heirs, assigns, administrators, and executors for ever."

The effect was crushing. That one sentence had changed everything. Not
Rhoda, but Phoebe, was the heiress of White-Ladies.

Mr Dawson calmly finished reading the signatures and attestation
clause, and then folded up the will, and once more looked over his
spectacles.

"Mrs Phoebe, as your mother's representative, give me leave to wish you
joy. Shall you wish to write to her? I must, of course. The letters
could go together."

Phoebe looked up, half-bewildered.

"I scarcely understand," she said. "There is something left to Mother,
is there not?"

"My dear young gentlewoman, there is everything left to her. She is the
lady of the manor."

"Just what is there for Rhoda?" gasped Phoebe, apparently not at all
elated by her change of position.

"A poor, beggarly two thousand pounds!" burst out Rhoda. "'Tis a shame!
And I always thought I was to have White-Ladies! I shall just be
nobody now! Nobody will respect me, and I can never cut any figure.
Well! I'm glad I am engaged to be married. That's safe, at any rate."

The elevation of Mr Dawson's eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips,
might have implied a query on that score.

"I'm so sorry, dear!" said Phoebe, gently. "For you, of course, I mean.
I could not be sorry that there was something for Mother, because she
is not well off; but I am very sorry you are disappointed."

"You can't help it!" was Rhoda's rather repelling answer. Still,
through all her anger, she remembered to be just.

"Certainly not, my dear Mrs Phoebe," said the lawyer. "'Tis nobody's
fault--not even Madam Furnival's, for the new will would have given
White-Ladies to Mrs Rhoda, and five thousand pounds to Mrs Anne
Latrobe. Undoubtedly she intended, Mrs Rhoda, you should have it."

"Then why can't I?" demanded Rhoda, fiercely.

Mr Dawson shook his head, with a pitying smile. "The law knows nothing
of intentions," said he: "only of deeds fully performed. Still, it may
be a comfort in your disappointment, to remember that this was meant for
you."

"Thank you for your comfort!" said Rhoda, bitterly. "Why, it makes it
all the worse."

"I wish--" but Phoebe stopped short.

"Oh, I don't blame you," said Rhoda, impetuously. "'Tis no fault of
yours. If she'd done it now, lately, I might have thought so. But a
will that was made before either you or me was born--" Rhoda's grammar
always suffered from her excitemen