d
poor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of her
grandmother.

"Of course, child--no doubt of it," said Madam.

"Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I was
made for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour.

"When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for,"
oracularly replied Madam.

Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very different
thing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom she
had met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have been
created for the benefit of one another.

"And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, you
will look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in your
station, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter for
Rhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was your
age, Phoebe."

Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever as
if she were being led to the slaughter. There was just this
uncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feel
anything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold good
there. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well to
venture on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined that
representations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. Mrs
Latrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe did
what was better,--carried her trial and perplexity to her Father in
Heaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, it
was a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily in
this style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change was
always welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superior
position of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presented
superior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, a
thing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yet
believing that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarily
wasted.

"Here you are, old Rattle-trap!" cried Molly, from the head of the
stairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. "Brought that white
rag? We're going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out,--here's Betty."

Rhoda's hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken,
rather good-looking girl, very little scarred from her recent illness.

"Phoebe Latrobe?" said Bett