mrs Latrobe heldaloof. Mrs Jane was too sharp for her, Mrs Marcella too querulous, and Mrs Dorothy too dull. Mrs Clarissa she denounced as "poor vainflirt that could not see her time was passed, " and Mrs Eleanor, shedeclared, gave her the horrors only to look at. But Lady Betty shediligently cultivated. How much of her regard was due to her Ladyship'stitle, Mrs Latrobe did not explain. 

Phoebe was nearing the Maidens' Lodge, and had just entered the lastglade on her way thither, when--very much to her disapprobation anddismay--from a belt of trees on her left hand, Mr Marcus Welles steppedout and stood before her. 

"Your most humble servant, Mrs Phoebe! I was very desirous to have thehonour of waiting on you this fine morning; and thinking that I saw youat a little distance, I took the great liberty of accosting you. "

If Phoebe had said just what she thought, she would have informed MrWelles that he had taken a wholly unwarrantable liberty in so doing; forwhile she sagely counselled Rhoda to forgive the offender, she had by nomeans forgiven him herself. But being mindful of conventionalities, Phoebe courtesied stiffly, and left Mr Welles to explain himself at hisleisure. Now, Mr Welles had come to that glade in the Park for thespecial purpose of making a communication, which he felt rather anawkward one to make with that amount of grace which beseemed him:nevertheless, being a very adroit young man, and much given to turningcorners in a rapid and elegant manner, he determined to go through withthe matter. If it had only been anyone but Phoebe!

"Mrs Phoebe, " he began, "I cannot but flatter myself that you are notwholly ignorant of the high esteem I have long had for your deep merit. "

"Cannot you, Sir?" responded Phoebe, by no means in a promising manner. 

Mr Welles felt the manner. He thought his web was scarcely fine-spunenough. He must begin again. 

"I trust that Madam is in good health, Mrs Phoebe?"

"My mother is very well, I thank you, Sir. "

"You are yourself in good health, I venture to hope, Madam?"

"I am, Sir, I thank you. "

The task which Mr Welles had set himself, as he perceived with chagrin, was proving harder than he had anticipated. Phoebe evidently intendedto waste no more time on him than she could help. 

"The state of affairs at White-Ladies is of infinite concern to me, Madam. "

"Is it, Sir?"

"Undoubtedly, Madam. Your health and happiness--all of you--are extremedear to me. "

"Really, Sir!"

"Especially _yours_, Madam. "

Phoebe made no answer to this. Her silence encouraged Mr Welles toproceed. He thought his tactics had succeeded, and the creature wascoming round by degrees. The only point now requiring care was not tostartle her away again. 

"Allow me to assure you, Madam, that your welfare is in my eyes a matterof infinite concern. "

"So you said, Sir, " was Phoebe's cool reply, Mr Welles was veryuncomfortable. Had he made any mistake? Was it possible that, afterall, the creature was not coming round in an orthodox manner?

"Madam, give me leave to assure you, moreover, that I am infinitelyattached to you, and desire no higher happiness than to be permitted tooffer you my service. "

It was an instant before Phoebe recognised that Mr Marcus Welles wasactually making her an offer. When she did, her answer was immediateand unmistakable. 

"Don't you, Mr Welles?" said Phoebe. "Then I do!"

"Madam, have you misapprehended me?" demanded her suitor, to whom theidea of any woman refusing him was an impossibility not to beentertained for a moment. 

"I should be glad if I had, " said Phoebe. 

"You must be labouring under some mistake, Madam. I have an estatewhich brings me in three thousand a year, and I am my own master. 'Tisnot an opportunity a maid can look to meet with every day, nor is itevery gentlewoman that I would ask to be my wife. "

"No--only a golden one!" said Phoebe. 

"Madam!"

Phoebe turned, and their eyes met. 

"Mr Welles, give me leave to tell you the truth: you do not hear itoften. You do not wish to marry me. You wish to obtain White-Ladies. 'Tis of no consequence to you whether the woman that must needs comewith it be Phoebe Latrobe or Rhoda Peveril. My cousin would please youbetter than I; but you really care not a straw for either of us. Youonly want the estate. Allow me in my turn to assure you that, so far asI am concerned, you will not get it. The man who could use my cousin asyou have done may keep away from endeavouring my favour. I wish you avery good morning, Mr Welles. "

"I beg, Madam, that you will permit me to explain--" stammered MrWelles, whose grace and tactics alike forsook him under the treatment towhich he was subjected by Phoebe. 

"Sir, there is nothing to explain. "

And with a courtesy which could be construed into nothing but finaldismissal, Phoebe left her astonished suitor to stand and look after herwith the air of a beaten general, while she turned the corner of theMaidens' Lodge, and made her way to Lady Betty's door. 

Lady Betty was at that moment giving an "at home" on the very minutescale permitted by the diminutive appointments of the Maidens' Lodge. Mrs Jane Talbot and Mrs Dorothy Jennings were seated at her littletea-table. 

"Why, my dear Mrs Phoebe! what an unlooked-for pleasure!" exclaimedLady Betty, coming forward cordially. 

If her cordiality had been a shade more distinct since Phoebe becameheiress of Cressingham--well, she was only human. The other ladiespresent had sustained no such change. 

"The Lord bless thee, dear child!" was the warm greeting of Mrs Dolly;but it had been quite as warm long before. 

"Evening!" said Mrs Jane, with a sarcastic grin. "Got it over, has he?Saw you through the side window. Bless you, child, I know all aboutit--I expected that all along. Hope you let him catch it--thejackanapes!"

