e had answered the
inquiries of the good-natured gossips, and told them that Phillis was
suffering from the consequences of a bad cold, nothing more. I have
said that I was to stay over the next day; a great deal of snow had
come down, but not all, they said, though the ground was covered deep
with the white fall. The minister was anxiously housing his cattle, and
preparing all things for a long continuance of the same kind of
weather. The men were chopping wood, sending wheat to the mill to be
ground before the road should become impassable for a cart and horse.
My cousin and Phillis had gone up-stairs to the apple-room to cover up
the fruit from the frost. I had been out the greater part of the
morning, and came in about an hour before dinner. To my surprise,
knowing how she had planned to be engaged, I found Phillis sitting at
the dresser, resting her head on her two hands and reading, or seeming
to read. She did not look up when I came in, but murmured something
about her mother having sent her down out of the cold. It flashed
across me that she was crying, but I put it down to some little spirt
of temper; I might have known better than to suspect the gentle, serene
Phillis of crossness, poor girl; I stooped down, and began to stir and
build up the fire, which appeared to have been neglected. While my head
was down I heard a noise which made me pause and listen--a sob, an
unmistakable, irrepressible sob. I started up.

'Phillis!' I cried, going towards her, with my hand out, to take hers
for sympathy with her sorrow, whatever it was. But she was too quick
for me, she held her hand out of my grasp, for fear of my detaining
her; as she quickly passed out of the house, she said,--

'Don't, Paul! I cannot bear it!' and passed me, still sobbing, and went
out into the keen, open air.

I stood still and wondered. What could have come to Phillis? The most
perfect harmony prevailed in the family, and Phillis especially, good
and gentle as she was, was so beloved that if they had found out that
her finger ached, it would have cast a shadow over their hearts. Had I
done anything to vex her? No: she was crying before I came in. I went
to look at her book--one of those unintelligible Italian books. I could
make neither head nor tail of it. I saw some pencil-notes on the
margin, in Holdsworth's handwriting.

Could that be it? Could that be the cause of her white looks, her weary
eyes, her wasted figure, her struggling sobs? T