on Basilike" in her
hand.

"Will Madam not be lonely?" asked Phoebe, timidly, as she followed
Rhoda.

"Lonely? Oh, no! She'll be asleep in a minute," said Rhoda.

"I thought she was going to read," suggested Phoebe.

"She fancies so," said Rhoda, laughing. "I never knew her try yet but
she went to sleep directly."

Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on a
chair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in red
sheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe's notice with a rather
grandiloquent air.

"Now, Phoebe! There's my Book of Poems!"

Phoebe opened the book, and her eye fell on a few lines of faint,
delicate writing, on the fly-leaf.

"To Rhoda Peveril, with her Aunt Margaret's love."

"Oh, you have an aunt!" said Phoebe.

"I have two somewhere," said Rhoda. "They are good for nothing. They
never give me anything."

Phoebe looked up with a rather surprised air. "They seem to do,
sometimes," she observed, pointing to the book.

"Well, that one did," answered Rhoda; "one or two little things like
that; but she is dead. The others are just a pair of spiteful old
cats."

Phoebe's look of astonishment deepened.

"They must be very different from my aunt, then. I have only one, but I
would not call her names for the world. She loves me, and I love her."

"Why, what are aunts good for but to be called names?" was the amiable
response. "But now listen, Phoebe. I am going to read you a piece of
my poetry. You see, our old church is dedicated to Saint Ursula; and
there is an image in the church, which they say is Saint Ursula--it has
such a charming face! Madam doesn't think 'tis charming, but I do. So
you see, this poem is to that image."

Phoebe looked rather puzzled, but did not answer.

"Now, I would have you criticise, Phoebe," said Rhoda, condescendingly,
using a word she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books.

"I don't know what that is," said Phoebe.

"Well, it means, if you hear anything you don't like, say so."

"Very well," replied Phoebe, quietly.

And Rhoda began to read, with the style of a rhetorician--as she
supposed--

"Step softly, nearer as ye tread
To this shrine of the royal dead!
This Abbey's hallowed unto one,
Daughter of Britain's ancient throne,--
History names her one sole thing,
The daughter of a British King."

Rhoda paused, and looked at her cousin--ostensibly for criticism, really