"I did not let him catch me, Mrs Jane, " answered Phoebe, with somedignity. 

"That's right!" said Mrs Jane, decidedly. "That bundle of velvet andbraid would never have made any way with me, when I was your age, mydear. Why, any mantua-maker could cut him out of snips, and have somestuff left over. "

"He is of very good family, my dear Mrs Jane, " observed Lady Betty; "atleast, if I take you rightly in supposing you allude to Mr Welles. "

"More pity for the family!" answered Mrs Jane. "Glad I'm not hismother. Ruin me to keep, him in order. Cost a fortune in whip-leather. How's Mrs Rhoda?"

"She is very well, I thank you, Madam. "

"Is she crying out her eyes over that piece of fiddle-faddle?"

"I think she has finished for the present, " replied Phoebe, ratherdrily. 

"Just you tell her he's been making up to you. Best thing you can do. Cure her sooner than anything else. "

"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, may I beg of you to do me the favour to let Madamknow that my niece, my Lady Delawarr, is much disordered in her health?"

"Certainly, my Lady Betty; I am grieved to hear it. "

"Very much so, as 'tis feared; and Sir Richard hath asked me thither tovisit her, and see after matters a little while she is laid by. Ipurpose to go thither this next week, but I would not do so withoutpaying my respects to Madam, for which honour I trust to wait on herto-morrow. Indeed, my dear--and if you will mention it to Madam, youwill do me a service--Sir Richard's letter is not without someimportunity that should my niece be laid aside for any time, as herphysician fears, I would remove altogether, and make my home with them. "

"Indeed, Madam, I will tell my mother all about it. "

"I thank you, my dear; 'twill be a kindness. Of course, I would notlike to leave without Madam's concurrence. "

"That you will have, " quietly said Mrs Dorothy. 

"Indeed, so I hope, " returned Lady Betty. "I dare say Mrs Phoebe hereat least does not know that when my nephew Sir Richard was young, afterhis mother died--my poor sister Penelope--he was bred up wholly in mycare, so that he looks on me rather as his mother than his aunt, and'tis but natural that his thoughts should turn to me in this trouble. "

"You must have been a young aunt, my Lady Betty, " remarked Mrs Dorothy. 

"Truly, but twelve years elder than my nephew, " said Lady Betty, with asmile. 

"Clarissa would have told us that, without waiting to be asked, " laughedMrs Jane. "How are the girls, my Lady Betty?"

"Very well, as I hear. You know, I guess, that Betty is engaged inmarriage?"

"So we heard. To Sir Charles Rich, is it not?"

"The same. But maybe you have not heard of Molly's conquest?" askedLady Betty, with an amused little laugh. 

"What, is Mrs Molly in any body's chains?"

"Indeed, I guess not, Mrs Jane, " replied Lady Betty, still laughing. "I expect my friend Mr Thomas Mainwaring is in Molly's chains, ifchains there be. "

"Eh, she'll lead him a weary life!" said Mrs Jane. 

"Let us hope she will sober down, " answered Lady Betty. "I am notunwilling to allow there hath of late been room for improvement. Yet isthere some good in Molly, as I think. "

Phoebe remembered Molly's assistance in the matter of Mr Edmundson, andthought it might be so. 

"Well, and what of Mrs Gatty?"

"Ah, poor maid! She, at least, can scarce hope to be happy, herdisfigurement is so unfortunate. "

"I must needs ask your pardon, my Lady Betty, but I trust that is notthe case, " said Mrs Dorothy, with a gentle smile. "Sure, happinessdoth not depend on face nor figure?"

"The world mostly reckons so, I believe, " answered Lady Betty, with aresponsive smile. "Maybe, we pick up such words, and use them, insomething too heedless a manner. "

"I am mightily mistaken if Mrs Gatty do not prove the happiest of thethree, " was Mrs Dorothy's reply. 

Mrs Dorothy rose to go home, and Phoebe took leave at the same time. She felt tired and harassed, and longed for the rest of a little quiettalk with her old friend. 

"And how doth Mrs Rhoda take this, my dear?" was the old lady's firstquestion, when Phoebe had poured out her story. 

"She seemed very much troubled at first, and angry; but I fancy she isgetting over it now. "

"Which most?--troubled or angry?"

"I think--after a few minutes, at least--more angry. "

"Then she will quickly recover. I do not think she loved him, Phoebe. She liked him, I have no doubt: and she flattered herself that he lovedher; but if she be more angry than hurt, that shows that her pridesuffers rather than her love. At least, " said Mrs Dorothy, correctingherself, "I mean it looks so. Who am I, that I should judge her?"

"I wanted it to do her some good, Mrs Dolly. It seems hard to have thesuffering, and not get the good. "

"'Tis not easy for men to tell what does good, and when. We cannot asconcerns ourselves; how then shall we judge for others?"

"I wonder what Rhoda will do now?" suggested Phoebe, after a minute'ssilence. 

She looked up, and saw an expression, which was the mixture of pity andamusement, on Mrs Dorothy's lips. The amusement died away, but thepity remained and grew deeper. 

"Can you guess, Mrs Dolly?"

"`Lord, and what shall this man do?' You know the answer, Phoebe. "

"Yes, I know: but-- Mrs Dorothy, would you not like to know thefuture?"

"Certainly not, dear child. I am very thankful for the mist which myFather hath cast as a veil over my eyes. "

"But if you could see what would come, is it not very likely that therewould not be some things which you would be glad and relieved to findabsent?"

"Very likely. The things of which we stand especially in fear oftenfail to come at all. But there would be other things, which I should bevery sorry to find, and much astonished too. "

"I wonder sometimes, what will be in my life, " said Phoebe, dreamily. 

