“Well—yes—I suppose so,” doubtfully admitted Phoebe. “But, you see, poor mother—I had better not talk about it, Mrs Dorothy, if you please.”
Mrs Dorothy let the point pass, making a note of it in her own mind. She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, “Dear father” and “poor mother”; yet it was the father who was dead, and the mother was living. The terms, thought Mrs Dorothy, must have some reference to character.
“Little Phoebe,” she said, “if it should comfort thee betimes to pour out thine heart to some human creature, come across the Park, and tell thy troubles to me. Thou art but a young traveller; and such mostly long for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorry for thee, while the Lord can help thee. He is the best to trust, child.”
“Yes, I know,” whispered Phoebe. “You are so good, Mrs Dorothy!”
“Now for the story!” said Rhoda, dancing into the little parlour. “You’ve had oceans of time to dry your eyes. I have been to Mrs Jane, and Mrs Clarissa, and my Lady Betty; and I’ve had a dish of tea with each one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I’m ready, Mrs Dorothy; go on!”
“What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?”
“Oh, you had better begin at the beginning,” said Rhoda. “I don’t think I ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin with the Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your whole history.”
Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully.
“It won’t do me any harm,” added Rhoda; “and I can’t see why you should care. You’re nearly seventy, aren’t you?”
Phoebe’s shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to mean that she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resent the question.