"The idea is as nice as possible," replied Phillis, with an ominous stress on the noun, "if we could only make it practicable."

"Phil is going to find fault," pouted Dulce, who knew every inflection of Phillis's voice.

"Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind!" she retorted, briskly. "Nan is quite right: we all dote on children. I should dearly like to be a governess myself; it would be more play than work; but I am only wondering who would engage us."

"Who?--oh, anybody!" returned Nan, feeling puzzled by the smothered satire of Phillis's speech. "Of course we are not certificated, and I for one could only teach young children; but----" here Phillis interrupted her:

"Don't think me horrid if I ask you and Dulce some questions, but do--do answer me just as though I were going through the Catechism: we are only girls, but we must sift the whole thing thoroughly. Are we fit for governesses? what can you and I and Dulce teach?"

"Oh, anything!" returned Nan, still more vaguely.

"My dear Nanny, anything won't do. Come, I am really in earnest; I mean to catechise you both thoroughly."

"Very well," returned Nan, in a resigned voice; but Dulce looked a little frightened. As for Phillis, she sat erect, with her finger pointed at them in a severely ominous fashion.

"How about history, Nan? I thought you could never remember dates; you used to jumble facts in the most marvellous manner. I remember your insisting that Anne of Cleves was Louis XII.'s second wife; and you shocked Miss Martin dreadfully by declaring that one of Marlborough's victories was fought at Cressy."

"I never could remember historical facts," returned Nan, humbly.

"Dulce always did better than I; and so did you, Phillis. When I teach the children I can have the book before me." But Phillis only shook her head at this, and went on:

"Dulce was a shade better, but I don't believe she could tell me the names of the English sovereigns in proper sequence;" but Dulce disdained to answer. "You were better at arithmetic, Nan. Dulce never got through her rule of three; but you were not very advanced even at that. You write a pretty hand, and you used to talk French very fluently."

"Oh, I have forgotten my French!" exclaimed Nan, in a panic-stricken voice. "Dulce, don't you remember me quite settled to talk in French over our work three times a week, and we have always forgotten it; and we were reading Madame de Sevigne's 'Letters' together, and I found the book the other day quite covered with dust."

"I hate French," retuned Dulce, rebelliously. "I began German with Phillis, and like it much better."

"True, but we are only beginners," returned the remorseless Phillis: "it was very nice, of course, and the Taugenichts' was delicious; but think how many words in every sentence you had to hunt out in the dictionary. I am glad you feel so competent, Dulce; but I could not teach German myself, or French either. I don't remember enough of the grammar; and I do not believe Nan does either, though she used to chatter so to Miss Martin."

"Did I not say she would pick our idea to pieces?" returned Dulce, with tears in her eyes.

"My dear little sister don't look so dreadfully pathetic. I am quite as disheartened and disappointed as you are. Nan says she has forgotten her French, and she will have to teach history with an open book before her; we none of us draw--no, Dulce please let me finish our scanty stock of accomplishments. I only know my notes,--for no one cares to hear me lumber through my pieces,--and I sing at church. You have the sweetest voice Dulce, but it is not trained; and I cannot compliment you on your playing. Nan sings and plays very nicely, and it is a pleasure to listen to her; but I am afraid she knows little about the theory of music, harmony and thorough-ba.s.s: you never did anything in that way, did you, Nan?"

Nan shook her head sadly. She was too discomfited for speech. Phillis looked at them both thoughtfully; her trouble was very real, but she could not help a triumphant inflection in her voice.

"Dear Nan, please do not look so unhappy. Dulce, you shall not begin to cry again. Don't you remember what mother was reading to us the other day, about the country being flooded with incompetent governesses,--half-educated girls turned loose on the world to earn their living? I can remember one sentence of that writer, word for word: 'The standard of education is so high at the present day, and the number of certificated reliable teachers so much increased, that we can afford to discourage the crude efforts to teach, or un-teach, our children.' And then he goes on to ask, 'What has become of womanly conscientiousness, when such ignorance presses forward to a.s.sume such sacred responsibilities? Better the competent nurse than the incompetent governess.' 'Why do not these girls,' he asks, 'who, through their own fault or the fault of circ.u.mstances, are not sufficiently advanced to educate others--why do they not rather discharge the exquisitely feminine duties of the nursery? What an advantage to parents to have their little ones brought into the earliest contact with refined speech and cultivated manners,--their infant ears not inoculated by barbarous English!'" but here Phillis was arrested in her torrent of reflected wisdom by an impatient exclamation from Dulce.

"Oh, Nan, do ask her to be quiet! She never stops when she once begins. How can we listen to such rubbish, when we are so wretched?

You may talk for hours, Phil, but I never, never will be a nurse!" And Dulce hid her face on Nan's shoulder in such undisguised distress that her sisters had much ado to comfort her.

CHAPTER VIII.

"WE SHOULD HAVE TO CARRY PARCELS."

It was hard work to tranquillize Dulce.

"I never, never will be a nurse!" she sobbed out at intervals.

"You little goose, who ever thought of such a thing? Why will you misunderstand me so?" sighed Phillis, almost in despair at her sister's impracticability. "I am only trying to prove to you and Nan that we are not fit for governesses."

"No, indeed; I fear you are right there," replied poor Nan, who had never realized her deficiences before. They were all bright, taking girls, with plenty to say for themselves, lady-like, and well-bred.

