“Which is the vinegar?”
Molly stood for a moment with her head on one side, contemplating Rhoda.
“Been putting sugar to it, Fib, haven’t you? Well, ’tis mighty good stuff to cure a cough.”
“Phoebe,” said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, “I wish to speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours.”
Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.
“My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband.”
“Mother!”
“Pray, why not, my dear? ’Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early.”
Phoebe felt any reply impossible.
“Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement.”