‘No! they are not,’ said I.  ’They are eggs.  What do you mean by saying they are potatoes?’

’What do you mean by asking me what they were, when they were plain to be seen?’ retorted she.

We were both getting a little angry with each other.

’I don’t know.  I wanted to begin to talk to you; and I was afraid you would talk to me about books as you did yesterday.  I have not read much; and you and the minister have read so much.’

‘I have not,’ said she.  ’But you are our guest; and mother says I must make it pleasant to you.  We won’t talk of books.  What must we talk about?’

‘I don’t know.  How old are you?’

‘Seventeen last May.  How old are you?’

‘I am nineteen.  Older than you by nearly two years,’ said I, drawing myself up to my full height.

‘I should not have thought you were above sixteen,’ she replied, as quietly as if she were not saying the most provoking thing she possibly could.  Then came a pause.

‘What are you going to do now?’ asked I.

’I should be dusting the bed-chambers; but mother said I had better stay and make it pleasant to you,’ said she, a little plaintively, as if dusting rooms was far the easiest task.

’Will you take me to see the live-stock?  I like animals, though I don’t know much about them.’

’Oh, do you?  I am so glad!  I was afraid you would not like animals, as you did not like books.’

I wondered why she said this.  I think it was because she had begun to fancy all our tastes must be dissimilar.  We went together all through the farm-yard; we fed the poultry, she kneeling down with her pinafore full of corn and meal, and tempting the little timid, downy chickens upon it, much to the anxiety of the fussy ruffled hen, their mother.  She called to the pigeons, who fluttered down at the sound of her voice.  She and I examined the great sleek cart-horses; sympathized in our dislike of pigs; fed the calves; coaxed the sick cow, Daisy; and admired the others out at pasture; and came back tired and hungry and dirty at dinner-time, having quite forgotten that there were such things as dead languages, and consequently capital friends.

PART II

Cousin Holman gave me the weekly county newspaper to read aloud to her, while she mended stockings out of a high piled-up basket, Phillis helping her mother.  I read and read, unregardful of the words I was uttering, thinking of all manner of other things; of the bright colour of Phillis’s hair, as the afternoon sun fell on her bending head; of the silence of the house, which enabled me to hear the double tick of the old clock which stood half-way up the stairs; of the variety of inarticulate noises which cousin Holman made while I read, to show her sympathy, wonder, or horror at the newspaper intelligence.  The tranquil monotony of that hour made me feel as if I had lived for ever,