"We mend broken china, torn lace we repair;
But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair."
"Did _she_ ever love anybody?" came in a low voice from Rhoda, when Mrs
Latrobe had withdrawn, "Oh, I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe, who was crying
violently, and might have seemed to a surface observer the more unhappy
of the two.
"Don't weep so," said Rhoda. "I'm sure you don't need. Aunt Anne will
never be angry long--she does not care enough about anything to keep it
up."
"Oh, it is not for myself, Rhoda--poor Rhoda!"
"For me? Surely not, Phoebe. I have never been so good to you as to
warrant that."
"I don't know whether you have been good to me or you have not, Cousin;
but I am so sorry for you!"
Phoebe was kneeling beside the bed. Rhoda came over to her, and kissed
her forehead, and said--what was very much for Rhoda to say--"I scarce
think I deserve you should weep for me, Phoebe."
"But I can't help it!" said Phoebe.
"Well! I reckon I should have known it," said Rhoda, in a rather hard
tone. "I suppose that is what all men are like. But I did think he was
true--I did!"
"I never did," responded Phoebe.
"Well!" sighed Rhoda again. "Let it pass. Perhaps Mrs Dorothy is
right--'tis best to trust none of them."
"I don't think Mrs Dorothy said that," replied Phoebe, heaving a long
sigh, as she sat up and pushed back her ruffled hair. "I do hope I
wasn't rude to Mother."
"Nothing she'll care about," said Rhoda. "I wondered he did not come,
Phoebe."
"So did I, and I told him as much. But--Rhoda, I think perhaps we shall
forgive him sooner if we don't talk about it."
"Ah! I have not come to forgiving yet," was Rhoda's answer. "Perhaps I
shall some time. Well! I shall be an old maid now, Phoebe, like Mrs
Dorothy, I suppose you'll be the one to marry."
"Thank you, I'd rather not!" said Phoebe, quickly. "I am not sure I
should like it at all; and I am quite sure I don't want to be married
for my money, or for what people expect me to have."
"Oh, there's nothing else in this world!" answered Rhoda, with an air of
immense experience. "Don't you expect it. Every man you come across is
an avaricious, designing creature. Oh dear! 'tis a weary weary world,
and 'tis no good living!"
"Yes, Rhoda dear, there is one good in living, and 'tis always left to
us, whatever we may lose," said Phoebe, earnestly. "Don't you remember
what the Lord Jesus said to His disciples--`My meat is to do the will of
Him that sent Me?' There is always that, Rhoda."
"Ah, that is something I don't know anything about," said Rhoda,
wearily. "And I always think 'tis right down shabby of people to turn
religious, just because they have lost the world, and are disappointed
and tired. And I was never cut out for a saint, Phoebe--'tis no use!"
"Rhoda, dear, when people give all their days to Satan, and then turn
religious, as you say, just at last, when they are going to die, or
think they are--don't you think that right down shabby? The longer you
keep away from God, the less you have to give Him when you come. And
as--"
"I thought you Puritans always said we hadn't anything to give to God,
but He gave everything to us," objected Rhoda, pettishly.
Phoebe passed the tone by, and answered the words, "I think there are
two things we can give to God, Cousin: our sins, that He may cast them
into the depths of the sea; and ourselves, that He may save and train
us. And the longer you stay away, the more sin you will have to bring;
and the less time there will be for loving and serving Him. You will be
sorry, when you do come, that you were not sooner."
"How do you know I shall? I tell you, I wasn't cut out for a saint."
"I think you will, Cousin, because I have asked Him to bring you," said
Phoebe, simply; "and it must be His will to hear that; because He
willeth not the death of a sinner."
"So you count me a sinner! I am sure I'm very much obliged to you!"
said Rhoda, more in her old style than before.
"Yes, dear Cousin, I count you a sinner; and so do I myself, and every
body else," said Phoebe, gently.
"Oh, well, I suppose we are all sinners," admitted Rhoda. "Don't I keep
telling you I am not made for a saint?"
"But you were, Rhoda; God made you for Himself," said Phoebe.
"Oh, well 'tis no use talking!" and Rhoda got up, and began to pull down
her elaborately-dressed hair, with hasty, uncareful fingers. "We'd
better go to bed."
"Perhaps it isn't much use talking," said Phoebe, as she rose to help
her. "But it is sure to be some praying, so I shall go on."
