"I am sure, my dear, that you have too much sense to object to what I am about to say." Rhoda had learned to dread this beginning, as it generally was the prelude to something disagreeable. But she was learning, also, to submit to disagreeable things. She only said, meekly, "Yes, Madam." "I suppose, my dear, you will have felt, like a maid of some parts and spirit as you are, that your dwelling any longer with me and Phoebe in this house would not be proper." "Not be proper!" Rhoda's cheek blanched. She had never recognised any thing of the kind. Was she not only to lose her fortune, but to be turned out of her home? When would her misfortunes come to an end? "Not proper, Aunt Anne !-why not?" This was not altogether an easy question to answer with any reason but the real one, which last must not be told to Rhoda. Mrs. Latrobe put on an air of injured astonishment. "My dear!-sure, you would not have me tell you that? No, no!-your own good parts, I am certain, must have assured you. VOL. IX.-NO. XII. Now, Rhoda, I wish, so far as is possible, to spare you all mortification. If you consider that it would be easier to you to support your altered fortunes elsewhere, I am very willing to put myself to some trouble to obtain for you a suitable service; or if, on the other hand, you have not this sensibility, then my Lady Betty's cottage is at your disposal when she leaves it. The time that these young gentlewomen are here will be enough to think over the matter. When they go, I shall expect your answer." Had Phoebe wished to tell out to Rhoda a recompence of distress equivalent to every annoyance which she had ever received from her, she could have wished for no revengesuperior to that of this moment. For her, who had all her life, until lately, looked forward to dispensing her favours as the queen of Cressingham, to be offered apartments in the Maidens' Lodge as an indigent gentlewoman, was in her eyes about the last insult and degradation which could be inflicted on her. She went white and red by turns; she took up the hem of her apron, and began to plait it in folds, with as much diligence as though it had been a matter of serious importance that there should be a given number of plaits to an inch, and all of the same width to a thread. Still she did not speak. Mrs. Latrobe required no words to inform her of what was passing in Rhoda's mind. But she forestalled any words which might have come, by an affectation of misunderstanding her. "You see, my dear Rhoda," she said, in a would-be affectionate tone, "I am bound to do all I can for my only sister's only child. Indeed, if you had been something younger, Ꮓ Ꮓ and had wished to learn any trade, I would willingly have paid the premium with you. And 'tis no slight matter, I can assure you. Eighty pounds would have been the least for which I could have put you with a milliner or mantua-maker, to learn her trade. But however, 'tis no good talking of that, for you are a good nine years too old. So there is nothing before you 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 this matter again till the young gentlewomen have ended their visit." And with a nod of dismissal, Mrs. Latrobe rose, and passed out of the room, leaving 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 incomparably more respectable and honourable. As to matrimony, which her aunt had, as it were, flung into the scales as she passed, Rhoda's heart was still too 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; And, presto! off my lover flew.' "Isn't that about it, old Tadpole ? " "Yours hasn't," retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy's country. Marcus with all the starch washed out of him-got-up Marcus in the rough dry!"and Molly almost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart to powder himself since. And you told him to his face he wanted the guineas-oh, how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see his face! Phoebe, you're tiptop." "What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something of her old sharp manner. "Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer," said Molly. "His heart was smashed by losing your money; so he picked up the pieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing to your cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature! instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what does she but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crush his poor pasted heart into dust. Really "Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in his corns ?" come "If you wish to know, Mrs. Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which I have on that subject," replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner, "they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have neat little ornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashed about once in six months: then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knows the difference. There isn't much, when 'tis done." "Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?" "Not one among 'em, present company excepted." "O Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still "No; I haven't lost my wealth yet," said laughing. Molly, gravely for her. "Who told you?" whispered Phoebe. "Oh! isn't that a good jest?" responded Molly, not at all in a whisper. "Who told me?'-just as if three hundred and sixty-five people hadn't told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs. Phoebe Latrobe; told me how you sent off Master "I thank you, in the name of present company," added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her eyes which was not mirth. "Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me," said Molly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!), don't you let it waste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breaking his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him-you'll never do better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spoken truth this time. Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguished visitors into the parlour ? " "Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you." "Madam, I thank you for the compli ment:" and, with a low courtesy, Molly gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs. Latrobe. "Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her cousin aside. into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, once the 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 came with 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 go to service first. Perhaps I can come down so much, away from here; but to do it here, where I thought to be mistress!-no, I could not stand that, 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 if you were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your" "Phoebe! where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at your negligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and let Rhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them so long. Do, my dear, remember your position." Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that she might 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 doubt about that." "I don't understand you, Mrs. Molly." "No, my dear, very like you don't. Well, you'll find out when you've shot 'em. You're only a passenger; no blame to you if you don't come out alive." "Who's rowing, Molly ?" asked Rhoda. "Somebody that isn't used to handling the oars," said Molly. "And if she don't get a hole stove in-glad 'tis no concern of mine." "How does Gatty now?" asked Rhoda. "Oh, 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 good stuff to cure a cough." "Phoebe," said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, "I wish to 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." "O Mother!" "Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonably handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer: for he 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 while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early." Phoebe felt any reply impossible. 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, the servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was light "Good night, my dear. I am sure you ing the candles. will like Mr. Derwent." Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak? had she any right 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 plain before my face." It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr. Derwent, and that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She could 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 when, a few days later, Rhoda said suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone,— "Do you remember that Mr. Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?” "Well, my dear," asked Mrs. Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "is your decision taken ?" "It is, Madam," readily answered her niece. What is it, my "So much the better. dear ?" "I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam." "You would!" showed surprise. you your choice. pose ?" Mrs. Latrobe's tone "Very well: I promised As lady's woman, I sup "If y It shall be as you Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely, “Goodnight, Madam." But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head, her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning farewell look at the family portraits, as she passed them on her way up the corridor. At length she paused before three which Phoebe was silent. Would the actual hung together. question come? "I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda. Still Phœbe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes. "I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him very well. And-I want somebody to care for me." In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, taken at about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at about eighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face. She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but passed on, and paused for another minute before the pretty sparkling face of Anne Latrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer time than |