he old woman. "Yes, I'll take a little,
my dear, since you press me so pretty. Folks take many a thing when
they're pressed as they wouldn't touch if there was no one to say, take
a bit. Tozer, he never thinks of that; he's always had the best o'
appetites; but as for me, if I get's a cup o' tea that's all as I cares
for. You'll see as she'll take my view, when she's once been to the High
Street. She's her mother's daughter, and Phoebe can't abide that woman,
no more than me."

"Have they got many children?" said Phoebe. "I know there are two girls,
but as I have never seen them--Are they as old as I am?" she asked, with
a tremulous feeling at her heart. If there were girls in the shop in the
High Street, with whom she would have to be on familiar terms, as her
cousins and equals, Phoebe did not feel that she could put up with that.

"The eldest, Polly, is only twelve," said Tozer; "but never you mind, my
dear, for you shan't be without company. There's a deal of families with
daughters like yourself. Your grandmother won't say nothing against it;
and as for me, I think there's nought so cheery as young folks. You
shall have a fire in the drawing-room, and as many tea-parties as you
like. For the young men, I can't say as there's many, but girls is
plenty, and as long as you're content with that--"

Mrs. Tozer regarded him with withering contempt across the table.

"You're clever ones, you men," she said. "Families with daughters! Do
you think the Greens and the Robbins is company for _her_? I dare say as
you've heard your mother speak of Maria Pigeon, my dear? She married
John Green the grocer, and very well to do and respectable they may be,
but nobody but the likes of your grandfather would think of you and them
making friends."

"Indeed I don't care for making friends," said Phoebe, "you must remember
that I came not for society, but to wait upon you, dear grandmamma. I
don't want young friends. At home I always go out with my mother; let me
take walks with you, when you are able. I am glad Uncle Tom's children
are little. I don't want company. My work--and the garden--and to sit
with grandmamma, that is all I care for. I shall be as happy as the day
is long," said this martyr, smiling benignly over the aches in her
heart.

Her grandparents looked at her with ever-growing pride. Was not this the
ideal young woman, the girl of the story-books, who cared about nothing
but her duty?

"That's very nice of you, m