"That which thou needest, " was the quiet answer. 

"What do I need?" asked Phoebe. 

"To have thy will moulded after God's will. "

"Do you think I don't wish God's will to be done, Mrs Dorothy?"

Mrs Dorothy smiled. "I quite believe, dear child, thou art willing Heshould have His way with respect to all the things thou dost not careabout. "

"Mrs Dorothy!"

"My dear, that is what most folks call being resigned to the will ofGod. "

"Mrs Dolly, why do people always talk as though God's will must besomething dreadful? If somebody die, or if some accident happen, theysay, `Ah, 'tis God's will, and we must submit. ' But when somethingpleasant comes, they never say it then. Don't you think the pleasantthings are God's will, as well as the disagreeable ones?"

"More so, Phoebe. `In all our affliction, He is afflicted. ' `He dothnot afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men. ' Pleasant thingsare what He loves to give us; bitter things, what He needs must. "

"Then why do people talk so?" repeated Phoebe. 

"Ah, why do they?" said Mrs Dorothy. "Man is always wronging God. Notone of us all is so cruelly misunderstood of his fellows as all of usmisunderstand Him. "

"Yet He forgives, " said Phoebe softly: "and sometimes we don't. "

"He is always forgiving, Phoebe. The inscription is graven not lessover the throne in Heaven than over the cross on earth, --`This Manreceiveth sinners. '"

There was a pause of some minutes; and as Phoebe rose to go, MrsDorothy said, --

"I will tell you one thing I have noted, child, as I have gone throughlife. Very often there has been something looming, as it were, beforeme that I had to do, or thought I should have to bear, --and in thedistance and the darkness it took a dread shape, and I looked forward toit with terror. And when it has come at last, it has often--I say notalways, but often--proved to be at times a light and easy cross, even attimes an absolute pleasure. Again, there hath often been something inthe future that I have looked forward to as a great good and delight, which on its coming hath turned out a positive pain and evil. 'Tisbetter we should not know the future, dear Phoebe. Our Father knowsevery step of the way: is not that enough? Our Elder Brother hathtrodden every step, and will go with us through the wilderness. Perfectwisdom and perfect love have prepared all things. Ah, child, thyfathers were wise men to sing as they sang--

 "`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger. '"

"But, Mrs Dolly-- I suppose it can't be so, yet--it does seem as ifthere were some things in life which the Lord Jesus did not go through. "

"What things, my dear?"

"Well, we never read of His having any kind of sickness for one thing. "

"Are you sure of that? `Himself took our infirmities, and bare oursicknesses, ' looks very like the opposite. You and I have no idea, Phoebe, how He spent thirty out of thirty-three years of His mortallife. He may--mind, I don't say it was so, for I don't know--but He mayhave spent much of them in a sick chamber. He was `in _all_ pointstempted like as we are. ' My father used to tell me that the word thererendered `tempted' signifies not only temptations of Satan, but trialssent of God. "

"But--He was never a woman, Mrs Dolly. "

"And therefore cannot feel for a woman as though He had been, --is thatthy meaning, dear? Nay, Phoebe, I believe He was the only creature thatever dwelt on earth in whom were the essential elements both of man andwoman. He took His flesh of the woman only. The best part of each wasin Him, --the strength and intelligence of the man, the love andtenderness of the woman. 'Tis modish to say women are tender, Phoebe;more modish than true. Many are soft, but few are tender. But He wastenderness itself. "

"I don't think women always are tender, " said Phoebe. 

"My dear, " said Mrs Dorothy, "you may laugh at me, but I am very muchout of conceit with my own sex. A good woman is a very precious thing, Phoebe; the rather since 'tis so rare. But an empty, foolish, frivolouswoman is a sad, sad sight to see. Methinks I could scarce bear withsuch, but for four words that I see, as it were, graven on theirbrows, --`For whom Christ died. '"

"Very good!" said Mrs Latrobe. "I will not conceal from you, Phoebe, that I am extreme gratified with this decision of Lady Betty. I trustshe will carry it out. "

Phoebe felt a good deal surprised. Lady Betty had been the only inmateof the Lodge whose society her mother had apparently cared to cultivate, and yet she expressed herself much pleased to hear of her probabledeparture. She remembered, too, that Mrs Dorothy had expected MrsLatrobe's assent. To herself it was a mystery. 

Mrs Latrobe gave no explanation at the time. She went at once toanother part of the subject, informing Phoebe that she had asked Bettyand Molly Delawarr on a visit. Gatty had been invited also, but haddeclined to leave her mother in her present condition. Phoebe receivedthis news with some trepidation. Had it been Betty alone, she would nothave minded; for she thought her very good-natured, and could notunderstand Rhoda's expressed dislike to her. But Molly!--Phoebe triedto remember that Molly had done one kind action, and hoped she would beon her best behaviour at White-Ladies. Mrs Latrobe went on to say thatshe wished Phoebe to share her room with Betty, and would put Rhoda andMolly in another. But when Phoebe ventured to ask if Rhoda might notretain the room which she knew her to prefer, and Phoebe herself be theone to change, Mrs Latrobe refused to entertain the proposition. 

"No, my dear, certainly not. You forget your station, Phoebe. You arethe daughter of this house, not your cousin. You must not be thinkingof how things were. They have changed. I could not think of allowingRhoda to have the best chamber. Besides, she has got to come down, andshe had best know it at once. "

"What do you mean, Madam, if you please?"

