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.