a fine lesson to you, Miss Livvy. Ma'am, it is your Aunt
Phoebe whom I love.

PHOEBE (_rigid_). You do not mean that.

VALENTINE. Most ardently.

PHOEBE. It is not true; how dare you make sport of her.

VALENTINE. Is it sport to wish she may be my wife?

PHOEBE. Your wife!

VALENTINE. If I could win her.

PHOEBE (_bewildered_). May I solicit, sir, for how long you have been
attached to Miss Phoebe?

VALENTINE. For nine years, I think.

PHOEBE. You think!

VALENTINE. I want to be honest. Never in all that time had I thought
myself in love. Your aunts were my dear friends, and while I was at
the wars we sometimes wrote to each other, but they were only friendly
letters. I presume the affection was too placid to be love.

PHOEBE. I think that would be Aunt Phoebe's opinion.

VALENTINE. Yet I remember, before we went into action for the first
time--I suppose the fear of death was upon me--some of them were making
their wills--I have no near relative--I left everything to these two
ladies.

PHOEBE (_softly_). Did you?

(_What is it that_ MISS PHOEBE _begins to see as she sits there so
quietly, with her hands pressed together as if upon some treasure? It
is_ PHOEBE _of the ringlets with the stain taken out of her._)

VALENTINE. And when I returned a week ago and saw Miss Phoebe, grown
so tired-looking and so poor----

PHOEBE. The shock made you feel old, I know.

VALENTINE. No, Miss Livvy, but it filled me with a sudden passionate
regret that I had not gone down in that first engagement. They would
have been very comfortably left.

PHOEBE. Oh, sir!

VALENTINE. I am not calling it love.

PHOEBE. It was sweet and kind, but it was not love.

VALENTINE. It is love now.

PHOEBE. No, it is only pity.

VALENTINE. It is love.

PHOEBE (_she smiles tremulously_). You really mean Phoebe--tired,
unattractive Phoebe, that woman whose girlhood is gone. Nay,
impossible.

VALENTINE (_stoutly_). Phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose
ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma'am. I have visited her in
her home several times this week--you were always out--I thank you for
that! I was alone with her, and with fragrant memories of her.

PHOEBE. Memories! Yes, that is the Phoebe you love, the bright girl
of the past--not the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap.

VALENTINE. There you wrong me, for I have discovered for myself that
the schoolmistress in her old-maid's