t."

"You may make all the fun of her and of me that you like," said Phebe,
half provoked. "But there is not anybody else in the world like Gerald
Vernor. Wait till you see her. You will say then that I was right, only
that I did not say enough."

"You shan't tease her, Denham. Tell me, Phebe, where did you know this
friend so well?"

"Three years ago, when she spent a summer here, I saw a great deal of
her,--oh, it made it such a happy summer, knowing her!--and I have
corresponded with her ever since."

"Without meeting her again?"

"Oh, no. I saw her twice last summer. I went to the train both times to
see her as she passed through."

"But our trains don't pass through; they stop here."

"Yes, I know; but I went to Galilee to meet her as she passed
through there."

"Would she have gone as far as that to meet you, Miss Phebe?"

"That is very different, Mr. Halloway," answered Phebe, simply. "I am not
worth going so far for. Besides, I don't expect people ever to do as much
for me as I would for them."

"Denham, you are cruel," said Mrs. Whittridge. "Phebe, my child, your
love for your friend is to me sufficient proof that she must be lovely. I
know I should love her too."

Phebe looked at her gratefully. "Oh, you would,--you would indeed!
You could not help it. You would admire her so much. There is so
much in her."

"Ah, yes, I forgot," interrupted Denham, "I did not finish my portrait.
This marvellous being is an athlete. She can ride any Bucephalus
produced, and rather prefers to do so bareback. She is a Michael Angelo
at painting, and has represented striking scenes from his 'Last Judgment'
on a set of after-dinner coffee cups. She drives, she skates, she swims,
she rows, she sails, has a thorough knowledge of business, and is up in
stocks, is femininely masculine and masculinely feminine, scorns novels,
and can order a dinner, is a churchwoman, and dresses always in the
latest style. Is there any thing else, Miss Phebe?"

"Only one thing else that I think you have rather forgotten, Mr.
Halloway: I love her and she is my friend."

"Miss Phebe," cried the young man in instant contrition, "have I hurt
you? Have I been thoughtless enough for that with my foolish fun? You
know I did not mean it. Will you forgive me?" He held out his hand.

Phebe hesitated. "Will you not make fun of her any more? And will you
like her if she comes? You know she may come here this summer; there is
just a chance of it.