'Suppose you say nothing about it,' said Phoebe. 'Make yourself merry with him. That's what you've got to do. He takes you out to entertain you, not to worry about grievances.' 'Do you never talk about grievances?' asked Bertha, twinkling up her eyes. Phoebe hesitated. 'Not my own,' she said, 'because I have not got any.' 'Has Robert, then?' asked Bertha. 'Nobody has grievances who is out of the schoolroom,' opined Maria; and as she uttered this profound sentiment, the tinkle of Miss Fennimore's little bell warned the sisters to return to the studies, which in the heat of summer were pursued in the afternoon, that the walk might be taken in the cool of the evening. Reading aloud, drawing, and sensible plain needlework were the avocations till it was time to learn the morrow's lessons. Phoebe being beyond this latter work, drew on, and in the intervals of helping Maria with her geography, had time to prepare such a bright face as might make Robert think lightly of her disappointment, and not reckon it as another act of tyranny. When he opened the door, however, there was that in his looks which made her spirits leap up like an elastic spring; and his 'Well, Phoebe!' was almost triumphant. 'Is it--am I--' was all she could say. 'Has no one thought it worth while to tell you?' 'Don't you know,' interposed Bertha, 'you on the other side the red baize door might be all married, or dead and buried, for aught we should hear. But is Phoebe to go?' 'I believe so.' 'Are you sure?' asked Phoebe, afraid yet to hope. 'Yes. My father heard the invitation, and said that you were a good girl, and deserved a holiday.' Commendation from that quarter was so rare, that excess of gladness made Phoebe cast down her eyes and colour intensely, a little oppressed by the victory over her governess. But Miss Fennimore spoke warmly. 'He cannot think her more deserving than I do. I am rejoiced not to have been consulted, for I could hardly have borne to inflict such a mortification on her, though these interruptions are contrary to my views. As it is, Phoebe, my dear, I wish you joy.' 'Thank you,' Phoebe managed to say, while the happy tears fairly started. In that chilly land, the least approach to tenderness was like the gleam in which the hardy woodbine leaflets unfold to sun themselves. Thankful for small mercies, thought Robert, looking at her with fond pity; but at least the dear child will have one fortnight of a more genial atmosphere, and soon, maybe, I shall transplant her to be Lucilla's darling as well as mine, free from task-work, and doing the labours of love for which she is made! He was quite in spirits, and able to reply in kind to the freaks and jokes of his little sister, as she started, spinning round him like a humming-top, and singing-- Will you go to the wood, Robin a Bobbin? giving safe vent to an ebullition of spirits that must last her a good while, poor little maiden!