“And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brother or sister,” pursued Rhoda.
“Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!” said Phoebe, looking at Rhoda with deep compassion.
“Love! Oh, I don’t know that I want it,” said Rhoda lightly. “How is Aunt Anne, and where is she?”
“Mother?” Phoebe’s voice shook again. “She is going to live with a gentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone.”
“Well, you know,” was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not at all neatly put in order, “you’ll have to wear a black gown to-morrow. It is King Charles.”
“Yes, I know,” said Phoebe.
“Was your father a Dissenter?” queried Rhoda.
“No,” said Phoebe, looking rather surprised.
“Because I can tell you, Madam hates Dissenters,” said Rhoda. “She would as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn’t you come in your black gown?”
“It is my best,” answered Phoebe. “I cannot afford to spoil it.”