Rose opened her lips to deny this impetuously, but checked herself and answered honestly,--

"Uncle and I would be heartily glad; and I'm sure Aunt Jessie never could object, if you loved Archie as he does you."

"She has other hopes, I think; and kind as she is it _would_ be a disappointment if he brought me home. She is right; they all are, and I alone am to blame. I should have gone long ago: I knew I should; but it was so pleasant I couldn't bear to go away alone."

"I kept you, and I am to blame if any one; but indeed, dear Phebe, I cannot see why you should care even if Aunt Myra croaks, and Aunt Clara exclaims, or Aunt Jane makes disagreeable remarks. Be happy, and never mind them," cried Rose; so much excited by all this that she felt the spirit of revolt rise up within her, and was ready to defy even that awe-inspiring inst.i.tution "the family" for her friend's sake.

But Phebe shook her head with a sad smile; and answered, still with the hard tone in her voice as if forcing back all emotion that she might see her duty clearly,--

"_You_ could do that, but _I_ never can. Answer me this, Rose, and answer truly as you love me. If you had been taken into a house, a friendless, penniless, forlorn girl, and for years been heaped with benefits, trusted, taught, loved, and made, oh, so happy! could you think it right to steal away something that these good people valued very much? To have them feel that you had been ungrateful, had deceived them, and meant to thrust yourself into a high place not fit for you; when they had been generously helping you in other ways, far more than you deserved. Could you then say as you do now, 'Be happy and never mind them'?"

Phebe held Rose by the shoulders now, and searched her face so keenly that the other shrunk a little; for the black eyes were full of fire, and there was something almost grand about this girl who seemed suddenly to have become a woman. There was no need of words to answer the questions so swiftly asked; for Rose put herself in Phebe's place in the drawing of a breath, and her own pride made her truthfully reply,--

"No: I could not!"

"I knew you'd say that, and help me do my duty;" and all the coldness melted out of Phebe's manner, as she hugged her little mistress close, feeling the comfort of sympathy even through the blunt sincerity of Rose's words.

"I will if I know how. Now come and tell me all about it;" and, seating herself in the great chair which had often held them both, Rose stretched out her hands as if glad and ready to give help of any sort.

But Phebe would not take her accustomed place; for, as if coming to confession, she knelt down upon the rug, and, leaning on the arm of the chair, told her love-story in the simplest words.

"I never thought he cared for me until a little while ago. I fancied it was you, and even when I knew he liked to hear me sing I supposed it was because you helped; and so I did my best, and was glad you were to be a happy girl. But his eyes told the truth; then I saw what I had been doing, and was frightened. He did not speak; so I believed, what is quite true, that he felt I was not a fit wife for him, and would never ask me. It was right: I was glad of it, yet I _was_ proud; and, though I did not ask or hope for any thing, I did want him to see that I respected myself, remembered my duty, and could do right as well as he. I kept away; I planned to go as soon as possible, and resolved that at this concert I would do so well he should not be ashamed of poor Phebe and her one gift."

"It was this that made you so strange, then; preferring to go alone, and refusing every little favor at our hands?" asked Rose, feeling very sure now about the state of Phebe's heart.

"Yes; I wanted to do every thing myself, and not owe one jot of my success, if I had any, to even the dearest friend I've got. It was bad and foolish of me, and I was punished by that first dreadful failure.

I was so frightened, Rose! My breath was all gone, my eyes so dizzy I could hardly see, and that great crowd of faces seemed so near I dared not look. If it had not been for the clock, I never should have got through; and when I did, not knowing in the least how I'd sung, one look at your distressed face told me that I'd failed."

"But I smiled, Phebe,--indeed I did,--as sweetly as I could; for I was sure it was only fright," protested Rose, eagerly.

"So you did: but the smile was full of pity, not of pride, as I wanted it to be; and I rushed into a dark place behind the organ, feeling ready to kill myself. How angry and miserable I was! I set my teeth, clenched my hands, and vowed that I would do well next time, or never sing another note. I was quite desperate when my turn came, and felt as if I could do almost any thing; for I remembered that _he_ was there. I'm not sure how it was, but it seemed as if I was all voice; for I let myself go, trying to forget every thing except that two people must _not_ be disappointed, though I died when the song was done."

"O Phebe, it was splendid! I nearly cried, I was so proud and glad to see you do yourself justice at last."

"And he?" whispered Phebe, with her face half hidden on the arm of the chair.

"Said not a word: but I saw his lips tremble and his eyes shine; and I knew he was the happiest creature there, because _I_ was sure he did think you fit to be his wife, and did mean to speak very soon."

