“They must be very different from my aunt, then. I have only one, but I would not call her names for the world. She loves me, and I love her.”
“Why, what are aunts good for but to be called names?” was the amiable response. “But now listen, Phoebe. I am going to read you a piece of my poetry. You see, our old church is dedicated to Saint Ursula; and there is an image in the church, which they say is Saint Ursula—it has such a charming face! Madam doesn’t think ’tis charming, but I do. So you see, this poem is to that image.”
Phoebe looked rather puzzled, but did not answer.
“Now, I would have you criticise, Phoebe,” said Rhoda, condescendingly, using a word she had picked up from one of her grandfather’s books.
“I don’t know what that is,” said Phoebe.
“Well, it means, if you hear anything you don’t like, say so.”
“Very well,” replied Phoebe, quietly.
And Rhoda began to read, with the style of a rhetorician—as she supposed—
“Step softly, nearer as ye tread
To this shrine of the royal dead!
This Abbey’s hallowed unto one,
Daughter of Britain’s ancient throne,—
History names her one sole thing,
The daughter of a British King.”
Rhoda paused, and looked at her cousin—ostensibly for criticism, really for admiration. If Phoebe had said exactly what she thought, it would have been that her ear was cruelly outraged: but Phoebe was not accustomed to the sharp speeches which passed for wit with Rhoda. She fell back on a matter of fact.