‘It was one of the reasons I wished to see you. I thought you might like to hear of them.’
‘You saw them!’
‘Miss Charteris called on us at Nice. She—oh, Lucy! you will be surprised—she is a Plymouth sister!’
‘Rashe!—old Rashe! We reverse the old transformation, butterflies into grubs!’ cried Lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter. ‘Tell me how the wonder came about.’
‘I know little about it,’ said Phœbe. ‘Miss Charlecote thought most likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself when she was craving for some such help.’
‘Did Honor make such a liberal remark? There, I am sorry I said it; but let me hear of dear old Rashe. Has it made her very grim?’
‘You know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look gaunt and haggard; but still somehow we liked her better than ever before; and she is so very good and charitable.’
‘Ha! Nice is a grand place for colporteurs and tracts. She would be a shining specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old Rashe must have.’
‘Not only in that line,’ said Phœbe, suppressing a smile at the truth of the surmise, ‘but she is all kindness to sick English—’
‘She tried to convert you all!—confess it. Rashe converting dear old Honor! Oh! of all comical conjunctions!’