voice, and was always willing to sing, thus sure of securing one of Joppa’s few young gentlemen to stand by and turn over her leaves; she thoughtfully took her music on that account, giving out that she could not play without notes.  Phebe had been doing her best all unconsciously to herself to help her hosts entertain, but when the singing began she stole away to the nearly empty piazza, and stood leaning by the window, enjoying the cool air and softly whistling an accompaniment to the song; and there Mr. Halloway found her.  She looked up at him and smiled as he joined her, but went on with her low, sweet whistling all the same.

“I like that better than the singing,” he said, when at last it came to an end with the music.

“You ought not to, Mr. Halloway.  Don’t you know it’s very unlady-like to whistle?  Mrs. Upjohn puts Maria to bed for it.”

“Dear me.  I must take care she doesn’t ever catch me at it.  Ah! the dress has ironed nicely, hasn’t it?  Would you mind standing out a little from the shadow?”

Phebe moved a step forward into the stream of light that shot across the piazza from the open window, and stood so, looking up at him out of her soft white muslin draperies and white ribbons, not a ray of color about her anywhere, like a very material and sweet little ghost.

“Yes, you look very nice, very nice indeed,” he said, after a grave inspection that took in every detail of face and figure.  A young, innocent face it was, with soft brown hair as bright and as fine as silk, all turned back from a low forehead, around which it grew in the very prettiest way in the world, and gathered in loose braids in the neck; and she had such a fresh, clear complexion, and such honest, loving, gray eyes, and such a round, girlish figure,—­how was it people never made more of her prettiness?

“I think you look nicer than any one here,” Mr. Halloway added, in thorough conviction.  “You must be an adept in ironing.”  Phebe laughed softly in pure pleasure.  It was so new to have such pretty things said to her.  “Would it be very wrong to slip away together for a rest?” he continued, leading her a little farther along.  “Let us sit down on the steps here and recruit.  I have talked my throat hoarse to each of the very deafest old ladies in turn,—­I suppose they came here purposely to be screeched at,—­and I saw you working valiantly among the old men.  What a place this is for longevity!”

“You are finding out its characteristics by degrees, I see.”

“Yes, am I not?” said he, with his pleasant laugh.  “I know intimately every member of my parish and every member of every other parish by this time from sheer hearsay.  Each house I visit gives me no end of valuable and minute information about all the other houses.  I am waiting to come out with a rousing sermon against gossip, till I shall have gained all possible enlightenment and help from it.  I mustn’t kill my goose that lays the golden eggs before I have all the eggs I want, must I?”