And a few words came into Phoebe's mind, practically denied by the mass of mankind then as now, "Thou hast created all things, and _for Thy pleasure_ they are." How apt man is to think that every creature and thing around him was created for _his_ pleasure! or, at least, for his use and benefit. The natural result is, that he considers himself at liberty to use them just as he pleases, quite regardless of their feelings, especially when any particular advantage may be expected to accrue to himself. But "the Lord hath made all things for Himself," and "He cometh to judge the earth." CHAPTER EIGHT. RHODA IS TAKEN IN THE TRAP. "That busy hive, the world, And all its thousand stings." Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various members of the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becoming diversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemen in evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close by her. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr. "'Tis really true, then," demanded the other--a round-faced man, with brilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church--"'tis really true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?" "_I_ had it from an excellent hand, I assure you," returned Sir Richard. "Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that 'twas the main cause of her sudden death." "It really was so?" "Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond Harley." "Ha! then 'tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of D'Urfey's jest on the Princess Sophia?--ha, ha, ha!" and the Bishop laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly. "No, I scarce think I did, my Lord." "Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen extreme diversion. "`The crown is too weighty For shoulders of eighty-- She could not sustain such a trophy: Her hand, too, already Has grown so unsteady, She can't hold a sceptre: So Providence kept her Away--poor old dowager Sophy!'" Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment. Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old? "Capital good jest!" said the Baronet, his amusement over. "I heard from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly well this summer--quite rid of her gout." "So do I hear," returned the Bishop. "What think you of the price set on the Pretender's head?" Sir Richard whistled. "The Queen's own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers," continued the Bishop. "Dear, dear!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Five thousand, I was told?" "Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it."