“Have you?” innocently demanded Phoebe, in an interested tone.
“Well, I should think so! More than ever you had.”
“What were they?” said Phoebe, in the same manner.
“Why, first, my mother died when I was only a week old,” explained Rhoda. “I suppose, you call that a trouble?”
“Not when you were a week old,” said Phoebe; “it would be afterwards—with some people. But I should not think it was, much, with you. You have had Madam.”
“Well, then my father went off to London, and spent all his estate, that I should have had, and there was nothing left for me. That was a trouble, I suppose?”
“If you had plenty beside, I should not think it was.”
“‘Plenty beside!’ Phoebe, you are the silliest creature! Why, don’t you see that I should have been a great fortune, if I had had Peveril as well as White-Ladies? I should have set my cap at a lord, I can tell you. Only think, Phoebe, I should have had sixty thousand pounds. What do you say to that? Sixty thousand pounds!”
“I should think it is more than you could ever spend.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Rhoda. “When White-Ladies is mine, I shall have a riding-horse and a glass coach; and I will have a splendid set of diamonds, and pearls too. They cost something, I can tell you. Oh, ’tis easy spending money. You’ll see, when it comes to me.”