“What shall you do when you are done with that odious stocking?”

“Sort crewels for Mrs. Upjohn.”

“And then?”

“Iron out my dress for the party.”

“Oh, at Mrs. Anthony’s?  Who’ll be there?”

“Everybody who has dropped in here this morning.”

“Who else?”

“Those who dropped in yesterday.”

“But what will you do to make it party-like?”

“Simper.  Aren’t you coming too?”

“Not if you think it would do for me to say that I held party-going wrong for a clergyman.  Could I?  I might win over Mrs. Upjohn to the Church by so holy a statement.”

“You had better take to round-dancing instead, then, to keep her out of it.”

“Miss Phebe, is it possible you are severe on poor Mrs. Upjohn?”

“Very possible.”

“As your pastor I must admonish you.  Don’t be.  Besides, it’s safer to keep on her blind side.”

“She hasn’t any.”

“Unhappy woman!  What a blaze of moral light she must live in!  But I ought to have been in my study an hour ago.  I must tear myself away.  I wish you all ill-luck possible with those stitches.”

“Ah, is that you, Mr. Halloway?  I was wondering what kept Phebe so long in the window.  Good-morning, sir.  Good-morning, sir.  Pray, come in.”  And having, by a turn of his slow old head, discovered the young man standing just outside the window, Mr. Hardcastle came pompously forward, waving his hand in a grand way he had, that seemed to bespeak him always the proprietor, no matter in whose house he chanced to be.

“Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle, not this morning.  I was just telling Miss Phebe I ought to be at work.  Good-morning, Mrs. Lane.  Good-morning, Mrs. Upjohn—­Mrs. Hardcastle—­Miss Delano—­Miss Brooks.”

And with a cheery bow to each individual head, craning itself forward to have a look at the unusual young man who had work to do, the Rev. Mr. Halloway walked off to his rectory, which was directly opposite, giving a merry glance back at Phebe from the other side of the street.  Phebe was still smiling as she went with the stocking to its owner.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Hardcastle, taking it from her without looking.  “Oh, my child, how could you be so careless!  You have let me pull out one of the needles.  Well—­well.”

Phebe took the work silently back, and sat herself down on a stool to remedy the mischief.

“A nice young fellow enough,” remarked Mr. Hardcastle, condescendingly, returning to the group of ladies.  “But he’ll never set the river on fire.”

“No need he should, is there?” said Mrs. Upjohn, looking up sharply from her embroidery.  She always contradicted, if only for argument’s sake, so that even her assents usually took a negative form.  “It’s enough if he’s able to put out a fire in that Church.  It doesn’t take much of a man, I understand, to fill an Episcopalian pulpit.” (Nobody had ever yet been able to teach the good dame the difference between Episcopal and Episcopalian, and she preferred the undivided use of the latter word.) “Any thing will go down with them.”