"Oh, 'tain't a question of eyesight," Phœbe replied, laughing.
"Oh, I see," said Droop, smiling slyly, "letters from some young feller, eh?"
He winked knowingly at Rebecca, who drew herself up indignantly and looked severely down at her knitting.
Phœbe blushed, but replied quite calmly:
"Yes—some of them from a young man, but they weren't any of them written to me."
"No?" said Droop. "Who was they to—'f I may ask?"
"They were all written to this lady."
Phœbe held something out for Droop's inspection, and he walked over to take it.
He recognized at once the miniature on ivory which he had seen once before in Peltonville.
"Well," he said, taking the portrait from her and eying it with his head on one side, "if ye hadn't said 'twasn't you, I'd certainly a-thought 'twas. I'd mos' sworn 'twas your photygraph, Cousin Phœbe. Who is it, anyway?"