“Yes.”

“She does a good deal of writin’, I hear.  Does she get much out of it?”

Phebe hesitated, assailed by doubts as to how large a story Mrs. Richardson would swallow, and her hostess swept on,—­

“She’s spreadin’ herself a good deal, and it can’t all be her earnin’s.  Do you take after her?”

“No; I am studying medicine.”

“I want to know!  What for?”

“To be a doctor, I suppose.”  Phebe rose and put on her hat.

Mrs. Richardson took a step towards her.

“You don’t want a skeleton; do you?” she asked.  “I’ve got one I’d sell cheap.”

For one instant, Phebe hesitated.  Unexpected as was the offer, it appealed to her.  There was a certain dignity in having one’s own skeleton; it was the first step toward professional life.  That one instant’s hesitation settled the matter, for Mrs. Richardson saw it and was swift to take advantage of it.

“It belonged to His sister’s husband,” she said, with a jerk of her head toward the portrait of her late husband.  “He was a doctor and, when he died, all his trumpery was brought here and stowed away in our garret.  It’s as good as new, and you can have it for five dollars.”

“I—­don’t—­know,” Phebe said slowly.

Mrs. Richardson interposed.

“I don’t want to be hard on you.  ’Tain’t a very big one, and it ain’t strung up,” she said persuasively.  “You can have it for three.  It’s a splendid chance for you.”

Phebe yielded.

“Well, I’ll take it, if it is all there.”

“I’ll get it, and you can let your father count it up.  I’m willing to leave it to him.”  And Mrs. Richardson went hurrying out of the room.

She was gone for some time.  When she came back again she bore in her arms a bundle, large, knobby and misshapen.  It was wrapped in newspapers which had cracked away here and there over the end of a rib; but it was enclosed in a network of strings that crossed and crisscrossed like a hammock.

“I thought you might just as well take it right along with you,” she said.  “You can send me the money in a letter, if it’s all right, but land knows when you will be here again, and I hain’t got anybody to send it by.”

Phebe looked appalled.  In a long experience of bicycling, she had scorned a carrier, and she stood firmly opposed to the idea of converting her wheel into a luggage van.

“I can’t carry that,” she said.

“Yes, you can.  Just string it over your forepiece and it will go all right.  It ain’t heavy for anything so bulky.  I’ll help you tie it on.”  And she prepared to execute her offer.

“Oh, don’t!  At least, I’m much obliged; but—­Oh, dear, if I must take it, I suppose I must; but I think I’d better tie it on, myself.”

“Just as you like.  You’d better hurry up a little, though, for I shouldn’t wonder if it rained before sundown.”

“Rain?  Then I can’t take this thing.”  Phebe paused, with the string half tied.