“Only one thing else that I think you have rather forgotten, Mr. Halloway:  I love her and she is my friend.”

“Miss Phebe,” cried the young man in instant contrition, “have I hurt you?  Have I been thoughtless enough for that with my foolish fun?  You know I did not mean it.  Will you forgive me?” He held out his hand.

Phebe hesitated.  “Will you not make fun of her any more?  And will you like her if she comes?  You know she may come here this summer; there is just a chance of it.  Will you promise?”

“I can safely promise to like any one whom you like, I know, Miss Phebe.  Soeur Angelique, make this stubborn child give me her hand.  It is not fitting that I crave absolution so abjectly.”

“You are two silly children together,” said Soeur Angelique, rising and laughing.  “You may settle your quarrels as you can while I order tea.”

“Miss Phebe, have I really vexed you so much?” asked the young man, earnestly, as his sister left the room.  “You must know I would not do that for the world.”

“I don’t think you could hurt or vex me in any way,” said Phebe, “excepting only through Gerald.  For you don’t know how I love her, Mr. Halloway.  I love her with all my heart and soul, I think, oh, more—­almost more—­than any one else in the world.”

“I know you do,” he answered.  “It is a love to envy her.”  Phebe was still looking up at him from her low stool, her face raised as if in appeal.  She always looked very young for her years, and now she seemed not more than a child of sixteen in the waning light.  He could not help it this time; he laid his hand very lightly for one briefest instant on her pretty hair.  “But you will not be less friends with me because I like you best?”

“I will not ever be less friends with you,” Phebe replied, soberly.  “I don’t change so.”

“No,” he said; “I know you do not.  Nor do I.”

And then he moved away from her, and began telling an irresistibly comic story about a call he had made on a poor woman that afternoon (he could not for the life of him help seeing the ludicrous side of every thing), and from one subject they passed to another, and when Soeur Angelique summoned them to tea, she found her reverend brother standing in the middle of the room in the full swing of a chorus from “The Pirates,” with Phebe whistling the liveliest possible accompaniment, and both of them gesticulating wildly.  He stopped with a laugh as his sister appeared in the door-way.

“Don’t be shocked, Soeur Angelique.  I shut the window lest Mrs. Upjohn should chance to go by and hear me.  She would telegraph the Bishop.  I am only resting.  It wore me out working for Miss Phebe’s pardon.  No; wait a moment, Soeur Angelique.  Don’t let’s go to tea instantly.  I would rather quiet down a little before I go in and say grace.”  He took up a chance book from the table, and turning to the window to catch the light, read a few lines to himself, then threw it down, and came forward with a smile.  “There, I am ready now.  Take my arm, Soeur Angelique.  Miss Phebe, will you come, please?”