prayer, and a sermon which might have been fitly prefaced by the announcement, “Let us talk to the praise and glory of Charles the First!” It was over at last. The gentlemen put down their eye-glasses, the ladies yawned and furled their fans; there was a great deal of bowing, and courtesying, and complimenting—Mr William informing Mrs Betty that the sun had come out solely to do her honour, and Mrs Betty retorting with a delicate blow from her fan, and, “What a mad fellow are you!” At last these also were over; and the ladies from Cressingham remounted the family coach, nearly in the same order as they came—the variation being that Phoebe found herself seated opposite Mrs Clarissa Vane.

“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 such exact imitation of her friend’s affected tones as sorely to try Phoebe’s gravity.

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 of his tail. But when Phoebe attempted to stroke him, to the surprise of all parties, instead of snapping at her, as he was expected to do, Cupid only wagged rather more decidedly; and when Phoebe proceeded to rub his head and ears, he actually gave her, not a bite of resentment, but a lick 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 Mrs Clarissa’s poor letter H, as well as R, proceeded either from ignorance or vulgarity—except so far as vulgarity lies in blindly following fashion. Mrs Clarissa’s only mistake was that, like most country ladies, she was rather behind the age. The dropping of H and other letters 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 a better example than so.”

“I’ll not bite Clarissa, I thank you,” was Mrs Jane’s rather spiteful answer. “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; while Cupid’s mistress remained untouched by them, being one of those persons who affect not to hear anything to which they do not choose to respond.

“Well, Rhoda, child,” said Lady Betty, as the coach neared home, “’tis no good, I guess, to bid you drink tea on a fast-day?”

“Oh, but I am coming, my Lady Betty,” answered Rhoda, briskly. “I mean to drink a dish with every one of you.”

“I shan’t give you anything to eat,” interpolated Mrs Jane. “Never do to 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 me something, 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 nothing except boiled potatoes and bread and butter—than Rhoda pounced on Phoebe, and somewhat authoritatively bade her come upstairs. Madam had composed herself in her easy chair, with the “Eikon Basilike” in her hand.

“Will Madam not be lonely?” asked Phoebe, timidly, as she followed Rhoda.

“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 but she went to sleep directly.”

Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on a chair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in red sheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe’s notice with a rather grandiloquent 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. They never 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 like that; but she is dead. The others are just a pair of spiteful old cats.”

Phoebe’s look of astonishment deepened.

“They must be very different from my aunt, then. I have only one, but I would 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 amiable response. “But now listen, Phoebe. I am going to read you a piece of my poetry. You see, our old church is dedicated to Saint Ursula; and there is an image in the church, which they say is Saint Ursula—it has such a charming face! Madam doesn’t think ’tis charming, but I do. So you 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 she supposed—

“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, really for admiration. If Phoebe had said exactly what she thought, it would have been that her ear was cruelly outraged: but Phoebe was not accustomed to the sharp speeches which passed for wit with Rhoda. She fell back on a matter of fact.

“Does history say nothing more about her?”

“Of course it does! It says the Vandals martyred her. Phoebe, you can’t criticise poetry as if it were prose.”

It struck Phoebe that Rhoda’s poetry was very like prose; but she said meekly, “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’ll try 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