ng of the uncomfortable and shamefaced loneliness of
the provincial, Phoebe uttered a slight cry and clutched her father's
arm. Mr. Hopkins stayed the play of his squared elbows and glanced
inquiringly at his daughter's face. There was a pretty animation in it,
as she pointed to a figure that had just entered. It was that of a young
man attired in the extravagance rather than the taste of the prevailing
fashion, which did not, however, in the least conceal a decided
rusticity of limb and movement. A long mustache, which looked unkempt,
even in its pomatumed stiffness, and lank, dark hair that had bent but
never curled under the barber's iron, made him notable even in that
heterogeneous assembly.

"That's he," whispered Phoebe.

"Who?" said her father.

Alas for the inconsistencies of love! The blush came with the name and
not the vision.

"Mr. Hooker," she stammered.

It was, indeed, Jim Hooker. But the role of his exaggeration was no
longer the same; the remorseful gloom in which he had been habitually
steeped had changed into a fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more
in keeping with his fashionable garments. He was more peaceful, yet not
entirely placable, and, as he sat down at a side table and pulled down
his striped cuffs with his clasped fingers, he cast a glance of critical
disapproval on the general company. Nevertheless, he seemed to be
furtively watchful of his effect upon them, and as one or two whispered
and looked towards him, his consciousness became darkly manifest.

All of which might have intimidated the gentle Phoebe, but did not
discompose her father. He rose, and crossing over to Hooker's table,
clapped him heartily on the back.

"How do, Hooker? I didn't recognize you in them fine clothes, but Phoebe
guessed as how it was you."

Flushed, disconcerted, irritated, but always in wholesome awe of Mr.
Hopkins, Jim returned his greeting awkwardly and half hysterically. How
he would have received the more timid Phoebe is another question. But
Mr. Hopkins, without apparently noticing these symptoms, went on:--

"We're only just down, Phoebe and me, and as I guess we'll want to talk
over old times, we'll come alongside o' you. Hold on, and I'll fetch
her."

The interval gave the unhappy Jim a chance to recover himself, to regain
his vanished cuffs, display his heavy watch-chain, curl his mustache,
and otherwise reassume his air of blase fastidiousness. But the transfer
made, Phoebe, after sha