"What do I mean? Why, surely you have some sense of what is proper. You don't fancy she could continue to live here, do you? If she hadmarried Mr Welles, I should have said nothing against her staying heretill her marriage--of course, if it were a reasonable time; but now thatis all over. She must go. "

"Go!" gasped Phoebe. "Go whither, Madam?"

"I shall offer her the choice of two things, my clear. She can eithergo to service, in which case I will not refuse to take the trouble tolook out a service for her--I am wishful to let her down gently, and bevery good to her; or, if she prefer that, she may have my Lady Betty'shouse as soon as she is gone. Have you any idea which she will choose?"

"Service! The Maidens' Lodge! Rhoda!"

"My dear Phoebe, how very absurd you are. What do you mean by suchfoolish ejaculations? Rhoda will be uncommonly well off. You forgetshe has the interest of her money, and she has some good jewellery; shemay make a decent match yet, if she is wise. But in the meantime, shemust live somehow. Of course I could not keep her here--it would spoilyour prospects, simpleton! She has a better figure than you, and shehas more to say for herself. You must not expect any body to look atyou while she is here. "

"Oh, never mind that!" came from the depth of Phoebe's heart. 

"But, my dear, I do mind it. I must mind it. You do not understandthese things, Phoebe. Why, I do believe, with a very littleencouragement--which I mean him to have--Mr Welles himself would offerfor you. "

"That is over, Madam. "

"What is over? Phoebe! what do you mean? Has Mr Welles really spokento you?"

"Yes, Madam. "

"When, my dear?" asked Mrs Latrobe, in a tone of deep interest. 

"This afternoon, Madam!"

"That is right! I am so pleased. I was afraid he would want a gooddeal of management. And you've no more notion how to manage a man thanthat parrot. I should have to do it all myself. "

"I beg your pardon, Madam, " said Phoebe, with some dignity; "I gave himan answer. "

"Of course, you did, my dear. I am only afraid--sometimes, my dearPhoebe, you let your shyness get the better of you till you seem quitesilly--I am afraid, I say, that you would hardly speak with becomingwarmth. Still--"

"I think, Madam, I was as warm as you would have wished me, " saidPhoebe, drily. 

"Oh, of course, there is a limit, my dear, " said Mrs Latrobe, bridling. "Well, I am so glad that it is settled. 'Tis just what I was wishingfor you. "

"I fear, Madam, you misconceive me, " said Phoebe, looking up, "and 'tissettled the other way from what you wished. "

"Child, what can you mean?" asked Mrs Latrobe, with sudden sharpness. "You never can have refused such an excellent offer? What did you sayto Mr Welles?"

"I sent him away, and told him never to come near me again. " Phoebespoke with warmth enough now. 

"Phoebe, you must be a lunatic!" burst from her mother. "I could nothave believed you would be guilty of such supreme, unpardonable folly!"

"Sure, " said Phoebe, looking up, "you would never have had me marry aman whom I despised in my heart?"

"Despised! I protest, Phoebe, you are worse and worse. What do youmean by saying you despise Mr Welles? A man of excellent manners andfaultless taste, of good family, with an estate of three thousand ayear, and admirable prospects when his old uncle dies, who is nearlyseventy now--why, Phoebe, you must be a perfect fool! I am amazed atyou beyond words. "

There was a light in Phoebe's eyes which was beyond Mrs Latrobe'scomprehension. 

"Mother!" came from the girl's lips, with a soft intonation--"Fatherwould not have asked me to do that!"

"Really, my dear, if you expect that I am to rule myself by yourfather's notions, you expect a great deal too much. He was not a man ofthe world at all--"

"He was not!"

"Not in the least!--and he had not the faintest idea what would berequired of you when you came to your present position. Don't quotehim, I beg of you!--Well, really, Phoebe--I don't know what to do now. I wish I had known of it! Still I don't see, if he were determined tospeak to you, how I could have prevented you from making such a goose ofyourself. I do wish he had asked me! I should have accepted him atonce for you, and not given you the chance to refuse. What did you sayto him? Is it quite hopeless to try and win him back?"

"Quite, " said Phoebe, shortly. 

"But I want to know exactly what you said. "

"I told him I believed he wanted the estate, and not me; and that afterbehaving to my cousin as he did, he did not need to expect to get eitherit or me. "

"Phoebe! what preposterous folly!" said Mrs Latrobe. "Well, child, youare a fool--that's as plain as a pikestaff; but--"

"You're a fool!" came in a screech from the parrot's cage, followed by aburst of laughter. 

"But 'tis no use crying over spilt milk. If we have lost Mr Welles, wehave lost him; and we must try for some one else. Oh dear, how hot itis! Phoebe, I wonder when you will have any sense. I do beseech you, my dear, never to play the same game with anyone else. "

"I hope, Mother, " said Phoebe, gravely, "that I shall never haveoccasion. "

"What a lot of geese!" said the parrot. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

ENDS IN THE MAIDENS' LODGE. 

 "Mother, Mother, up in Heaven, Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me. "

 _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. 

"Before these young gentlewomen come, Rhoda, I want a word with you. "

"Yes, Madam. "

"I am sure, my dear, that you have too much wit to object to what I amabout to say. "

Rhoda had learned to dread this beginning, as it was generally theprelude to something disagreeable. But she was learning, also, tosubmit to disagreeable things. She only said, meekly, "Yes, Madam. "

"I suppose, my dear, you will have felt, like a maid of some parts andspirit as you are, that your dwelling any longer with me and Phoebe inthis house would not be proper. "

"Not be proper!" Rhoda's cheek blanched. She had never recognisedanything of the kind. Was she not only to lose her fortune, but to beturned out of her home? When would her calamities come to an end? "Notproper, Aunt Anne!--why not?"

