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 letter from Mrs Latrobe. She wrote in a most grateful strain; she was evidently even more surprised than pleased with the offer for Phoebe. There was a reference of penitent love to her father; a promise that Phoebe should be at Cressingham on or as near as possible to the twenty-ninth of January; and warm thanks for her mother’s undeserved kindness, more especially for the consideration which had prompted the promise that Phoebe should be met at Tewkesbury, instead of being left to find her way alone in the dark through the two miles which lay between that town and Cressingham.

So, on the afternoon of that twenty-ninth of January, an hour after the man 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 bombazine petticoat was surmounted by a black silk gown adorned with flowers in raised embroidery, and the train of the gown was pulled through the pocket-hole of the petticoat. At that time, ladies of all ages wore their dresses low and square at the neck, edged with a tucker of nett or lace; the sleeves ended at the elbows with a little white ruffle of similar material to the tucker. In London, the low head-dress was coming into fashion; but country ladies still wore the high commode, a superb erection of lace and muslin, from one to three feet in height. Long black silk mittens were drawn up to meet the sleeves. The shoes reached nearly to the ankles, and were finished with large silver buckles.

Rhoda was much smarter. She wore a cotton gown—for when all cotton gowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles—of an involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red. Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode was brightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-buckles rivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda’s figure was good, but her face was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neither intellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also did Madam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it would have been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tinge of 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 of her own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself by other girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplished young person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, and such a pleasure to receive—with a becoming deprecation which meant nothing—the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dipped into a score or two of her grandfather’s books, had picked up sundry fine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, or what would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of the delightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe.

So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madam ring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trotted past the window, until Sukey, one of Madam’s maids, came in answer to the bell, and courtesying, said, “An it please you, Madam, Mrs Phoebe Latrobe.”

Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item which she 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 point was that the expression of Phoebe’s face was remarkably sweet; the third was that Phoebe’s dress was particularly shabby. It was a brown stuff, worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any of the flounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain white linen apron—aprons were then worn both in and out of doors—and Phoebe’s walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse, and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. The manner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void of self-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. She courtesied, first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stood waiting within the door till she was called forward.

“Come hither, child!” said Madam.

Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam put two fingers under Phoebe’s chin, and lifting up the young face, studied it intently. What she saw there seemed to please her.

“You’ll do, child,” she said, letting Phoebe go. “Be a good maid, and obedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose your hood. 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, no one knew it but herself.

“Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber,” said Madam, when the new-comer had finished her tea. “I see, child, your new clothes had better 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 pretty room, low but comfortable, fitted with a large bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a dressing-table. The two girls were to occupy it together. And here Rhoda’s tongue, always restrained in her grandmother’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 of Phoebe.

“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 was thirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!”

Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if her thoughts were too much for her.

“And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brother or sister,” pursued Rhoda.

“Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!” said Phoebe, looking at Rhoda with deep compassion.

“Love! Oh, I don’t know that I want it,” said Rhoda lightly. “How is Aunt Anne, and where is she?”

“Mother?” Phoebe’s voice shook again. “She is going to live with a gentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone.”

“Well, you know,” was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not at all neatly put