“She fancies so,” said Rhoda, laughing. “I never knew her try yet but she went to sleep directly.”
Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on a chair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in red sheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe’s notice with a rather grandiloquent air.
“Now, Phoebe! There’s my Book of Poems!”
Phoebe opened the book, and her eye fell on a few lines of faint, delicate writing, on the fly-leaf.
“To Rhoda Peveril, with her Aunt Margaret’s love.”
“Oh, you have an aunt!” said Phoebe.
“I have two somewhere,” said Rhoda. “They are good for nothing. They never give me anything.”
Phoebe looked up with a rather surprised air. “They seem to do, sometimes,” she observed, pointing to the book.
“Well, that one did,” answered Rhoda; “one or two little things like that; but she is dead. The others are just a pair of spiteful old cats.”
Phoebe’s look of astonishment deepened.