This was not altogether an easy question to answer with any reason butthe real one, which last must not be told to Rhoda. Mrs Latrobe put onan air of injured astonishment. 

"My dear!--sure, you would not have me tell you that? No, no!--your owngood parts, I am certain, must have assured you. Now, Rhoda, I wish, sofar as is possible, to spare you all mortification. If you considerthat it would be easier to you to support your altered fortuneselsewhere, I am very willing to put myself to some trouble to obtain foryou a suitable service; or if, on the other hand, you have not thissensibility, then my Lady Betty's cottage is at your disposal when sheleaves it. The time that these young gentlewomen are here will beenough to think over the matter. When they go, I shall expect youranswer. "

Had Phoebe wished to tell out to Rhoda a recompense of distressequivalent to every annoyance which she had ever received from her, shecould have wished for no revenge superior to that of this moment. Forher, who had all her life, until lately, looked forward to dispensingher favours as the Queen of Cressingham, to be offered apartments in theMaidens' Lodge as an indigent gentlewoman, was in her eyes about thelast insult and degradation which could be inflicted on her. She wentwhite and red by turns; she took up the hem of her apron, and began toplait it in folds, with as much diligence as though it had been a matterof serious importance that there should be a given number of plaits toan inch, and all of the same width to a thread. Still she did notspeak. 

Mrs Latrobe required no words to inform her of what was passing inRhoda's mind. But she forestalled any words which might have come, byan affectation of misunderstanding her. 

"You see, my dear Rhoda, " she said, in a would-be affectionate tone, "Iam bound to do all I can for my only sister's only child. I would notdo you so much injury as to suppose you insensible to the kindness Ihave shown you. Indeed, if you had been something younger, and hadwished to learn any trade, I would willingly have paid the premium withyou. And 'tis no slight matter, I can assure you. Eighty pounds wouldhave been the least for which I could have put you with a milliner ormantua-maker, to learn her trade. But, however, 'tis no good talking ofthat, for you are a good nine years too old. So there is nothing beforeyou but service, without you marry, or to take my Lady Betty's house. Now, my dear, you may go and divert yourself; we will not talk of thismatter again till the young gentlewomen have ended their visit. "

And with a nod of dismissal, Mrs Latrobe rose and passed out of theroom, evidently considering her duties exceeded by her merits, andleaving Rhoda too stunned for words. 

Trade, indeed! If there could be a deeper depth than the Maidens'Lodge, it was trade, in Rhoda's eyes. Domestic service was incomparablymore respectable and honourable. As to matrimony, which her aunt had, as it were, flung into the scales as she passed, Rhoda's heart was stilltoo sore to think of it. 

An hour later brought Betty and Molly. 

"How do you, Rhoda, dear?" inquired the former, kindly. 

"Well!--got over it, Red Currants?" interrogated Molly. 

"Over what, I beg?" said Rhoda, rather haughtily. 

Molly sang her answer:--

 "`I lost my looks, I lost my health, I lost my wit--my love kept true; But one fine day I lost my wealth, And, presto! off my lover flew. '

"Isn't that about it, old Tadpole?"

"Your's hasn't, " retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy'scountry. 

"No; I haven't lost my wealth yet, " said Molly, gravely for her. 

"Who told you?" whispered Phoebe. 

"O Gemini! isn't that a good jest?" responded Molly, not at all in awhisper. "`Who told me?'--just as if three hundred and sixty-fivepeople hadn't told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs PhoebeLatrobe; told me how _you_ sent off Master Marcus with all the starchwashed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry--O Gemini!" and Mollyalmost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart topowder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted theguineas. --Oh how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see hisface! Phoebe, you're tip-top. "

"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something ofher old sharp manner. 

"Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer, " said Molly. "His heart was broken to bits by losing--your money; so he picked up thepieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing toyour cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature!instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what doesshe but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crushhis poor pasted heart into dust. Really--"

"Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in hiscorns?"

"If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which Ihave come on that subject, " replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner, "they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have pretty littleornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashedabout once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knowsthe difference. There isn't much, when 'tis nicely done. "

"Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?"

"Not one among 'em, present company excepted. "

"Oh, Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still laughing. "I thank you, in thename of present company, " added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in hereyes which was not mirth. 

"Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me, " saidMolly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don't you let itwaste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breakinghis for you, and I believe he has one. Take him--you'll never dobetter; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spokentruth this time. --Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguishedvisitors into the parlour?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you. "

"Madam, I thank you for the compliment, " and, with a low courtesy, Mollygave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe. 

"Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing hercousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, oncethe refectory of the Abbey. "Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?"

"Yes, " said Phoebe, and said no more. "And you refused him?"

"Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course. "

"Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he camewith his hat full of diamonds. "

"Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done. "

"Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens'Lodge?"

"She talked of it, " said Phoebe, pitifully. 

"I am not going there, " responded Rhoda, in a decisive tone. "I'll goto service first. Perhaps, I can come down so much, away from here; butto do it here, where I thought to be mistress!--no, I could not standthat, Phoebe. "

"I am sorry you have to stand any of it, dear Rhoda. "

"You are a good little thing, Fib; I could not bear you to pity me ifyou were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your--"

"Phoebe, where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at yournegligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and letRhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them solong. Do, my dear, remember your position!"

Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that shemight now and then be permitted to forget it. 

The four girls went upstairs together. 

"I say, Fib, did you ever shoot a waterfall in a coble?" inquired Molly. 

Phoebe felt safe in a negative. 

