; he is a farmer in Essex. This comes a many miles, this
milk."

Staines looked in her face, with kindly approval marked on his own
eloquent features. She blushed a little at so fixed a regard. Then he
asked her if she would supply him with milk, butter, and eggs.

"Why, if you mean sell you them, yes, sir, with pleasure. But for
sending them home to you in this big town, as some do, I can't; for
there's only brother Dick and me: it is an experiment like."

"Very well," said Staines: "I will send for them."

"Thank you kindly, sir. I hope you won't be offended, sir; but we only
sell for ready money."

"All the better: my order at home is, no bills."

When he was gone, Phoebe, assuming vast experience, though this was only
her third day, told Dick that was one of the right sort: "and oh, Dick,"
said she, "did you notice his eye?"

"Not particklar, sister."

"There now; the boy is blind. Why, 'twas like a jewel. Such an eye I
never saw in a man's head, nor a woman's neither."

Staines told his wife about Phoebe and her brother, and spoke of her
with a certain admiration that raised Rosa's curiosity, and even that
sort of vague jealousy that fires at bare praise. "I should like to see
this phenomenon," said she. "You shall," said he. "I have to call on
Mrs. Manly. She lives near. I will drop you at the little shop, and come
back for you."

He did so, and that gave Rosa a quarter of an hour to make her
purchases. When he came back he found her conversing with Phoebe, as
if they were old friends, and Dick glaring at his wife with awe and
admiration. He could hardly get her away.

She was far more extravagant in her praises than Dr. Staines had been.
"What a good creature!" said she. "And how clever! To think of her
setting up a shop like that all by herself; for her Dick is only
seventeen."

Dr. Staines recommended the little shop wherever he went, and even
extended its operations. He asked Phoebe to get her own wheat ground
at home, and send the flour up in bushel bags. "These assassins, the
bakers," said he, "are putting copper into the flour now, as well as
alum. Pure flour is worth a fancy price to any family. With that we
can make the bread of life. What you buy in the shops is the bread of
death."

Dick was a good, sharp boy, devoted to his sister. He stuck to the shop
in London, and handed the money to Phoebe, when she came for it. She
worked for it in Essex, and extended her country connection for su