Rose sat all alone in the big best parlor, with her little
handkerchief laid ready to catch the first tear, for she was thinking
of her troubles, and a shower was expected. She had retired to this
room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it was dark and
still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains, and hung all around
with portraits of solemn old gentlemen in wigs, severe-nosed
ladies in top-heavy caps, and staring children in little bob-tailed
coats or short-waisted frocks. It was an excellent place for woe;
and the fitful spring rain that pattered on the window-pane seemed
to sob, "Cry away: I’m with you."

Rose really did have some cause to be sad; for she had no mother,
and had lately lost her father also, which left her no home but this
with her great-aunts. She had been with them only a week, and,
though the dear old ladies had tried their best to make her happy,
they had not succeeded very well, for she was unlike any child they
had ever seen, and they felt very much as if they had the care of a
low-spirited butterfly.

They had given her the freedom of the house, and for a day or two
she had amused herself roaming all over it, for it was a capital old
mansion, and was full of all manner of odd nooks, charming
rooms, and mysterious passages. Windows broke out in
unexpected places, little balconies overhung the garden most
romantically, and there was a long upper hall full of curiosities
from all parts of the world; for the Campbells had been
sea-captains for generations.

Aunt Plenty had even allowed Rose to rummage in her great china
closet a spicy retreat, rich in all the "goodies" that children love;
but Rose seemed to care little for these toothsome temptations;
and when that hope failed, Aunt Plenty gave up in despair.

Gentle Aunt Peace had tried all sorts of pretty needle-work, and
planned a doll’s wardrobe that would have won the heart of even
an older child. But Rose took little interest in pink satin hats and
tiny hose, though she sewed dutifully till her aunt caught her
wiping tears away with the train of a wedding-dress, and that
discovery put an end to the sewing society.

Then both old ladies put their heads together and picked out the
model child of the neighbourhood to come and play with their
niece. But Ariadne Blish was the worst failure of all, for Rose
could not bear the sight of her, and said she was so like a wax doll
she longed to give her a pinch and see if she would squeak. So
prim little Ariadne was sent home, and the exhausted aunties left
Rose to her own devices for a day or two.

Bad weather and a cold kept her in-doors, and she spent most of
her time in the library where her father’s books were stored. Here
she read a great deal, cried a little, and dreamed many of the
innocent bright dreams in which imaginative children find such
comfort and delight. This suited her better than anything else, but
it was not good for her, and she grew pale, heavy-eyed and listless,
though Aunt Plenty gave her iron enough to make a cooking-stove,
and Aunt Peace petted her like a poodle.

Seeing this, the poor aunties racked their brains for a new
amusement and determined to venture a bold stroke, though not
very hopeful of its success. They said nothing to Rose about their
plan for this Saturday afternoon, but let her alone till the time
came for the grand surprise, little dreaming that the odd child
would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter.

Before she had time to squeeze out a single tear a sound broke the
stillness, making her prick up her ears. It was only the soft twitter
of a bird, but it seemed to be a peculiarly gifted bird, for while she
listened the soft twitter changed to a lively whistle, then a trill, a
coo, a chirp, and ended in a musical mixture of all the notes, as if
the bird burst out laughing. Rose laughed also, and, forgetting her
woes, jumped up, saying eagerly

"It is a mocking-bird. Where is it?"

Running down the long hall, she peeped out at both doors, but saw
nothing feathered except a draggle-tailed chicken under a burdock
leaf. She listened again, and the sound seemed to be in the house.
Away she went, much excited by the chase, and following the
changeful song, it led her to the china-closet door.

"In there? How funny!" she said. But when she entered, not a bird
appeared except the everlastingly kissing swallows on the Canton
china that lined the shelves. All of a sudden Rose’s face
brightened, and, softly opening the slide, she peered into the
kitchen. But the music had stopped, and all she saw was a girl in a
blue apron scrubbing the hearth. Rose stared about her for a
minute, and then asked abruptly

"Did you hear that mocking-bird?"

"I should call it a phebe-bird," answered the girl, looking up with a
twinkle in her black eyes.

"Where did it go?"

"It is here still."

"Where?"

"In my throat. Do you want to hear it?"

"Oh, yes! I’ll come in." And Rose crept through the slide to the
wide shelf on the other side, being too hurried and puzzled to go
round by the door.

The girl wiped her hands, crossed her feet on the little island of
carpet where she was stranded in a sea of soap-suds, and then, sure
enough, out of her slender throat came the swallow’s twitter, the
robin’s whistle, the blue-jay’s call, the thrush’s song, the
wood-dove’s coo, and many another familiar note, all ending as
before with the musical ecstacy of a bobolink singing and
swinging among the meadow grass on a bright June day.

Rose was so astonished that she nearly fell off her perch, and when
the little concert was over clapped her hands delightedly.

"Oh, it was lovely! Who taught you?"

"The birds," answered the girl, with a smile, as she fell to work
again.

"It is very wonderful! I can sing, but nothing half so fine as that.
What is your name, please?"

"Phebe Moore."

"I’ve heard of phebe-birds; but I don’t believe the real ones could
do that," laughed Rose, adding, as she watched with interest the
scattering of dabs of soft soap over the bricks, "May I stay and see
you work? It is very lonely in the parlor."

"Yes, indeed, if you want to," answered Phebe, wringing out her
cloth in a capable sort of way that impressed Rose very much.

"It must be fun to swash the water round and dig out the soap. I’d
love to do it, only aunt wouldn’t like it, I suppose," said Rose, quite
taken with the new employment.

"You’d soon get tired, so you’d better keep tidy and look on."

"I suppose you help your mother a good deal?"

"I haven’t got any folks."

"Why, where do you live, then?"

