“Well, blue does become me,” answered Rhoda, contemplating herself in the glass. “But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it should be blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? I say!”—and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe—“what does Madam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twice while we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can it mean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?”
“I am sure I don’t know, Cousin,” said Phoebe.
“I shouldn’t wonder if she is. I dare say she’ll leave you one or two hundred pounds,” said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. “Really, I wish she would. You’re a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims.”
“Thank you, Cousin,” said Phoebe, meekly.
And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other.
The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe. Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears.
“Rhoda!—did you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what?” demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice.
“I fancied I heard a bell,” said Phoebe, trying to listen.
“Oh, nonsense!” answered Rhoda, rather more awake. “Go to sleep. You’ve been dreaming.”