It was a few days later, and Phoebe was crossing the Park on her way to
the Maidens' Lodge, carrying a basket of fruit sent by Mrs Latrobe to
Lady Betty. From all the Maidens, except Lady Betty, Mrs Latrobe held
aloof. Mrs Jane was too sharp for her, Mrs Marcella too querulous,
and Mrs Dorothy too dull. Mrs Clarissa she denounced as "poor vain
flirt that could not see her time was passed," and Mrs Eleanor, she
declared, gave her the horrors only to look at. But Lady Betty she
diligently cultivated. How much of her regard was due to her Ladyship's
title, Mrs Latrobe did not explain.
Phoebe was nearing the Maidens' Lodge, and had just entered the last
glade on her way thither, when--very much to her disapprobation and
dismay--from a belt of trees on her left hand, Mr Marcus Welles stepped
out and stood before her.
"Your most humble servant, Mrs Phoebe! I was very desirous to have the
honour of waiting on you this fine morning; and thinking that I saw you
at a little distance, I took the great liberty of accosting you."
If Phoebe had said just what she thought, she would have informed Mr
Welles that he had taken a wholly unwarrantable liberty in so doing; for
while she sagely counselled Rhoda to forgive the offender, she had by no
means forgiven him herself. But being mindful of conventionalities,
Phoebe courtesied stiffly, and left Mr Welles to explain himself at his
leisure. Now, Mr Welles had come to that glade in the Park for the
special purpose of making a communication, which he felt rather an
awkward one to make with that amount of grace which beseemed him:
nevertheless, being a very adroit young man, and much given to turning
corners in a rapid and elegant manner, he determined to go through with
the matter. If it had only been anyone but Phoebe!
"Mrs Phoebe," he began, "I cannot but flatter myself that you are not
wholly ignorant of the high esteem I have long had for your deep merit."
"Cannot you, Sir?" responded Phoebe, by no means in a promising manner.
Mr Welles felt the manner. He thought his web was scarcely fine-spun
enough. He must begin again.
"I trust that Madam is in good health, Mrs Phoebe?"
"My mother is very well, I thank you, Sir."
"You are yourself in good health, I venture to hope, Madam?"
"I am, Sir, I thank you."
The task which Mr Welles had set himself, as he perceived with chagrin,
was proving harder than he had anticipated. Phoebe evidently intended
to waste no more time on him than she could help.
"The state of affairs at White-Ladies is of infinite concern to me,
Madam."
"Is it, Sir?"
"Undoubtedly, Madam. Your health and happiness--all of you--are extreme
dear to me."
"Really, Sir!"
"Especially _yours_, Madam."
Phoebe made no answer to this. Her silence encouraged Mr Welles to
proceed. He thought his tactics had succeeded, and the creature was
coming round by degrees. The only point now requiring care was not to
startle her away again.
"Allow me to assure you, Madam, that your welfare is in my eyes a matter
of infinite concern."
"So you said, Sir," was Phoebe's cool reply, Mr Welles was very
uncomfortable. Had he made any mistake? Was it possible that, after
all, the creature was not coming round in an orthodox manner?
"Madam, give me leave to assure you, moreover, that I am infinitely
attached to you, and desire no higher happiness than to be permitted to
offer you my service."
It was an instant before Phoebe recognised that Mr Marcus Welles was
actually making her an offer. When she did, her answer was immediate
and unmistakable.
"Don't you, Mr Welles?" said Phoebe. "Then I do!"
"Madam, have you misapprehended me?" demanded her suitor, to whom the
idea of any woman refusing him was an impossibility not to be
entertained for a moment.
"I should be glad if I had," said Phoebe.
"You must be labouring under some mistake, Madam. I have an estate
which brings me in three thousand a year, and I am my own master. 'Tis
not an opportunity a maid can look to meet with every day, nor is it
every gentlewoman that I would ask to be my wife."
"No--only a golden one!" said Phoebe.
"Madam!"
Phoebe turned, and their eyes met.
"Mr Welles, give me leave to tell you the truth: you do not hear it
often. You do not wish to marry me. You wish to obtain White-Ladies.
'Tis of no consequence to you whether the woman that must needs come
with it be Phoebe Latrobe or Rhoda Peveril. My cousin would please you
better than I; but you really care not a straw for either of us. You
only want the estate. Allow me in my turn to assure you that, so far as
I am concerned, you will not get it. The man who could use my cousin as
you have done may keep away from endeavouring my favour. I wish you a
very good morning, Mr Welles."