Who would have thought that, when weighed in the balance, they would have been found so wanting? "I always knew I was a very stupid person; but you are different,--you are so clever, Phil."

"Nonsense, Nanny! It is a sort of cleverness for which there is no market. I am fond of reading. I remember things, and do a great deal of thinking; but I am dest.i.tute of accomplishments: my knowledge of languages is purely superficial. We are equal to other girls,--just young ladies, and nothing more; but when it comes to earning our bread-and-b.u.t.ter----" Here Phillis paused, and threw out her hands with a little gesture of despair.

"But you work so beautifully; and so does Nan," interrupted Dulce, who was a little comforted, now she knew Phillis had no prospective nurse-maid theory in view. "I am good at it myself," she continued, modestly, feeling that, in this case, self-praise was allowable. "We might be companions,--some nice old lady who wants her caps made, and requires some one to read to her," faltered Dulce, with her child-like pleading look.

Nan gave her a little hug; but she left the answer to Phillis, who went at once into a brown study, and only woke up after a long interval.

"I am looking at it all round," she said, when Nan at last pressed for her opinion; "it is not a bad idea. I think it very possible that either you or I, Nan,--or both, perhaps,--might find something in that line to suit us. There are old ladies everywhere; and some of them are rich and lonely and want companions."

"You have forgotten me?" exclaimed Dulce, with natural jealousy, and a dislike to be overlooked, inherent in most young people. "And it is I who have always made mammy's caps and you know how Lady Fitzroy praised the last one."

"Yes, yes; we know all that," returned Phillis, impatiently. "You are as clever as possible with your fingers; but one of us must stop with mother, and you are the youngest, Dulce; that is what I meant by looking at it all round. If Nan and I were away, it would never do for you and mother to live at the Friary. We could not afford a servant, and we should want the forty pounds a year to pay for bare necessaries; for our salary would not be very great. You would have to live in lodgings,--two little rooms, that is all; and even then I am afraid you and mother would be dreadfully pinched, for we should have to dress ourselves properly in other people's houses."

"Oh, Phillis, that would not do at all!" exclaimed Nan, in a voice of despair. She was very pale by this time: full realization of all this trouble was coming to her, as it had come to Phillis. "What shall we do? Who will help us to any decision? How are you and I to go away and live luxuriously in other people's houses, and leave mother and Dulce pining in two shabby little rooms, with nothing to do, and perhaps not enough to eat, and mother fretting herself ill, and Dulce losing her bloom? I could not rest; I could not sleep for thinking of it. I would rather take in plain needlework, and live on dry bread if we could only be together, and help each other."

"So would I," returned Phillis, in an odd, m.u.f.fled voice.

"And I too," rather hesitatingly from Dulce.

"If we could only live at the Friary, and have Dorothy to do all the rough work," sighed Nan, with a sudden yearning towards even that very shabby ark of refuge: "if we could only be together, and see each other every day, things would not be quite so dreadful."

"I am quite of your opinion," was Phillis's curt observation: but there was a sudden gleam in her eyes.

"I have heard of ladies working for fancy-shops; do you think we could do something of that kind?" asked Nan, anxiously. "Even mother could help us in that; and Dulce does work so beautifully. It is all very well to say we have no accomplishments," went on Nan, with apathetic little laugh, "but you know that no other girls work as we do. We have always made our own dresses. And Lady Fitzroy asked me once who was our dressmaker, because she fitted us so exquisitely; and I was so proud of telling her that we always did our own, with Dorothy to help----"

"Nan," interrupted Phillis, eagerly, and there was a great softness in her whole mien, and her eyes were glistening,--"dear Nan, do you love us all so that you could give up the whole world for our sakes,--for the sake of living together, I mean?"

Nan hesitated. Did the whole world involve d.i.c.k, and could even her love for her sisters induce her voluntarily to give him up? Phillis, who was quick-witted, read the doubt in a moment, and hastened to qualify her words:

"The outside world, I mean,--mere conventional acquaintances, not friends. Do you think you could bear to set society at defiance, to submit to be sent to Coventry for our sakes; to do without it, in fact to live in a little world of our own and make ourselves happy in it?"

"Ah, Phillis, you are so clever, and I don't understand you," faltered Nan. It was not d.i.c.k she was to give up; but what could Phillis mean?

"We are all fond of society; we are like other girls, I suppose. But if we are to be poor and work for our living, I dare say people will give us up."

"I am not meaning that," returned her sister, earnestly; "it is something far harder, something far more difficult, something that will be a great sacrifice and cost us all tremendous efforts. But if we are to keep a roof over our heads, if we are to live together in anything like comfort, I don't see what else we can do, unless we go out as companions and leave mother and Dulce in lodgings."

"Oh, no, no; pray don't leave us!" implored Dulce, feeling that all her strength and comfort lay near Nan.

"I will not leave you, dear, if I can possibly help it," returned Nan, gently. "Tell us what you mean, Phillis, for I see you have some sort of plan in your head. There is nothing,--nothing," she continued, more firmly, "that I would not do to make mother and Dulce happy. Speak out; you are half afraid that I shall prove a coward, but you shall see."

"Dear Nan, no; you are as brave as possible. I am rather a coward myself. Yes; I have a plan; but you have yourself put it into my head by saying what you did about Lady Fitzroy."

"About Lady Fitzroy?"