“And is this frantic outburst meant exclusively for Soeur Angelique?” asked Denham.  “I am green with unutterable jealousy.  I thought I was your friend too, Miss Phebe.”

Phebe still knelt with her arms around Mrs. Whittridge, but she looked up at him with her frank, loving eyes and smiled.  “You know I meant you both,” she said softly.

An almost irresistible impulse came over the young man to lay his hand, as his sister had done, on the soft, bright-brown hair.  Clergymen are but human after all.  He bent forward, but only lifted one of his sister’s thin white hands and held it a moment between his.  “We must both do our best by this foolish little girl who trusts us so frankly with her friendship, must we not, Soeur Angelique?” he said gravely.

“I for one am very glad to assume the trust,” said Mrs. Whittridge.

“And won’t you ever tire of me? ever? ever?” asked the girl.

“Not ever.”

“You won’t ever be tired helping me, or tired of having me come to you for help, or tired of my loving you?”

“Where is your faith gone, my child?”

Phebe drew a deep sigh of content.  “I am just as happy as can be,” she said.  “I don’t want any thing else now in the world except just Gerald.”

“Ah, Gerald again.  I expected that,” said Mr. Halloway, raising his eyebrows humorously.

“Gerald?  Pray, who is Gerald?” inquired Mrs. Whittridge.

Her brother lifted his hands in mock amazement.  “Is it possible you know Miss Phebe so long and need ask who Gerald is?  I will tell you.  Gerald is perfection individualized.  Gerald has all the qualities, mental, physical, and spiritual, that it is possible to compress into the limited compass of even an overgrown human frame.  Gerald, you must know, is intellectual to a degree, beautiful as an archangel, adorable as—­as you, Soeur Angelique, and clever—­almost—­as myself.”

Phebe clapped her hands and nodded, “Yes, yes, all that!”

“I can tell you all about Gerald,” continued Halloway.  “I have heard of nothing else since I came.  Gerald, my dear sister, is Miss Phebe’s idol; I rather think she says her prayers before Gerald’s picture every night.”

“Oh, please!” cried Phebe.

“But who is this Gerald?” asked Mrs. Whittridge.  “Does he live here?”

“No, Soeur Angelique, and by the way he is not he at all, but she, and will be known in history as Miss Geraldine Vernor.  She lives in New York, rolls in wealth, and is one of a large family of whom she is the sun-flower.  Let me give you her portrait as I have it from fragmentary but copious descriptions.  She is, I should say, five feet eleven and three quarter inches in height—­don’t shake your head, Miss Phebe,—­and slender in disproportion.  She has the feet of a Chinese, the hands of a baby, and the strength of a Jupiter Ammon.  She has hair six yards long and blacker than Egyptian darkness.