When the time came to separate, Phebe would not hear of either her sister or Stephen accompanying her, though the night was dark. They went as far as the garden-gate with her, and as they stood there after she had left them, Stephen said in a choked voice: "You call her the funniest woman God made: I call her the best and the bravest."
"So she is," the sister replied frankly; "but then it doesn't do to tell her so, does it?"
"I only wish I might," was his low response.
As the sister walked up the path again to the silent old home she whispered to herself: "Poor old Steve! Dear old fellow! What a queer world this is!"
While Phebe was away from home that evening Nanna sat for a while in the desk in the grocery department; she often did so when a quiet time was expected. "I shall write a book some day," she used to say, "and the title will be 'From the Mangle to the Desk.'" Certainly she looked wonderfully wise there with her spectacles on her nose.
All at once she was attracted by the sound of a voice. Her memory for faces was very defective, but for voices very acute. Where had she heard that voice before? Looking up she saw a tall, elderly, shabby-looking man, who every now and again gave a little hacking cough. She watched him as he bought half an ounce of tea, a rasher of bacon, one egg, and half a pound of sugar. Then she heard him say to Reynolds, who was serving him:
"Who owns this shop?"
"Mrs. Waring."
"I wondered who 'P. Waring' was: it used to be 'R. Waring.'"
"Yes."