o consider how she should deal with the subject. The
question was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very much
better, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishes
and convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture.
There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe was
incapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, which
made it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highly
indecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On the
whole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.

"Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring a
pair of common ones--those with the box plaits.--What were you thinking
about France?"

"Oh, nothing particular. I was only--"

"Never mind, if you don't want to tell," said Rhoda, graciously, now
that her object was attained. "I wonder what new clothes Madam will
give you. A camlet for best, I dare say, and duffel for every day.
Don't you want to know?"

"No, not very much."

"I should, if I were you. I like to go fine. Not that she'll give
_you_ fine things, you know--not likely. There! put my shoes out to
clean, and tuck me up nicely, and then if you like you can go to bed. I
shan't want anything more."

Phoebe did as she was requested, and then knelt down.

"I vow!" exclaimed her cousin, when she rose. "Do you say your prayers
on Sunday nights? I never do. Why, we've only just been at it
downstairs. And what a time you are! I'm never more than five minutes
with mine!"

"I couldn't say all I want in five minutes," replied Phoebe.

"Want! why, what do you want?" said Rhoda. "I want nothing. I've got
to do it--that's all."

"Well, I dare say five minutes is enough for that," was the quiet reply
from Phoebe. "But when people get into trouble, then they do want
things."

"Trouble! Oh, you don't know!" said Rhoda, loftily. "I've had heaps of
trouble."

"Have you?" innocently demanded Phoebe, in an interested tone.

"Well, I should think so! More than ever you had."

"What were they?" said Phoebe, in the same manner.

"Why, first, my mother died when I was only a week old," explained
Rhoda. "I suppose, you call that a trouble?"

"Not when you were a week old," said Phoebe; "it would be afterwards--
with some people. But I should not think it was, much, with you. You
have had Madam."

"Well, then my father went off to London,