The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee (In the Reign of Queen Anne). Emily Sarah Holt

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 poetry!” said Rhoda, contemptuously.

      “That is true enough of some hymns, child,” answered Mrs. Dorothy. “But, Phoebe, my dear, will you let us hear one of your hymns?”

      “They are in French,” whispered Phoebe.

      “They will do for me in French, my dear,” replied Mrs. Dorothy.

      Rhoda stared in manifest astonishment. Phoebe struggled for a moment with her natural shyness, and then she began:—

      “Mon sort n’est pas à plaindre,

       Il est à désirer;

       Je n’ai plus rien à craindre,

       Car Dieu est mon Berger.”

      “My lot asks no complaining,

       But joy and confidence;

       I have no fear remaining,

       For God is my Defence.”

      But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush of associations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, and covered her face with her hands.

      “What on earth are you crying for?” asked Rhoda.

      “Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Dorothy. “The verse is enough for a day, and the truth which is in it is enough for a life.”

      “I ask your pardon!” sobbed Phoebe, when she could speak at all. “But I used to sing it—to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poor mother. And they are all gone now!”

      “Oh, don’t bother!” said Rhoda. “My papa’s dead, and my mamma too; but you’ll not see me crying over it.”

      Rhoda pronounced the words “Pappa,” and “Mamma,” as is done in America to this day.

      “You never knew your parents, Mrs. Rhoda,” said the little old lady, ever ready to cast oil on the troubled waters. “Phoebe, dear child, wouldst thou wish them all back again?”

      “No; oh, no! I could not be so unkind,” said Phoebe, wiping her eyes. “But only a year ago, there were seven of us. It seems so hard!”

      “I say, Phoebe, if you mean to cry and take on,” said Rhoda, springing up and drinking off her tea, “you’ll give me the spleen. I hate to be hipped. I shall be off to Mrs. Jane. Come along!”

      “Go yourself, Mrs. Rhoda, my dear, and leave your cousin to recover, if tears be your aversion.”

      “Why, aren’t they all our aversions?” said Rhoda, outraging grammar. “You don’t need to pretend, Mrs. Dolly! I never saw you cry in my life.”

      “Ah, child!” said Mrs. Dorothy, as if she meant to indicate that there had been more of her life than could be seen from Rhoda’s standing-point. “But you’ll do well to take an old woman’s counsel, my dear. Run off to Mrs. Jane, and divert yourself half an hour; and when you return, your cousin will have passed her trouble, and I will have a Story to tell you both. I know you like stories.”

      “Come, I’ll go, for a story when I came back,” said Rhoda; “but I meant to take Phoebe. Can’t she wipe her eyes and come?”

      “Then I shall not tell you a story,” responded Mrs. Dorothy.

      Rhoda laughed, and ran off. Mrs. Dorothy let Phoebe have her cry out for a short time. She moved softly about, putting things in order, and then came and sat down by Phoebe on the settle.

      “The world is too great for thee, poor child!” she said, tenderly, taking Phoebe’s hands in hers. “It is a long way from thy father’s grave; but, bethink thee, ’tis no long way from himself, if he is gone to Him that is our Father.”

      “I know he is,” whispered Phoebe.

      “And is the Lord thy Shepherd, dear child?”

      “I know He is,” said Phoebe, again.

      “ ‘Mon sort n’est pas à plaindre,’ ” softly repeated Mrs. Dorothy.

      “Oh, it is wrong of me!” sobbed Phoebe. “But it does seem so hard. Nobody cares for me any more.”

      “Nay, my child, ‘He careth for thee.’ ”

      “Oh, I know it is so!” was the answer; “but I can’t feel it. It all looks so dark and cold. I can’t feel it!”

      “Poor little child, lost in the dark!” said Mrs. Dorothy, gently. “Dear, the Lord must know how very much easier it would be to see. But His especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet have believed. ’Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly father would have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenly Father?”

      Phoebe’s tears were falling more softly now.

      “Phoebe, little maiden, shall I love thee?”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Dorothy, but people don’t love me,” said Phoebe, as if it were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. “Only dear father and Perry.”

      “And thy mother,” suggested Mrs. Dorothy, in a soothing tone.

      “Well—yes—I suppose so,” doubtfully admitted Phoebe. “But, you see, poor mother—I had better not talk about it, Mrs. Dorothy, if you please.”

      Mrs. Dorothy let the point pass, making a note of it in her own mind. She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, “Dear father” and “poor mother”; yet it was the father who was dead, and the mother was living. The terms, thought Mrs. Dorothy, must have some reference to character.

      “Little