"I think he was, if he was proud of anything," answered Phoebe. "He loved France very dearly. He thought it the grandest country in the world." And Phoebe's voice trembled a little. 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 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.