"Phoebe, my dear, are you here?" said Mrs Latrobe, entering the room half an hour later. "Child, did you not hear me call? I could not think where you were, and I wished to have you come down. Why, only think!--all is changed about Rhoda, and she will not go to Lady Kitty. I am a little chagrined, I confess, on your account, my dear; however, it may be all for the best. 'Tis that same Mr Derwent I had heard of, and thought to obtain for you. Well! I am very pleased for Rhoda; 'tis quite as good, or better, than any thing she could expect; and I shall easily meet with something else for you. So now, my dear Phoebe, when she is married, and all settled--for of course, now, I shall let her stay till she marries--then, child, the coast will be clear for you. By the way, you did not care any thing for him, I suppose?--and if you had, you would soon have got over it--all good girls do. Fetch me my knotting, Phoebe--'tis above in my chamber; or, if you meet Rhoda, send her." It was a subject of congratulation to Phoebe that one of Mrs Latrobe's peculiarities was to ask questions, and assume, without waiting for it, that the answer was according to her wishes. So she escaped a reply. But there was one thing yet for Phoebe to bear, even worse than this. "Phoebe, dear, dear Phoebe! I am so happy!" and Rhoda twined her arms round her cousin, and hid her bright face on Phoebe's shoulder. "He says he has loved me ever since we were at Delawarr. And I think I must have loved him, just a little bit, without knowing it, or I could not love him so much all at once now. I was trying very hard to make up my mind to Lady Kitty's service--that seemed to be what God had ordered for me; and I did ask Him, Phoebe, to give me patience, and make me willing to do His will. And only think--all the while He was preparing this for me! And I don't think, Phoebe, I should have cared for that--you know what I mean--but for you--the patient, loving way you bore with me; and I haven't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare say the troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he should not have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I owe you all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!" Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night. Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladies was a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governess and nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreading tree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness to the children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages of the Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day. In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbot and Mrs Clarissa Vane.