"Why, you don't mean to say he was _proud_ of being a Frenchman?" cried Rhoda, in amazement.

"I think he was, if he was proud of anything," answered Phoebe. "He loved France very dearly. He thought it the grandest country in the world."

And Phoebe's voice trembled a little. Evidently her father was in her eyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred.

"But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn't!" cried Rhoda, to whom such an idea seemed an impossibility.

"He was fond of England, too," said Phoebe. "He said she had sheltered us when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be very thankful 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 the gate 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 little tea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing on the 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 they don'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 out the tea. "Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to bread and b.u.t.ter."

Rhoda obeyed, and did not pa.s.s 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 of sense."

"Indeed, child," quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe coloured painfully. "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 fun about her mouth. "Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousin hath 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 Mrs Dorothy, 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 Huguenots used 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 moment with 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 G.o.d is my Defence."

But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush of a.s.sociations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, and covered 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 a day, 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 I used to sing it--to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poor mother. And they are all gone now!"

"Oh, don't bother!" said Rhoda. "My papa's dead, and my mamma too; but you'll not see me crying over it."

Rhoda p.r.o.nounced the words "Pappa," and "Mamma," as is done in America to 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, springing up and drinking off her tea, "you'll give me the spleen. I hate to be hipped. I shall be off to Mrs Jane. Come along!"

"Go yourself, Mrs Rhoda, my dear, and leave your cousin to recover, if tears 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 my life."

"Ah, child!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if she meant to indicate that there had been more of her life than could be seen from Rhoda's standing-point. "But you'll do well to take an old woman's counsel, my dear. Run off to Mrs Jane, and divert yourself half an hour; and when you return, your cousin will have pa.s.sed her trouble, and I will have a Story to tell you both. I know you like stories."

"Come, I'll go, for a story when I came back," said Rhoda; "but I meant to take Phoebe. Can't she wipe her eyes and come?"

"Then I shall not tell you a story," responded Mrs Dorothy.