Chapter Eleven.
Phoebe in a new character.
“We mend broken china, torn lace we repair;
But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair.”
“Did she ever love anybody?” came in a low voice from Rhoda, when Mrs Latrobe had withdrawn, “Oh, I don’t know!” sobbed Phoebe, who was crying violently, and might have seemed to a surface observer the more unhappy of the two.
“Don’t weep so,” said Rhoda. “I’m sure you don’t need. Aunt Anne will never be angry long—she does not care enough about anything to keep it up.”
“Oh, it is not for myself, Rhoda—poor Rhoda!”
“For me? Surely not, Phoebe. I have never been so good to you as to warrant that.”
“I don’t know whether you have been good to me or you have not, Cousin; but I am so sorry for you!”
Phoebe was kneeling beside the bed. Rhoda came over to her, and kissed her forehead, and said—what was very much for Rhoda to say—“I scarce think I deserve you should weep for me, Phoebe.”
“But I can’t help it!” said Phoebe.