ller; and such mostly
long for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorry
for thee, while the Lord can help thee. He is the best to trust,
child."

"Yes, I know," whispered Phoebe. "You are so good, Mrs Dorothy!"

"Now for the story!" said Rhoda, dancing into the little parlour.
"You've had oceans of time to dry your eyes. I have been to Mrs Jane,
and Mrs Clarissa, and my Lady Betty; and I've had a dish of tea with
each one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I'm ready, Mrs
Dorothy; go on!"

"What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?"

"Oh, you had better begin at the beginning," said Rhoda. "I don't think
I ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin with
the Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your whole
history."

Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully.

"It won't do me any harm," added Rhoda; "and I can't see why you should
care. You're nearly seventy, aren't you?"

Phoebe's shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to mean
that she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resent
the question.

"Yes, my dear, I am over seventy," she said, quietly. "And I don't know
that it would do you any harm. You have to face the world, too, one of
these days. Please God, you may have a more guarded entrance into it
than I had! Here is a cushion for your back, Mrs Rhoda; and, Phoebe,
my dear, here is one for you. Let me reach my knitting, and then you
shall hear my story. But it will be a long one."

"So much the better, if 'tis agreeable," answered Rhoda. "I don't care
for stories that are over in a minute."

"This will not be over in a day," said Mrs Dorothy.

"All right," responded Rhoda, settling herself as comfortably as she
could. "I say, Phoebe, change cushions with me; I'm sure you've got the
softer."

And Phoebe obeyed in an instant.

CHAPTER THREE.

LITTLE MRS. DOROTHY.

"And the thousands come and go
All along the crowded street;
But they give no ear to the things we know,
And they pass with careless feet.
For some hearts are hard with gold,
And some are crushed in the throng,
And some with the pleasures of life are cold--
How long, O Lord, how long!"

"If I am to begin at the beginning, my dears," said little Mrs Dorothy,
"I must tell you that I was born in a farmhouse, about a mile from Saint
Albans, on the last day of the year of our Lord 1641; that my father was