"Eight months."

"Did you like him?"

"_Like_ him!" Phoebe seemed to have no words to answer.

"I never knew anything about mine," went on Rhoda. "He lived till I was thirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!"

Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if _her_ thoughts were too much for her.

"And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brother or sister," pursued Rhoda.

"Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!" said Phoebe, looking at Rhoda with deep compa.s.sion.

"Love! Oh, I don't know that I want it," said Rhoda lightly. "How is Aunt Anne, and where is she?"

"Mother?" Phoebe's voice shook again. "She is going to live with a gentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone."

"Well, you know," was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not at all neatly put in order, "you'll have to wear a black gown to-morrow.

It is King Charles."

"Yes, I know," said Phoebe.

"Was your father a Dissenter?" queried Rhoda.

"No," said Phoebe, looking rather surprised.

"Because I can tell you, Madam hates Dissenters," said Rhoda. "She would as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn't you come in your black gown?"

"It is my best," answered Phoebe. "I cannot afford to spoil it."

"What do you think of Madam?"

Phoebe shrank from this question. "I can hardly think anything yet."

"Oh dear, I wish to-morrow were over!" said Rhoda with an artificial shiver. "I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. We have to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and b.u.t.ter for dinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I'll show you the ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writ poetry?"

"No," replied Phoebe. "But will that not be diverting ourselves?"

"Oh, but we can't always be miserable!" said Rhoda. "Besides, what good does it do? It is none to King Charles: and I'm sure it never does me good. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens' Lodge, and make acquaintance with the old gentlewomen."

"The Maidens' Lodge, what is that?"

"Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called it the Maidens' Lodge; a sort of better-most kind of alms-houses, you know, for six old gentlewomen--at least, I dare say they are not all old, but some of them are. (Mrs Vane does not think she is, at any rate.) You can't see them from this window; they are on the other side of the church."

"And are they all filled?"

"All but one, just now. I protest I don't know why Madam built them. I guess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it would have been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; but don't you tell her I said so!"

"Don't be afraid," said Phoebe, smiling. "I trust I am not a pick-thank. But don't you think, when you would not have a thing said again, it were better not to say it at the first?"

[Note: A meddlesome mischief-maker.]

"Oh, stuff! I can't always be such a prig as that!"

Phoebe was unpacking a trunk of very modest dimensions, and Rhoda, perched on a corner of the bed, sat and watched her.

"Is _that_ your best gown?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, lifting it carefully out.

"How many have you?"

"This and that."

"Only two? How poor Aunt Anne must be!"

"We have always been poor."

"Have you always lived in Bristol?"

"No. We used to live at the Bath when I was a child. Father was curate at the Abbey Church."

"How much did he get?"

"Twenty-five pounds a year."

"That wasn't much for seven of you."

"It was not," returned Phoebe, significantly.

"What can you do?" asked Rhoda, suddenly. "Can you write poetry?"

"I never tried, so I cannot tell," said Phoebe.

"Can you sing?"

"Yes."

"And play on anything?"

"No. I cannot do much. I can sew pretty well, and knit in four different ways; I don't cook much--I mean, I don't know how to make many things, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read and write, and keep accounts."

"Can you dance a jig?--and embroider, and work tapestry?"

"No, I don't know anything of that."

"Can't work tapestry! Why, Phoebe!"