The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee

by Emily Sarah Holt

  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 theirfa
ns, 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 recoveredher
self 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.