“Well!” said the lady of the manor, rising, “you will carry me to my chamber, child,” addressing Rhoda. “You can stay here, Phoebe. Your cousin will wait on me.”
It was something new for Rhoda to wait on anyone. She swallowed her pride with the best grace she could, and turned to open the door.
“I suppose you have had the best room made ready for me?” inquired Mrs Latrobe, as she passed out.
“Madam’s chamber,” replied Rhoda.
“Oh, but—not the one in which she died?”
“Yes,” answered Rhoda; adding, after a momentary struggle with herself, “Madam.”
“Oh, but that will never do!” said Mrs Latrobe, hastily. “I couldn’t sleep there! A room in which someone died scarce a month ago! Where is my woman? Call her. I must have that changed.”
Rhoda summoned Betty, who came, courtesying. Her mistress was too much preoccupied in mind to notice the civility.
“Why, what could you all be thinking of, to put me in this chamber? I must have another. This is the best, I know; but I cannot think of sleeping here. Show me the next best—that long one in the south wing.”
“That is the young gentlewomen’s chamber, Madam,” objected Betty.