"I beg, Madam, that you will permit me to explain--" stammered Mr
Welles, whose grace and tactics alike forsook him under the treatment to
which he was subjected by Phoebe.
"Sir, there is nothing to explain."
And with a courtesy which could be construed into nothing but final
dismissal, Phoebe left her astonished suitor to stand and look after her
with the air of a beaten general, while she turned the corner of the
Maidens' Lodge, and made her way to Lady Betty's door.
Lady Betty was at that moment giving an "at home" on the very minute
scale permitted by the diminutive appointments of the Maidens' Lodge.
Mrs Jane Talbot and Mrs Dorothy Jennings were seated at her little
tea-table.
"Why, my dear Mrs Phoebe! what an unlooked-for pleasure!" exclaimed
Lady Betty, coming forward cordially.
If her cordiality had been a shade more distinct since Phoebe became
heiress of Cressingham--well, she was only human. The other ladies
present had sustained no such change.
"The Lord bless thee, dear child!" was the warm greeting of Mrs Dolly;
but it had been quite as warm long before.
"Evening!" said Mrs Jane, with a sarcastic grin. "Got it over, has he?
Saw you through the side window. Bless you, child, I know all about
it--I expected that all along. Hope you let him catch it--the
jackanapes!"
"I did not let him catch me, Mrs Jane," answered Phoebe, with some
dignity.
"That's right!" said Mrs Jane, decidedly. "That bundle of velvet and
braid would never have made any way with me, when I was your age, my
dear. Why, any mantua-maker could cut him out of snips, and have some
stuff left over."
"He is of very good family, my dear Mrs Jane," observed Lady Betty; "at
least, if I take you rightly in supposing you allude to Mr Welles."
"More pity for the family!" answered Mrs Jane. "Glad I'm not his
mother. Ruin me to keep, him in order. Cost a fortune in whip-leather.
How's Mrs Rhoda?"
"She is very well, I thank you, Madam."
"Is she crying out her eyes over that piece of fiddle-faddle?"
"I think she has finished for the present," replied Phoebe, rather
drily.
"Just you tell her he's been making up to you. Best thing you can do.
Cure her sooner than anything else."
"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, may I beg of you to do me the favour to let Madam
know that my niece, my Lady Delawarr, is much disordered in her health?"
"Certainly, my Lady Betty; I am grieved to hear it."
"Very much so, as 'tis feared; and Sir Richard hath asked me thither to
visit her, and see after matters a little while she is laid by. I
purpose to go thither this next week, but I would not do so without
paying my respects to Madam, for which honour I trust to wait on her
to-morrow. Indeed, my dear--and if you will mention it to Madam, you
will do me a service--Sir Richard's letter is not without some
importunity that should my niece be laid aside for any time, as her
physician fears, I would remove altogether, and make my home with them."
"Indeed, Madam, I will tell my mother all about it."
"I thank you, my dear; 'twill be a kindness. Of course, I would not
like to leave without Madam's concurrence."
"That you will have," quietly said Mrs Dorothy.
"Indeed, so I hope," returned Lady Betty. "I dare say Mrs Phoebe here
at least does not know that when my nephew Sir Richard was young, after
his mother died--my poor sister Penelope--he was bred up wholly in my
care, so that he looks on me rather as his mother than his aunt, and
'tis but natural that his thoughts should turn to me in this trouble."
"You must have been a young aunt, my Lady Betty," remarked Mrs Dorothy.
"Truly, but twelve years elder than my nephew," said Lady Betty, with a
smile.
"Clarissa would have told us that, without waiting to be asked," laughed
Mrs Jane. "How are the girls, my Lady Betty?"
"Very well, as I hear. You know, I guess, that Betty is engaged in
marriage?"
"So we heard. To Sir Charles Rich, is it not?"
"The same. But maybe you have not heard of Molly's conquest?" asked
Lady Betty, with an amused little laugh.
"What, is Mrs Molly in any body's chains?"
"Indeed, I guess not, Mrs Jane," replied Lady Betty, still laughing.
"I expect my friend Mr Thomas Mainwaring is in Molly's chains, if
chains there be."
"Eh, she'll lead him a weary life!" said Mrs Jane.
