“Indeed, sir, that is true.  If I could have got up and gone to church, I don’t know how often I should have been a bridesmaid.  But, if I could have done that, some girls in love might have been jealous of me, and, as it is, no girl is jealous of me.  And my pillow would not have been half as ready to put the piece of cake under, as I always find it,” she added, turning her face on it with a light sigh, and a smile at her father.

The arrival of a little girl, the biggest of the scholars, now led to an understanding on the part of Barbox Brothers, that she was the domestic of the cottage, and had come to take active measures in it, attended by a pail that might have extinguished her, and a broom three times her height.  He therefore rose to take his leave, and took it; saying that, if Phoebe had no objection, he would come again.

He had muttered that he would come “in the course of his walks.”  The course of his walks must have been highly favourable to his return, for he returned after an interval of a single day.

“You thought you would never see me any more, I suppose?” he said to Phoebe as he touched her hand, and sat down by her couch.

“Why should I think so?” was her surprised rejoinder.

“I took it for granted you would mistrust me.”

“For granted, sir?  Have you been so much mistrusted?”

“I think I am justified in answering yes.  But I may have mistrusted, too, on my part.  No matter just now.  We were speaking of the Junction last time.  I have passed hours there since the day before yesterday.”

“Are you now the gentleman for Somewhere?” she asked with a smile.

“Certainly for Somewhere; but I don’t yet know Where.  You would never guess what I am travelling from.  Shall I tell you?  I am travelling from my birthday.”

Her hands stopped in her work, and she looked at him with incredulous astonishment.

“Yes,” said Barbox Brothers, not quite easy in his chair, “from my birthday.  I am, to myself, an unintelligible book with the earlier chapters all torn out, and thrown away.  My childhood had no grace of childhood, my youth had no charm of youth, and what can be expected from such a lost beginning?” His eyes meeting hers as they were addressed intently to him, something seemed to stir within his breast, whispering:  “Was this bed a place for the graces of childhood and the charms of youth to take to kindly?  Oh, shame, shame!”

“It is a disease with me,” said Barbox Brothers, checking himself, and making as though he had a difficulty in swallowing something, “to go wrong about that.  I don’t know how I came to speak of that.  I hope it is because of an old misplaced confidence in one of your sex involving an old bitter treachery.  I don’t know.  I am all wrong together.”

Her hands quietly and slowly resumed their work.  Glancing at her, he saw that her eyes were thoughtfully following them.