"Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phœbe, saucily.
Rebecca's face brightened.
"My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phœbe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."
"Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phœbe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting—without the house?"
"Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?"
"Yes—say it so an thou wilt," said Phœbe, shyly.
"Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do—at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blushing.
"Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will," Phœbe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot."
"Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."
Phœbe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca.