Phœbe wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and tipped her head impudently at the cheerful ravisher.
"Now, God mend your manners, uncle!" she exclaimed. "What! Bedew my cheeks with the froth of good ale on your beard while my throat lacks the good body o't! Why, I'm burned up wi' thirst!"
"Good lack!" cried the goldsmith, turning briskly to the table. "Had ye no drink when ye first returned, then?"
He poured a smaller cupful of foaming ale from the great silver jug and brought it to Phœbe.
Rebecca clutched the stair-rail for support, and, with eyes ready to start from her head, she leaned forward, incredulous, as Phœbe took the cup from the merchant's hand.
Then she could keep silence no longer.
"Phœbe Wise!" she screamed, "be you goin' to drink ALE!"
No words can do justice to the awful emphasis which she laid upon that last dread word.
Phœbe turned and looked up roguishly at her sister, who was still half-way up the stairs. The young girl's left hand leaned on her uncle's arm, while with her right she extended the cup in salutation.
"Here's thy good health, nurse—and to our better acquaintance," she laughed.