She was seated on the steps of the veranda that skirted the little white cottage, and the absent gaze of her frank blue eyes was directed through the gate at the foot of the little path bordered by white rose-bushes. In her lap was a bundle of papers yellowed by age and an ivory miniature, evidently taken from the carved wooden box at her side.
Presently Rebecca straightened her back with a slight grimace and looked toward her sister, holding her mold-covered hands and fingers spread away from her.
"Well," she inquired, "hev ye found anythin'?"
Phœbe brought her gaze back from infinity and replied:
"No, I ain't. Only that one letter where Isaac Burton writes her that the players have come to town."
"I don't see what good them letters'll do ye in the Shakespeare class, then."
Rebecca spoke listlessly—more interested in her garden than in her sister's search.
"I don't know," Phœbe rejoined, dreamily. "It's awful funny—but whenever I take out these old letters there comes over me the feelin' that I'm 'way off in a strange country—and I feel like somebody else."
Rebecca looked up anxiously from her work.
"Them sort o' philanderin' notions are foolish, Phœbe," she said, and flicked a caterpillar over the fence.