"Let us hope she will sober down," answered Lady Betty. "I am not
unwilling to allow there hath of late been room for improvement. Yet is
there some good in Molly, as I think."
Phoebe remembered Molly's assistance in the matter of Mr Edmundson, and
thought it might be so.
"Well, and what of Mrs Gatty?"
"Ah, poor maid! She, at least, can scarce hope to be happy, her
disfigurement is so unfortunate."
"I must needs ask your pardon, my Lady Betty, but I trust that is not
the case," said Mrs Dorothy, with a gentle smile. "Sure, happiness
doth not depend on face nor figure?"
"The world mostly reckons so, I believe," answered Lady Betty, with a
responsive smile. "Maybe, we pick up such words, and use them, in
something too heedless a manner."
"I am mightily mistaken if Mrs Gatty do not prove the happiest of the
three," was Mrs Dorothy's reply.
Mrs Dorothy rose to go home, and Phoebe took leave at the same time.
She felt tired and harassed, and longed for the rest of a little quiet
talk with her old friend.
"And how doth Mrs Rhoda take this, my dear?" was the old lady's first
question, when Phoebe had poured out her story.
"She seemed very much troubled at first, and angry; but I fancy she is
getting over it now."
"Which most?--troubled or angry?"
"I think--after a few minutes, at least--more angry."
"Then she will quickly recover. I do not think she loved him, Phoebe.
She liked him, I have no doubt: and she flattered herself that he loved
her; but if she be more angry than hurt, that shows that her pride
suffers rather than her love. At least," said Mrs Dorothy, correcting
herself, "I mean it looks so. Who am I, that I should judge her?"
"I wanted it to do her some good, Mrs Dolly. It seems hard to have the
suffering, and not get the good."
"'Tis not easy for men to tell what does good, and when. We cannot as
concerns ourselves; how then shall we judge for others?"
"I wonder what Rhoda will do now?" suggested Phoebe, after a minute's
silence.
She looked up, and saw an expression, which was the mixture of pity and
amusement, on Mrs Dorothy's lips. The amusement died away, but the
pity remained and grew deeper.
"Can you guess, Mrs Dolly?"
"`Lord, and what shall this man do?' You know the answer, Phoebe."
"Yes, I know: but-- Mrs Dorothy, would you not like to know the
future?"
"Certainly not, dear child. I am very thankful for the mist which my
Father hath cast as a veil over my eyes."
"But if you could see what would come, is it not very likely that there
would not be some things which you would be glad and relieved to find
absent?"
"Very likely. The things of which we stand especially in fear often
fail to come at all. But there would be other things, which I should be
very sorry to find, and much astonished too."
"I wonder sometimes, what will be in my life," said Phoebe, dreamily.
"That which thou needest," was the quiet answer.
"What do I need?" asked Phoebe.
"To have thy will moulded after God's will."
"Do you think I don't wish God's will to be done, Mrs Dorothy?"
Mrs Dorothy smiled. "I quite believe, dear child, thou art willing He
should have His way with respect to all the things thou dost not care
about."
"Mrs Dorothy!"
"My dear, that is what most folks call being resigned to the will of
God."
"Mrs Dolly, why do people always talk as though God's will must be
something dreadful? If somebody die, or if some accident happen, they
say, `Ah, 'tis God's will, and we must submit.' But when something
pleasant comes, they never say it then. Don't you think the pleasant
things are God's will, as well as the disagreeable ones?"
"More so, Phoebe. `In all our affliction, He is afflicted.' `He doth
not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.' Pleasant things
are what He loves to give us; bitter things, what He needs must."
"Then why do people talk so?" repeated Phoebe.
"Ah, why do they?" said Mrs Dorothy. "Man is always wronging God. Not
one of us all is so cruelly misunderstood of his fellows as all of us
misunderstand Him."
"Yet He forgives," said Phoebe softly: "and sometimes we don't."
"He is always forgiving, Phoebe. The inscription is graven not less
over the throne in Heaven than over the cross on earth,--`This Man
receiveth sinners.'"