"Because I've heard folks say who have, that 'tis infinitely pleasant, when you come alive out of it; but then, you see, there's a little doubtabout that. "

"I don't understand you, Mrs Molly. "

"No, my dear, very like you don't. Well, you'll find out when you'veshot 'em. You're only a passenger; no blame to you if you don't comeout alive. "

"Who's rowing, Molly?" asked Rhoda. 

"Somebody that isn't used to handling the oars, " said Molly. "And ifshe don't get a hole stove in--Glad 'tis no concern of mine!"

"How does Gatty now?" asked Rhoda. 

"O she is very well, I thank you, " replied Betty. 

"Is she promised yet?"

"Dear, no, " said Betty, in a pitying tone. 

"Rank cruelty, only to think on it, " said Molly. "She'll just come in, as pat as vinegar to lettuce, to keep you company in the Maidens' Lodge, my beloved Rhoda. "

Rhoda's lip trembled slightly, but she asked, quietly enough--

"Which is the vinegar?"

Molly stood for a moment with her head on one side, contemplating Rhoda. 

"Been putting sugar to it, Fib, haven't you? Well, 'tis mighty goodstuff to cure a cough. "

"Phoebe, " said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, "I wishto speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours. "

Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation. 

"My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband. "

"Mother!"

"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonablehandsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yetbroke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, forhe hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him whilethese young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wishto give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early. "

Phoebe felt any reply impossible. 

"Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement. "

Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How wasthis tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak?had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!"went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right, " said Phoebe, plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plainbefore my face, " It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, therewould be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, andthat would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. Shecould only put the case into God's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah:"O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me. "

It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda saidsuddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that MrDerwent who was at Delawarr Court?"

"Yes, " said Phoebe, and said no more. 

"Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me. "

Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?

"I wonder if it was true, " said Rhoda. 

Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes. 

"I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked himvery well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_. "

"Yes, poor dear, " said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I mustfetch more wool. "

And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her--

"Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"

"Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot. 

Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, theservants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting thecandles. 

"Well, my dear, " asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "isyour decision taken?"

"It is, Madam, " readily answered her niece. 

"So much the better. What is it, my dear?"

"I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam. "

"You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: Ipromised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?"

"If you please, Madam. "

"Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I willbegin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in aweek or two. "

Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely, "Good-night, Madam. "

But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head, her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning, farewell look atthe family portraits, as she passed them on her way up the corridor. Atlength she paused before three which hung together. 

In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, takenat about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at abouteighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face. She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but passed on, andpaused for another minute before the pretty, sparkling face of AnneLatrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer timethan either, to the pale, regular, unexpressive features of CatherinePeveril. Phoebe waited for her to speak. It came at last. 

"I never knew her, " said Rhoda, in a choked voice. "I wonder if _they_know what is happening on earth. "

"I should not think so, " answered Phoebe, softly. 

"Well, --I hope not!"

The hand which held the lifted light came down, and Rhoda passed intoher own room, and at once knelt down to her prayers. Phoebe stoodirresolute, her heart beating like a hammer. An idea had occurred toher which, if it could be carried into effect, would help Rhoda out ofall her trouble. But in order to be so, it was necessary that sheherself must commit--in her own eyes--an act of unparalleled audacity. Could she do it? The minute seemed an hour. Phoebe heard her mother goupstairs, and shut her door. A rapid prayer went to God for wisdom. Her resolution grew stronger. She took up her candle, stole softlydownstairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumedletter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done. 

"Sir, --If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen. A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take. 

"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe. "

The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire. "And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's headwas bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and shelet her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took noteof the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knewthat Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on thataccount to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circumstances might haveshown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure goldof the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stoodnow. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happinessat the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind whichseeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give himleave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe washuman; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, overthat gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would nottarnish the gold. 

It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. Shewiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs andtapped at Betty's door. 

"There's that worriting Sue, " she heard Betty say inside; and then thedoor was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought'twas that Sukey, --she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you, my dear?"

"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty. "

Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected theseal. 

"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're onlyyoung, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for thishere letter?"

"'Tis not what you think, Betty, " said Phoebe with a smile on her palelips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for mycousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you willsend that letter. "

Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes. 

"I see, " said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind bat, MrsPhoebe. The letter shall go, my dear. Make your mind easy. "

Yet Betty did not see all there was to be seen. 

"Why, Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda, when she got back to the bedroom, "wherehave you been?"

"Downstairs. "

"What had you to go down for? You forgot something, I suppose. Butwhat is the matter with your eyes?"

"They burn a little to-night, dear, " said Phoebe, quietly. 

The days went on, and there was no reply to Phoebe's audacious note, andthere was a reply to Mrs Latrobe's situation-hunting. She announced toRhoda on the ninth morning at breakfast that she had heard of anexcellent place for her. Lady Kitty Mainwaring the mother of MollyDelawarr's future husband, was on the look-out for a "woman. " She hadthree daughters, the eldest of whom was the Kitty who had been atDelawarr Court. Rhoda would have to wait on these young ladies, as wellas their mother. It was a most eligible situation. Mrs Latrobe, onRhoda's behalf, had accepted it at once. 

Rhoda sat playing with her tea-spoon, and making careful efforts tobalance it on the edge of her cup. 

"Do they know who wants it?" she asked, in a husky voice. 

"Of course, my dear! You did not look I should make any secret of it, sure?"

Rhoda's colour grew deeper. It was evident that she was engaged in amost severe struggle with herself. She looked up at last. 

"Very good, Aunt Anne. I will go to Lady Kitty, " she said. 

