ry. I don't mind a straw what
mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my
pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again."

"It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with
her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I
could not marry you. I could not marry anybody."

"But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't
live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be
decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now.
You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your
land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody
else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five
years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face
mother, and have it out with her at once."

But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every
argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in
dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of
her life had already been opened.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ANOTHER OFFER.

The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough.
As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her
sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and
she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any
fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school
she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she
met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her,
and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely
gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these
roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend
Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she
rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend
a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she
had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at
Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if
possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe;
especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had
suffered.

She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it
had formerly been, for immediat