p her, in any way she pleased, to put Phoebe into some respectable
place where she could earn her own living. Mrs Latrobe described her
as a "quiet, meek, good girl,--far better than ever I was,"--and said
that she would be satisfied with any arrangement which would effect the
end proposed.

For some minutes Madam sat gazing out of the window, yet seeing nothing,
with the letter lying open before her. Her promise to her dead husband
bound her to answer favourably. What should she do with Phoebe? After
some time of absolute silence, she startled Rhoda with the question,--

"Child, how old are you?"

"Nineteen, Madam," answered Rhoda, in much surprise.

"Two years!" responded Madam,--which words were an enigma to her
granddaughter.

But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary of
her sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of some
eligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She was
more perplexed than ever with the next question.

"Would you like a companion, child?"

"Very much, Madam." Anything which was a change was welcome to Rhoda.

"I think I will," said Madam. "Ring the bell."

I have already stated that Madam was impulsive. When her old butler
came in--a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability--she
said, "Send that woman here."

The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within the
door.

"Your name, my good woman?" asked Madam, condescendingly.

"An't please you, Molly Bell, Madam."

"Whence come you, Molly?"

"An't please you, from Bristol, Madam."

"How came you?"

"An't please you, on foot, Madam; but I got a lift in a carrier's cart
for a matter of ten miles."

"Do you know the gentlewoman that writ the letter you brought?"

"Oh, ay, Mistress Latrobe! The Lord be thanked, Madam, that ever I did
know her, and her good master, the Reverend, that's gone to the good
place."

"You are sure of that?" demanded Madam; but the covert satire was lost
on Molly Bell.

"Sure!" exclaimed she; adding, very innocently, "You can never have
known Mr Latrobe, Madam, to ask that; not of late years, leastwise."

"I never did," said Madam, rather grimly. "And do you know Mrs
Phoebe?"

"Dear heart, Madam!" said Molly, laughing softly, "but how queer it do
sound, for sure, to hear you say Mrs Phoebe! She's always been Miss
Phoebe with us all these years; and we hadn't begun like to think she
was grow