"I’m going to live here, I hope. Debby wants some one to help
round, and I’ve come to try for a week."

"I hope you will stay, for it is very dull," said Rose, who had taken
a sudden fancy to this girl, who sung like a bird and worked like a
woman.

"Hope I shall; for I’m fifteen now, and old enough to earn my own
living. You have come to stay a spell, haven’t you?" asked Phebe,
looking up at her guest and wondering how life could be dull to a
girl who wore a silk frock, a daintily frilled apron, a pretty locket,
and had her hair tied up with a velvet snood.

"Yes, I shall stay till my uncle comes. He is my guardian now, and
I don’t know what he will do with me. Have you a guardian?"

"My sakes, no! I was left on the poor-house steps a little mite of a
baby, and Miss Rogers took a liking to me, so I’ve been there ever
since. But she is dead now, and I take care of myself."

"How interesting! It is like Arabella Montgomery in the ‘Gypsy’s
Child.’ Did you ever read that sweet story?" asked Rose, who was
fond of tales of found-lings, and had read many.

"I don’t have any books to read, and all the spare time I get I run
off into the woods; that rests me better than stories," answered
Phebe, as she finished one job and began on another.

Rose watched her as she got out a great pan of beans to look over,
and wondered how it would seem to have life all work and no play.
Presently Phebe seemed to think it was her turn to ask questions,
and said, wistfully

"You’ve had lots of schooling, I suppose?"

"Oh, dear me, yes! I’ve been at boarding school nearly a year, and
I’m almost dead with lessons. The more I got, the more Miss
Power gave me, and I was so miserable that I ‘most cried my eyes
out. Papa never gave me hard things to do, and he always taught
me so pleasantly I loved to study. Oh, we were so happy and so
fond of one another! But now he is gone, and I am left all alone."

The tear that would not come when Rose sat waiting for it came
now of its own accord two of them in fact and rolled down her
cheeks, telling the tale of love and sorrow better than any words
could do it.

For a minute there was no sound in the kitchen but the little
daughter’s sobbing and the sympathetic patter of the rain. Phebe
stopped rattling her beans from one pan to another, and her eyes
were full of pity as they rested on the curly head bent down on
Rose’s knee, for she saw that the heart under the pretty locket
ached with its loss, and the dainty apron was used to dry sadder
tears than any she had ever shed.

Somehow, she felt more contented with her brown calico gown
and blue-checked pinafore; envy changed to compassion; and if
she had dared she would have gone and hugged her afflicted guest.

Fearing that might not be considered proper, she said, in her
cheery voice

"I’m sure you ain’t all alone with such a lot of folks belonging to
you, and all so rich and clever. You’ll be petted to pieces, Debby
says, because you are the only girl in the family."

Phebe’s last words made Rose smile in spite of her tears, and she
looked out from behind her apron with an April face, saying in a
tone of comic distress

"That’s one of my troubles! I’ve got six aunts, and they all want me,
and I don’t know any of them very well. Papa named this place the
Aunt-hill, and now I see why."

Phebe laughed with her as she said encouragingly,

"Everyone calls it so, and it’s a real good name, for all the Mrs.
Campbells live handy by, and keep coming up to see the old
ladies."

"I could stand the aunts, but there are dozens of cousins, dreadful
boys all of them, and I detest boys! Some of them came to see me
last Wednesday, but I was lying down, and when auntie came to
call me I went under the quilt and pretended to be asleep. I shall
have to see them some time, but I do dread it so." And Rose gave a
shudder, for, having lived alone with her invalid father, she knew
nothing of boys, and considered them a species of wild animal.

"Oh! I guess you’ll like ’em. I’ve seen ’em flying round when they
come over from the Point, sometimes in their boats and sometimes
on horseback. If you like boats and horses, you’ll enjoy yourself
first-rate."

"But I don’t! I’m afraid of horses, and boats make me ill, and I hate
boys!" And poor Rose wrung her hands at the awful prospect
before her. One of these horrors alone she could have borne, but
all together were too much for her, and she began to think of a
speedy return to the detested school.

Phebe laughed at her woe till the beans danced in the pan, but tried
to comfort her by suggesting a means of relief.

"Perhaps your uncle will take you away where there ain’t any boys.
Debby says he is a real kind man, and always bring heaps of nice
things when he comes."

"Yes, but you see that is another trouble, for I don’t know Uncle
Alec at all. He hardly ever came to see us, though he sent me
pretty things very often. Now I belong to him, and shall have to
mind him, till I am eighteen. I may not like him a bit, and I fret
about it all the time."

"Well, I wouldn’t borrow trouble, but have a real good time. I’m
sure I should think I was in clover if I had folks and money, and
nothing to do but enjoy myself," began Phebe, but got no further,
for a sudden rush and tumble outside made them both jump.

"It’s thunder," said Phebe.

"It’s a circus!" cried Rose, who from her elevated perch had caught
glimpses of a gay cart of some sort and several ponies with flying
manes and tails.

The sound died away, and the girls were about to continue their
confidences when old Debby appeared, looking rather cross and
sleepy after her nap.

"You are wanted in the parlor, Miss Rose."

"Has anybody come?"

"Little girls shouldn’t ask questions, but do as they are bid," was
all Debby would answer.

"I do hope it isn’t Aunt Myra; she always scares me out of my wits
asking how my cough is, and groaning over me as if I was going to
die," said Rose, preparing to retire the way she came, for the slide,
being cut for the admission of bouncing Christmas turkeys and
puddings, was plenty large enough for a slender girl.

"Guess you’ll wish it was Aunt Myra when you see who has come.
Don’t never let me catch you coming into my kitchen that way
again, or I’ll shut you up in the big b’iler," growled Debby, who
thought it her duty to snub children on all occasions.