“She doesn’t care for any sort, I’m sure,” said Rhoda.
“What say you to this heavy charge, Phoebe?” inquired little Mrs Dorothy, with a cheery smile.
“I like some poetry,” replied Phoebe, bashfully.
“What kind?” blurted out Rhoda, apparently rather affronted.
Phoebe coloured, and hesitated. “I like the old hymns the Huguenots used to sing,” she said, “such us dear father taught me.”
“Hymns aren’t poetry!” said Rhoda, contemptuously.
“That is true enough of some hymns, child,” answered Mrs Dorothy. “But, Phoebe, my dear, will you let us hear one of your hymns?”
“They are in French,” whispered Phoebe.
“They will do for me in French, my dear,” replied Mrs Dorothy.
Rhoda stared in manifest astonishment. Phoebe struggled for a moment with her natural shyness, and then she began:—