“Ah, Mr. Holgrave,” she cried, “I never can go through with it!  Never, never, never!  I wish I were dead in the old family tomb with all my forefathers—­yes, and with my brother, who had far better find me there than here!  I am too old, too feeble, and too hopeless!  If old Maule’s ghost, or a descendant of his, could see me behind the counter to-day, he would call it the fulfilment of his worst wishes.  But I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost to be a good shopkeeper.”

On Holgrave asking for half a dozen biscuits, Hepzibah put them into his hand, but rejected the compensation.

“Let me be a lady a moment longer,” she said, with a manner of antique stateliness.  “A Pyncheon must not—­at all events, under her forefathers’ roof—­receive money for a morsel of bread from her only friend.”

As the day went on the poor lady blundered hopelessly with her customers, and committed the most unheard-of errors, so that the whole proceeds of her painful traffic amounted, at the close, to half a dozen coppers.

That night the little country cousin, Phoebe Pyncheon, arrived at the gloomy old house.  Hepzibah knew that circumstances made it desirable for the girl to establish herself in another home, but she was reluctant to bid her stay.

“Phoebe,” she said, on the following morning, “this house of mine is but a melancholy place for a young person to be in.  It lets in the wind and rain, and the snow, too, in the winter time; but it never lets in the sunshine!  And as for myself, you see what I am—­a dismal and lonesome old woman, whose temper is none of the best, and whose spirits are as bad as can be.  I cannot make your life pleasant, Cousin Phoebe; neither can I so much as give you bread to eat.”

“You will find me a cheerful little body,” answered Phoebe, smiling, “and I mean to earn my bread.  You know I have not been brought up a Pyncheon.  A girl learns many things in a New England village.”

“Ah, Phoebe,” said Hepzibah, sighing, “it is a wretched thought that you should fling away your young days in a place like this.  And, after all, it is not even for me to say who shall be a guest or inhabitant of the old Pyncheon house.  Its master is coming.”

“Do you mean Judge Pyncheon?” asked Phoebe, in surprise.

“Judge Pyncheon!” answered her cousin angrily.  “He will hardly cross the threshold while I live.  You shall see the face of him I speak of.”

She went in quest of a miniature, and returned and placed it in Phoebe’s hand.

“How do you like the face?” asked Hepzibah.

“It is handsome; it is very beautiful!” said Phoebe admiringly.  “It is as sweet a face as a man’s can be or ought to be.  Who is it, Cousin Hepzibah?”

“Did you never hear of Clifford Pyncheon?”

“Never.  I thought there were no Pyncheons left, except yourself and our Cousin Jaffrey, the judge.  And yet I seem to have heard the name of Clifford Pyncheon.  Yes, from my father, or my mother.  But hasn’t he been dead a long while?”