"My dear, I accepted the place. Of course you will go, " returned MrsLatrobe, in a voice of some astonishment. 

Rhoda got out of the room at the earliest opportunity, and Phoebefollowed her as soon as she could. But she found her kneeling by herbed, and stole away again. Was chastening working the peaceable fruitof righteousness in Rhoda Peveril?

Phoebe wandered out into the park, and bent her steps towards the ruinsof the old church. She sat down at the foot of Saint Ursula's image, and tried to disentangle her bewildered thoughts. Had she made amistake in sending that letter, and did the Lord intend Rhoda to go toLady Kitty Mainwaring? Phoebe had been trying to lift her cousin out oftrouble. Was it God's plan to plunge Rhoda more deeply into it, inorder that she might learn her lesson the more thoroughly, and be themore truly happy afterwards? If so, Phoebe had made a stupid blunder. When would she learn that God did not need her bungling help? Yet, poorRhoda! How miserable she was likely to be! Phoebe buried her face inher hands, and did not see that some one had come in by a ruined window, and was standing close beside her on the grass. 

"Mrs Phoebe, I owe you thanks unutterable, " said a voice that Phoebeknew only too well. 

Phoebe sprang up. "Have you seen her, Mr Derwent?"

"I have seen no one but you, " said he, gravely. 

They walked up to the house together, but there Phoebe left him andsought refuge in her bed-chamber. 

"Phoebe, my dear, are you here?" said Mrs Latrobe, entering the roomhalf an hour later. "Child, did you not hear me call? I could notthink where you were, and I wished to have you come down. Why, onlythink!--all is changed about Rhoda, and she will not go to Lady Kitty. I am a little chagrined, I confess, on your account, my dear; however, it may be all for the best. 'Tis that same Mr Derwent I had heard of, and thought to obtain for you. Well! I am very pleased for Rhoda; 'tisquite as good, or better, than any thing she could expect; and I shalleasily meet with something else for you. So now, my dear Phoebe, whenshe is married, and all settled--for of course, now, I shall let herstay till she marries--then, child, the coast will be clear for you. Bythe way, you did not care any thing for him, I suppose?--and if you had, you would soon have got over it--all good girls do. Fetch me myknotting, Phoebe--'tis above in my chamber; or, if you meet Rhoda, sendher. "

It was a subject of congratulation to Phoebe that one of Mrs Latrobe'speculiarities was to ask questions, and assume, without waiting for it, that the answer was according to her wishes. So she escaped a reply. 

But there was one thing yet for Phoebe to bear, even worse than this. 

"Phoebe, dear, dear Phoebe! I am so happy!" and Rhoda twined her armsround her cousin, and hid her bright face on Phoebe's shoulder. "Hesays he has loved me ever since we were at Delawarr. And I think I musthave loved him, just a little bit, without knowing it, or I could notlove him so much all at once now. I was trying very hard to make up mymind to Lady Kitty's service--that seemed to be what God had ordered forme; and I did ask Him, Phoebe, to give me patience, and make me willingto do His will. And only think--all the while He was preparing this forme! And I don't think, Phoebe, I should have cared for that--you knowwhat I mean--but for you--the patient, loving way you bore with me; andI haven't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare saythe troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he shouldnot have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I oweyou all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!"

Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night. 

Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladieswas a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governessand nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreadingtree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness tothe children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages ofthe Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day. In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbotand Mrs Clarissa Vane. 

Mrs Marcella's health had somewhat improved of late, but herdisposition had not sustained a corresponding change. She was holdingforth now to her two listeners on matters public and private, to thegreat satisfaction of Mrs Clarissa, but not altogether to that of MrsEleanor. 

"Well, so far as such a poor creature as I am can take any pleasure inany thing, I am glad to see Mrs Derwent back at White-Ladies. MrsPhoebe would never have kept up the place properly. She hasn't her poormother's spirit and working power--not a bit. The place would just havegone to wreck if she had remained mistress there; and I cannot but thinkshe was sensible of it. "

"Well, for my part, " put in Mrs Clarissa, "I feel absolutely certainsomething must have come to light about Madam's will, you know--whichpositively obliged Mrs Phoebe to give up everything to Madam Derwent. 'Tis monstrous to suppose that she would have done any such thingwithout being obliged. I feel as sure as if I had _seen_ it. "

"O my dear!" came in a gently deprecating tone from Mrs Eleanor. 

"Oh, I am positive!" repeated Mrs Clarissa, whose mind possessed theodd power of forcing conviction on itself by simple familiarity with anidea. "Everything discovers so many symptoms of it. I cannot but beinfinitely certain. Down, Pug, down!" as Cupid's successor, which wasnot a dog, but a very small monkey, endeavoured to jump into her lap. 

"Well, till I know the truth is otherwise, I shall give Mrs Phoebecredit for all, " observed Mrs Eleanor. 

"Indeed, I apprehend Clarissa has guessed rightly, " said Mrs Marcella, fanning herself. "'Tis so unlikely, you know, for any one to do such athing as this, without it were either an obligation or a trick to winpraise. And I can't think _that_, --'tis too much. "

"Nay, but surely there is some love and generosity left in the world, "urged Mrs Eleanor. 

"Oh, if you had had my experience, my dear, " returned Mrs Marcella, working her fan more vigorously, "you would know there were no suchthings to be looked for in _this_ world. I've looked for gratitude, Ican assure you, till I am tired. "

"Gratitude for what?" inquired Mrs Darcy, rather pertinently. 

