"You are repaying me, Phœbe, every day of your life."
The gratitude which filled Phœbe's heart had something sacred in it. But, indeed, that happy house was more than a home to the young girl—it was a sanctuary.
Therefore Phœbe, unloved and neglected as she was in Parksides, was perfectly happy on the day before her birthday. She would be able to make her tea-table quite gay, and she went to the village and laid out to great advantage the money her aunt had put in her purse.
"Good afternoon, Miss Phœbe."
It was Jeremiah Pamflett who accosted her. He was on a visit to the miser, with books and papers under his arm.
"Good afternoon," said Phœbe, who was also carrying parcels. She would have hurried on and left him, after these salutations, but he was too quick for her.
"Won't you shake hands with me, Miss Phœbe?"
"I can't; they are full."
"Where there's a will there's a way. You had better shake hands with me, or your father will be angry when I tell him."
This threat served him. Phœbe managed to extend her hand, which he took and held in his for a longer time than was necessary.