"Now, Phoebe," said Rhoda severely, "don't you be a little Puritan. If you set up for a saint at White-Ladies, I can just tell you, you'll pull your own nest about your ears. You are mightily mistaken if you think Madam has any turn for saints. She reckons them designing persons-- every soul of 'em. You'll just get into a scrape if you don't have a care." Phoebe made no reply. She was standing by the window, looking up into the darkened sky. There were no blinds at White-Ladies. It was well for Rhoda--or was it well?--that she could not just then see into Phoebe's heart. The cry that "shivered to the tingling stars" was unheard by her. "O Father, Father," said the cry. "Why did you die and leave your poor little Phoebe, whom nobody loves, whose love nobody wants, with whom nobody here has one feeling in common?" And then all at once came as it were a vision before her eyes, of a scene whereof she had heard very frequently from her father,--a midnight meeting of the Desert Church, in a hollow of the Cevennes mountains, guarded by sentinels posted on the summit,--a meeting which to attend was to brave the gallows or the galleys,--and Phoebe fancied she could hear the words of the opening hymn, as the familiar tune floated past her:-- "Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger." It was a quiet, peaceful face which was turned back to Rhoda. "Did you hear?" rather sharply demanded that young lady. "Yes, I heard what you said," calmly replied Phoebe. "But I have been a good way since." "A good way!--where?" rejoined her cousin. "To France and back," said Phoebe, with a smile. "What are you talking about?" stared Rhoda. "I said nothing about France; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madam angry." "I won't vex her if I can help it," answered Phoebe. "Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours,-- that's pos.! Take the pins out of my commode." "Why should not I be better than my neighbours?" asked Phoebe, as she pulled out the pins. "Because they'll all hate you--that's why. I must have clean ruffles-- they are in that top drawer." "Aren't you better than your neighbours?" innocently suggested Phoebe, coming back with the clean ruffles. Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. The question was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very much better, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishes and convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture. There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe was incapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, which made it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highly indecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On the whole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.