"Oh, for all the things one does for people, you know. They are neverthankful for them--not one bit. "

Mrs Darcy felt and looked rather puzzled. During the fifty years oftheir acquaintance, she never could remember to have seen MarcellaTalbot do one disinterested kindness to any mortal being. 

"They take all you give them, " pursued the last-named lady, "and thenthey just go and slander you behind your back. Oh, 'tis a miserableworld, this!--full of malice, envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness, asthe Prayer-Book says. "

"The Prayer-Book does not exactly say that, I think, " suggested MrsEleanor; "it asks that we ourselves may be preserved from such evilpassions. "

"I am sure I wish people were preserved from them!" ejaculated MrsClarissa. "The uncharitableness, and misunderstanding, and unkind wordsthat people will allow themselves to use! 'Tis perfectly heartrendingto hear. "

"Especially when one hears it of one's self, " responded Mrs Eleanor alittle drily; adding, for she wished to give a turn to the conversation, "Did you hear the news Dr Saunders was telling yesterday? The Czar ofMuscovy offers to treat with King George, but as Elector of Hanoveronly. "

"What, he has come thus far, has he?" replied Mrs Marcella. "Why, 'tisbut five or six years since he was ready to marry his daughter to thePretender, could they but have come to terms. Sure, King George willnever accept of such a thing as that?"

"I should think not, indeed!" added Mrs Clarissa. "Well, did he want abit of sugar, then?"

Pug held out his paw, and very decidedly intimated that he did. 

"Mrs Leighton wants Pug; I shall give him to her, " observed hismistress. "'Tis not quite so modish to keep monkeys as it was: I shallhave a squirrel. "

"A bit more sugar?" asked Mrs Eleanor, addressing the monkey. "PoorPug!"

Next door but one, in the cottage formerly occupied by Lady BettyMorehurst, were also seated three ladies at tea. Presiding at thetable, in mourning dress, sat our old friend Phoebe. There was anexpression of placid content upon her lips, and a peaceful light in hereyes, which showed that whatever else she might be, she was not unhappy. On her left sat Mrs Jane Talbot, a little older looking, a little moresharp and angular; and on the right, apparently unchanged beyond aslight increase of infirmity, little Mrs Dorothy Jennings. 

"What a pure snug [nice] room have you here!" said Mrs Jane, lookinground. 

"'Tis very pleasant, " said Phoebe, "and just what I like. "

"Now, my dear, do you really mean to say you like this--better thanWhite-Ladies?"

"Indeed I do, Mrs Jane. It may seem a strange thing to you, but Icould never feel at home at the Abbey. It all seemed too big and grandfor a little thing like me. "

"Well! I don't know, " responded Mrs Jane, in that tone which peopleuse when they make that assertion as the prelude to the declaration of avery decisive opinion, --"_I_ don't know, but I reckon there's a prettydeal about you that's big and grand, my dear; and I'm mightily mistakenif Mr Derwent and Mrs Rhoda don't think the same. "

"My dear Jane!" said Mrs Dorothy, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. "Mr and Madam Derwent Furnival, if you please. "

"Oh, deary me!" ejaculated Mrs Jane. "Leave that stuff to you. Shecan call herself Madam Peveril-Plantagenet, if she likes. Make nodifference to me. Mrs Rhoda she was, and Mrs Rhoda I shall call herto the end of the chapter. Don't mean any disrespect, you know--quitethe contrary. Well, I'm sure I'm very glad to see her at White-Ladies;but, Mrs Phoebe, if it could have been managed, I should have liked youtoo. "

"Thank you, Mrs Jane, but you see it couldn't. "

"Well, I don't know. There was no need for you to come down to theMaidens' Lodge, without you liked. Couldn't you have kept rooms in theAbbey for yourself, and still have given all to your cousin?"

"I'd rather have this, " said Phoebe, with a smile. "I am moreindependent, you see; and I have kept what my grandmother meant me tohave, so that, please God, I trust I shall never want, and can stillhelp my friends when they need it. I can walk in the park, and enjoythe gardens, just as well as ever; and Rhoda will be glad to see me, Iknow, any time when I want a chat with her. "

"I should think so, indeed!" cried Mrs Jane. "Most thankless woman inthe world if she wasn't. "

"Oh, don't say that! You know I could not have done anything else, knowing what Madam intended, when things came to me. "

"You did the right thing, dear child, " said Mrs Dorothy, quietly, "asGod's children should. He knew when to put the power in your hands. IfMadam Derwent had come to White-Ladies ten years ago, she wouldn't havemade as good use of it as she will now. She was not ready for it. AndI'm mistaken if you are not happier, Phoebe, in the Maidens' Lodge, thanyou ever would have been if you had kept White-Ladies. "

"I am sure of that, " said Phoebe. "Well, but she didn't need have comedown thus far!" reiterated Mrs Jane. 

"She is the servant of One who came down very far, dear Jane, " gentlyanswered Mrs Dorothy, "that we through His poverty might be rich. "

"Well, it looks like it, " replied Mrs Jane, with a little tell-talehuskiness in her voice. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, do you remember mysaying, when Madam died, to you and Mrs Rhoda, that I'd tell you tenyears after, which I was sorry for?" Phoebe smiled an affirmative. "Well, I'm not over sorry for either of you; but, at any rate, not for_you_. "

"The light has come back to thine eyes; dear child, and the peace, " saidold Mrs Dorothy. "Ah, folks don't always know what is the hardest togive up. "

And Phoebe, looking up with startled eyes, saw that Mrs Dorothy hadguessed her secret. She went to the fire for fresh water from thekettle. Her face was as calm as usual when she returned. Softly shesaid, --

 "`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger. '"

THE END.