Evidently her father was in her
eyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred.

"But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn't!" cried Rhoda, to
whom such an idea seemed an impossibility.

"He was fond of England, too," said Phoebe. "He said she had sheltered
us when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be very
thankful to her. But he loved France the best."

Rhoda tried to accept this incredible proposition.

"Well! 'tis queer!" she said at last. "Proud of being a Frenchman!
What would Madam say?"

"'Tis only like Sir Richard Delawarr, is it?"

"Phoebe, you've no sense!"

"Well, perhaps I haven't," said Phoebe meekly, as they turned in at the
gate of Number One.

Mrs Dolly Jennings was ready for her guests, in her little parlour,
with the most delicate and transparent china set out upon the little
tea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing on
the hob.

"Well, you thought I meant it, Mrs Dolly!" exclaimed Rhoda laughingly,
as the girls entered.

"I always think people mean what they say, child, until I find they
don't," said Mrs Dorothy. "Welcome, Miss Phoebe, my dear!"

"Oh, would you please to call me Phoebe?" said the owner of that name,
blushing.

"So I will, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy, who was busy now pouring out
the tea. "Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to bread
and butter."

Rhoda obeyed, and did not pass the plate to Phoebe.

"Mrs Dolly," she said, interspersing her words with occasional bites,
"I am really concerned about Phoebe. She hasn't the least bit of
sense."

"Indeed, child," quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe coloured
painfully. "How doth she show it?"

"Why, she doesn't care a straw for poetry?"

"Is it poetry you engaged her with?"

"What do you mean?" said Rhoda, rather pettishly. "It was my poetry."

"Eh, dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, but there was a little indication of fun
about her mouth. "Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousin
hath more fancy for epical poetry."

"She doesn't care for any sort, I'm sure," said Rhoda.

"What say you to this heavy charge, Phoebe?" inquired little Mrs
Dorothy, with a cheery smile.

"I like some poetry," replied Phoebe, bashfully.

"What kind?" blurted out Rhoda, apparently rather affronted.

Phoebe coloured, and hesitated. "I like the old hymns the Huguenots
used to sing," she said, "such us dear father taught me."

"Hymns aren't