Rhoda subsided, somewhat discontentedly.
“Two pairs of black Spanish gloves, Betty; and a black fan, and black velvet stays. (When the year is out she must have a silver lace.) And bid Dobbins send up shoes to fit on, with black buckles—two pairs; and lay out black stockings—two pairs of silk, and two of worsted; and plain cambric aprons—they may be laced when the year is out. I think that is all. Oh!—a fur tippet, Betty.”
And with this last order Madam marched away.
“Oh, shocking!” cried Rhoda, the instant she thought her grandmother out of hearing. “I vow, but she’s going to have you as fine as me. Every bit of it. Betty, isn’t it a shame?”
“Well, no, Mrs Rhoda, I don’t see as how ’tis,” returned Betty, bluntly. “Mrs Phoebe, she’s just the same to Madam as you are.”
“But she isn’t!” exclaimed Rhoda, blazing up. “I’m her eldest daughter’s child, and she’s only the youngest. And she hasn’t done it before, neither. Last night she didn’t let her kiss her hand. I say, Betty, ’tis a crying shame!”
“Maybe Madam thought better of it this morning,” suggested Betty, speaking with a pin in her mouth.
“Well, ’tis a burning shame!” growled Rhoda.
“Perhaps, Mrs Betty,” said Phoebe’s low voice, “you could leave the satin things for a little while?”
“Mrs Phoebe, I durstn’t, my dear!” rejoined Betty; “nay, not if ’twas ever so! Madam, she’s used to have folk do as she bids ’em; and she’ll make ’em, too! Never you lay Mrs Rhoda’s black looks to heart, my dear, she’ll have forgot all about it by this time to-morrow.”