"Ah!" said Mrs Latrobe, still contemplating Rhoda. "Well--if it hold--
you may as well be married from hence, I suppose. Is the day fixed?"

"No, Aunt Anne."

"I think, my dear," remarked Mrs Latrobe, sipping her tea, "'twould be
better if you said Madam.--Why, Phoebe, what old-fashioned china! Sure
it cannot have been new these forty years. I shall sweep away all that
rubbish.--Whom are you going to marry? Is he well off?--Phoebe, those
shoe-buckles of yours are quite shabby. I cannot have you wear such
trumpery. You must remember what is due to you.--Well, my dear?"

Rhoda had much less practice in the school of patience than Phoebe, and
she found the virtue difficult just then. But she restrained herself as
well as she could.

"I am engaged in marriage with Mr Marcus Welles; and he has an estate,
and spends three thousand pounds by the year."

"Welles! A Welles of Buckinghamshire?"

"His estate is in this shire," said Rhoda.

"Three thousand! That's not much. Could you have done no better? He
expected you would have White-Ladies, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. I did," said Rhoda, shortly.

"My dear, you have some bad habits," said Mrs Latrobe, "which Phoebe
should have broken you of before I came. 'Tis very rude to answer
without giving a name."

"You told me not to give you one, Aunt Anne."

"You are slow at catching meanings, my dear," replied Mrs Latrobe, with
that calm nonchalance so provoking to an angry person. "I desired you
to call me Madam, as 'tis proper you should."

"Phoebe doesn't," burst from Rhoda.

"Then she ought," answered Mrs Latrobe, coolly examining the crest on a
tea-spoon.

"Oh, I will, Rhoda, if Mother wishes it," put in Phoebe, anxious above
all things to keep the peace.

Rhoda vouchsafed no reply to either.

"Well!" said the lady of the manor, rising, "you will carry me to my
chamber, child," addressing Rhoda. "You can stay here, Phoebe. Your
cousin will wait on me."

It was something new for Rhoda to wait on anyone. She swallowed her
pride with the best grace she could, and turned to open the door.

"I suppose you have had the best room made ready for me?" inquired Mrs
Latrobe, as she passed out.

"Madam's chamber," replied Rhoda.

"Oh, but--not the one in which she died?"

"Yes," answered Rhoda; adding, after a momentary struggle with herself,
"Madam."

"Oh, but that will never do!" said Mrs Latrobe, hastily. "I couldn't
sleep there! A room in