There was a pause of some minutes; and as Phoebe rose to go, Mrs
Dorothy said,--
"I will tell you one thing I have noted, child, as I have gone through
life. Very often there has been something looming, as it were, before
me that I had to do, or thought I should have to bear,--and in the
distance and the darkness it took a dread shape, and I looked forward to
it with terror. And when it has come at last, it has often--I say not
always, but often--proved to be at times a light and easy cross, even at
times an absolute pleasure. Again, there hath often been something in
the future that I have looked forward to as a great good and delight,
which on its coming hath turned out a positive pain and evil. 'Tis
better we should not know the future, dear Phoebe. Our Father knows
every step of the way: is not that enough? Our Elder Brother hath
trodden every step, and will go with us through the wilderness. Perfect
wisdom and perfect love have prepared all things. Ah, child, thy
fathers were wise men to sing as they sang--
"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre,
Il est a desirer;
Je n'ai plus rien a craindre,
Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"
"But, Mrs Dolly-- I suppose it can't be so, yet--it does seem as if
there were some things in life which the Lord Jesus did not go through."
"What things, my dear?"
"Well, we never read of His having any kind of sickness for one thing."
"Are you sure of that? `Himself took our infirmities, and bare our
sicknesses,' looks very like the opposite. You and I have no idea,
Phoebe, how He spent thirty out of thirty-three years of His mortal
life. He may--mind, I don't say it was so, for I don't know--but He may
have spent much of them in a sick chamber. He was `in _all_ points
tempted like as we are.' My father used to tell me that the word there
rendered `tempted' signifies not only temptations of Satan, but trials
sent of God."
"But--He was never a woman, Mrs Dolly."
"And therefore cannot feel for a woman as though He had been,--is that
thy meaning, dear? Nay, Phoebe, I believe He was the only creature that
ever dwelt on earth in whom were the essential elements both of man and
woman. He took His flesh of the woman only. The best part of each was
in Him,--the strength and intelligence of the man, the love and
tenderness of the woman. 'Tis modish to say women are tender, Phoebe;
more modish than true. Many are soft, but few are tender. But He was
tenderness itself."
"I don't think women always are tender," said Phoebe.
"My dear," said Mrs Dorothy, "you may laugh at me, but I am very much
out of conceit with my own sex. A good woman is a very precious thing,
Phoebe; the rather since 'tis so rare. But an empty, foolish, frivolous
woman is a sad, sad sight to see. Methinks I could scarce bear with
such, but for four words that I see, as it were, graven on their
brows,--`For whom Christ died.'"
"Very good!" said Mrs Latrobe. "I will not conceal from you, Phoebe,
that I am extreme gratified with this decision of Lady Betty. I trust
she will carry it out."
Phoebe felt a good deal surprised. Lady Betty had been the only inmate
of the Lodge whose society her mother had apparently cared to cultivate,
and yet she expressed herself much pleased to hear of her probable
departure. She remembered, too, that Mrs Dorothy had expected Mrs
Latrobe's assent. To herself it was a mystery.
Mrs Latrobe gave no explanation at the time. She went at once to
another part of the subject, informing Phoebe that she had asked Betty
and Molly Delawarr on a visit. Gatty had been invited also, but had
declined to leave her mother in her present condition. Phoebe received
this news with some trepidation. Had it been Betty alone, she would not
have minded; for she thought her very good-natured, and could not
understand Rhoda's expressed dislike to her. But Molly!--Phoebe tried
to remember that Molly had done one kind action, and hoped she would be
on her best behaviour at White-Ladies. Mrs Latrobe went on to say that
she wished Phoebe to share her room with Betty, and would put Rhoda and
Molly in another. But when Phoebe ventured to ask if Rhoda might not
retain the room which she knew her to prefer, and Phoebe herself be the
one to change, Mrs Latrobe refused to entertain the proposition.
"No, my dear, certainly not. You forget your station, Phoebe. You are
the daughter of this house, not your cousin. You must not be thinking
of how things were. They have changed. I could not think of allowing
Rhoda to have the best chamber. Besides, she has got to come down, and
she had best know it at once."
"What do you mean, Madam, if you please?"
"What do I mean? Why, surely you have some sense of what is proper.
You don't fancy she could continue to live here, do you? If she had
married Mr Welles, I should have said nothing against her staying here
till her marriage--of course, if it were a reasonable time; but now that
is all over. She must go."
"Go!" gasped Phoebe. "Go whither, Madam?"
"I shall offer her the choice of two things, my clear. She can either
go to service, in which case I will not refuse to take the trouble to
look out a service for her--I am wishful to let her down gently, and be
very good to her; or, if she prefer that, she may have my Lady Betty's
house as soon as she is gone. Have you any idea which she will choose?"