Phebe made no answer for a moment, seeming to forget the small success in the greater one which followed, and to comfort her sore heart with the knowledge that Rose was right.

"_He_ sent the flowers; _he_ came for me, and, on the way home, showed me how wrong I had been to doubt him for an hour. Don't ask me to tell that part, but be sure _I_ was the happiest creature in the world then." And Phebe hid her face again, all wet with tender tears, that fell soft and sudden as a summer shower.

Rose let them flow undisturbed, while she silently caressed the bent head; wondering, with a wistful look in her own wet eyes, what this mysterious pa.s.sion was, which could so move, enn.o.ble, and beautify the beings whom it blessed.

An impertinent little clock upon the chimney-piece striking eleven broke the silence, and reminded Phebe that she could not indulge in love-dreams there. She started up, brushed off her tears, and said resolutely,--

"That is enough for to-night. Go happily to bed, and leave the troubles for to-morrow."

"But, Phebe, I must know what you said," cried Rose, like a child defrauded of half its bedtime story.

"I said 'No.'"

"Ah! but it will change to 'Yes' by and by; I'm sure of that: so I'll let you go to dream of 'him.' The Campbells _are_ rather proud of being descendants of Robert Bruce; but they have common-sense and love you dearly, as you'll see to-morrow."

"Perhaps." And, with a good-night kiss, poor Phebe went away, to lie awake till dawn.

CHAPTER VIII.

_BREAKERS AHEAD._

Anxious to smooth the way for Phebe, Rose was up betimes, and slipped into Aunt Plenty's room before the old lady had got her cap on.

"Aunty, I've something pleasant to tell you; and, while you listen, I'll brush your hair, as you like to have me," she began, well aware that the proposed process was a very soothing one.

"Yes, dear: only don't be too particular, because I'm late and must hurry down, or Jane won't get things straight; and it does fidget me to have the salt-cellars uneven, the tea-strainer forgotten, and your uncle's paper not aired," returned Miss Plenty, briskly unrolling the two gray curls she wore at her temples.

Then Rose, brushing away at the scanty back-hair, led skilfully up to the crisis of her tale by describing Phebe's panic and brave efforts to conquer it; all about the flowers Archie sent her; and how Steve forgot, and dear, thoughtful Archie took his place. So far it went well, and Aunt Plenty was full of interest, sympathy, and approbation; but when Rose added, as if it was quite a matter of course, "So, on the way home, he told her he loved her," a great start twitched the gray locks out of her hands as the old lady turned round, with the little curls standing erect, exclaiming, in undisguised dismay,--

"Not seriously, Rose?"

"Yes, Aunty, very seriously. He never jokes about such things."

"Mercy on us! what _shall_ we do about it?"

"Nothing, ma'am, but be as glad as we ought, and congratulate him as soon as she says 'Yes.'"

"Do you mean to say she didn't accept at once?"

"She never will if we don't welcome her as kindly as if she belonged to one of our best families, and I don't blame her."

"I'm glad the girl has so much sense. Of course we can't do any thing of the sort; and I'm surprised at Archie's forgetting what he owes to the family in this rash manner. Give me my cap, child: I must speak to Alec at once." And Aunt Plenty twisted her hair into a b.u.t.ton at the back of her head with one energetic twirl.

"Do speak kindly, Aunty, and remember that it was not Phebe's fault.

She never thought of this till very lately, and began at once to prepare for going away," said Rose, pleadingly.

"She ought to have gone long ago. I told Myra we should have trouble somewhere as soon as I saw what a good-looking creature she was; and here it is as bad as can be. Dear, dear! why can't young people have a little prudence?"

"I don't see that any one need object if Uncle Jem and Aunt Jessie approve; and I do think it will be very, very unkind to scold poor Phebe for being well-bred, pretty, and good, after doing all we could to make her so."

"Child, you don't understand these things yet; but you ought to feel your duty toward your family, and do all you can to keep the name as honorable as it always has been. What do you suppose our blessed ancestress, Lady Marget, would say to our oldest boy taking a wife from the poor-house?"

As she spoke, Miss Plenty looked up, almost apprehensively, at one of the wooden-faced old portraits with which her room was hung, as if asking pardon of the severe-nosed matron, who stared back at her from under the sort of blue dish-cover which formed her head-gear.

"As Lady Marget died about two hundred years ago, I don't care a pin what she would say; especially as she looks like a very narrow-minded, haughty woman. But I do care very much what Miss Plenty Campbell says; for _she_ is a very sensible, generous, discreet, and dear old lady, who wouldn't hurt a fly, much less a good and faithful girl who has been a sister to me. Would she?" entreated Rose, knowing well that the elder aunt led all the rest more or less.