how changed!"

"There is nothing but love here, Clifford," Hepzibah said
softly--"nothing but love. You are at home."

The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which but half lit up his
face. It was followed by a coarser expression, and he ate his food with
fierce voracity and asked for "more--more!"

That day Phoebe attended to the shop, and the second person to enter it
was a gentleman of portly figure and high respectability.

"I was not aware that Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon had commenced business
under such favourable auspices," he said, in a deep voice, "You are her
assistant, I suppose?"

"I certainly am," answered Phoebe. "I am a cousin of Miss Hepzibah, on a
visit to her."

"Her cousin, and from the country?" said the gentleman, bowing and
smiling. "In that case we must be better acquainted, for you are my own
little kinswoman likewise. Let me see, you must be Phoebe, the only
child of my dear Cousin Arthur. I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely you
must have heard of Judge Pyncheon?"

Phoebe curtsied, and the judge bent forward to bestow a kiss on his
young relative. But Phoebe drew back; there was something repulsive to
her in the judge's demonstration, and on raising her eyes she was
startled by the change in Judge Pyncheon's face. It had become cold,
hard, and immitigable.

"Dear me! What is to be done now?" thought the country girl to herself.
"He looks as if there were nothing softer in him than a rock, nor milder
than the east wind."

Then all at once it struck Phoebe that this very Judge Pyncheon was the
original of a miniature which Mr. Holgrave--who took portraits, and
whose acquaintance she had made within a few hours of her arrival--had
shown her yesterday. There was the same hard, stern, relentless look on
the face. In reality, the miniature was copied from an old portrait of
Colonel Pyncheon which hung within the house. Was it that the expression
had been transmitted down as a precious heirloom, from that Puritan
ancestor, in whose picture both the expression, and, to a singular
degree, the features, of the modern judge were shown as by a kind of
prophecy?

But as it happened, scarcely had Phoebe's eyes rested again on the
judge's countenance than all its ugly sternness vanished, and she found
herself almost overpowered by the warm benevolence of his look. But the
fantasy would not quit her that the original Puritan, of whom she had
heard so many sombre traditions, had now stepped into th