Rhoda laughed, and ran off. Mrs Dorothy let Phoebe have her cry out for a short time. She moved softly about, putting things in order, and then 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's grave; but, bethink thee, 'tis no long way from himself, if he is gone to 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.

n.o.body 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 all looks 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. But His especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet have believed. 'Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly father would have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenly Father?"

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 if it were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. "Only dear father and 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 you please."

Mrs Dorothy let the point pa.s.s, making a note of it in her own mind.

She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, "Dear father" and "poor mother"; yet it 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 pour out thine heart to some human creature, come across the Park, and tell thy troubles to me. Thou art but a young traveller; and such mostly long for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorry for 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 with each one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I'm ready, Mrs Dorothy; go on!"

"What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?"

"Oh, you had better begin at the beginning," said Rhoda. "I don't think I ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin with the Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your whole history."

Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully.

"It won't do me any harm," added Rhoda; "and I can't see why you should care. You're nearly seventy, aren't you?"

Phoebe's shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to mean that she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resent the question.

"Yes, my dear, I am over seventy," she said, quietly. "And I don't know that it would do you any harm. You have to face the world, too, one of these days. Please G.o.d, you may have a more guarded entrance into it than 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 you shall hear my story. But it will be a long one."

"So much the better, if 'tis agreeable," answered Rhoda. "I don't care for 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 she could. "I say, Phoebe, change cushions with me; I'm sure you've got the softer."

And Phoebe obeyed in an instant.

CHAPTER THREE.

LITTLE MRS. DOROTHY.

"And the thousands come and go All along the crowded street; But they give no ear to the things we know, And they pa.s.s with careless feet.

For some hearts are hard with gold, And some are crushed in the throng, And some with the pleasures of life are cold-- How long, O Lord, how long!"

"If I am to begin at the beginning, my dears," said little Mrs Dorothy, "I must tell you that I was born in a farmhouse, about a mile from Saint Albans, on the last day of the year of our Lord 1641; that my father was the Reverend William Jennings, brother to Sir Edward; and that my mother was Mrs Frances, daughter to Sir Jeremy Charlton."

"Whatever made your father take up with a parson's life?" said Rhoda.

"I wouldn't be one for an ap.r.o.n full of money! Surely he was married first, wasn't he?"

"He was married first," answered Mrs Dorothy; "and both his father and my mother's kindred took it extreme ill that he should propose such views to himself,--the rather because he was of an easy fortune, his grandmother having left him some money."

"Would I have been a parson!" exclaimed Rhoda. "I'm too fond of jellies and conserves--n.o.body better."

"Well, my dear Mrs Rhoda, if you will have me say what I think,"

resumed Mrs Dorothy.

"You can if you like," interjected Rhoda.

"It does seem to me, and hath ever done so, that the common custom amongst us, which will have the chaplain to rise and withdraw when dessert is served, must be a relique of barbarous times."

Dessert at that time included pies, puddings, and jellies.

"O Mrs Dorothy! you have the drollest notions!"

And Rhoda went off in a long peal of laughter. The idea of any other arrangement struck her as very comical indeed.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs Dorothy, "I hope some day to see it otherwise."

"Oh, how droll it would be!" said Rhoda. "But go on, please, Mrs Dolly."

"Through those troublous times that followed on my birth," resumed the old lady, "I was left for better safety with the farmer at whose house I was born; for my father had shortly after been made parson of a church in London, and 'twas not thought well that so young a child as I then was should be bred up in all the city tumults. My foster-father's name was Lawrence Ingham; and he and his good wife were as father and mother to me."