"Service! The Maidens' Lodge! Rhoda!"
"My dear Phoebe, how very absurd you are. What do you mean by such
foolish ejaculations? Rhoda will be uncommonly well off. You forget
she has the interest of her money, and she has some good jewellery; she
may make a decent match yet, if she is wise. But in the meantime, she
must live somehow. Of course I could not keep her here--it would spoil
your prospects, simpleton! She has a better figure than you, and she
has more to say for herself. You must not expect any body to look at
you while she is here."
"Oh, never mind that!" came from the depth of Phoebe's heart.
"But, my dear, I do mind it. I must mind it. You do not understand
these things, Phoebe. Why, I do believe, with a very little
encouragement--which I mean him to have--Mr Welles himself would offer
for you."
"That is over, Madam."
"What is over? Phoebe! what do you mean? Has Mr Welles really spoken
to you?"
"Yes, Madam."
"When, my dear?" asked Mrs Latrobe, in a tone of deep interest.
"This afternoon, Madam!"
"That is right! I am so pleased. I was afraid he would want a good
deal of management. And you've no more notion how to manage a man than
that parrot. I should have to do it all myself."
"I beg your pardon, Madam," said Phoebe, with some dignity; "I gave him
an answer."
"Of course, you did, my dear. I am only afraid--sometimes, my dear
Phoebe, you let your shyness get the better of you till you seem quite
silly--I am afraid, I say, that you would hardly speak with becoming
warmth. Still--"
"I think, Madam, I was as warm as you would have wished me," said
Phoebe, drily.
"Oh, of course, there is a limit, my dear," said Mrs Latrobe, bridling.
"Well, I am so glad that it is settled. 'Tis just what I was wishing
for you."
"I fear, Madam, you misconceive me," said Phoebe, looking up, "and 'tis
settled the other way from what you wished."
"Child, what can you mean?" asked Mrs Latrobe, with sudden sharpness.
"You never can have refused such an excellent offer? What did you say
to Mr Welles?"
"I sent him away, and told him never to come near me again." Phoebe
spoke with warmth enough now.
"Phoebe, you must be a lunatic!" burst from her mother. "I could not
have believed you would be guilty of such supreme, unpardonable folly!"
"Sure," said Phoebe, looking up, "you would never have had me marry a
man whom I despised in my heart?"
"Despised! I protest, Phoebe, you are worse and worse. What do you
mean by saying you despise Mr Welles? A man of excellent manners and
faultless taste, of good family, with an estate of three thousand a
year, and admirable prospects when his old uncle dies, who is nearly
seventy now--why, Phoebe, you must be a perfect fool! I am amazed at
you beyond words."
There was a light in Phoebe's eyes which was beyond Mrs Latrobe's
comprehension.
"Mother!" came from the girl's lips, with a soft intonation--"Father
would not have asked me to do that!"
"Really, my dear, if you expect that I am to rule myself by your
father's notions, you expect a great deal too much. He was not a man of
the world at all--"
"He was not!"
"Not in the least!--and he had not the faintest idea what would be
required of you when you came to your present position. Don't quote
him, I beg of you!--Well, really, Phoebe--I don't know what to do now.
I wish I had known of it! Still I don't see, if he were determined to
speak to you, how I could have prevented you from making such a goose of
yourself. I do wish he had asked me! I should have accepted him at
once for you, and not given you the chance to refuse. What did you say
to him? Is it quite hopeless to try and win him back?"
"Quite," said Phoebe, shortly.
"But I want to know exactly what you said."
"I told him I believed he wanted the estate, and not me; and that after
behaving to my cousin as he did, he did not need to expect to get either
it or me."
"Phoebe! what preposterous folly!" said Mrs Latrobe. "Well, child, you
are a fool--that's as plain as a pikestaff; but--"
"You're a fool!" came in a screech from the parrot's cage, followed by a
burst of laughter.
"But 'tis no use crying over spilt milk. If we have lost Mr Welles, we
have lost him; and we must try for some one else. Oh dear, how hot it
is! Phoebe, I wonder when you will have any sense. I do beseech you,
my dear, never to play the same game with anyone else."
"I hope, Mother," said Phoebe, gravely, "that I shall never have
occasion."
"What a lot of geese!" said the parrot.