"Ah, Phœbe, I shall carry that dent to my grave with me!" said Doctor Stedman, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "You will never forgive it, I see."
"On the contrary, James, I forgave it long ago," said Miss Phœbe, graciously. "I was about to remark that though the other table has no dent, it has a scratch, made by Jocko in his youth, which years of labor have failed to efface. To my mind, the scratch is more noticeable than the dent, though both are to be regretted. Mr. Bliss, you are eating nothing. I beg you will allow me to give you a little honey! It is made by our own bees, and I think I can conscientiously recommend it. A little cream, you will find, takes off the edge of the sweet, and makes it more palatable."
"Miss Blyth, you must not give us too many good things," said the little minister, shaking his head, but holding out his plate none the less. "Thank you! thank you! most delicious, I am sure. I only hope it is not a snare of the flesh, Miss Phœbe."
He spoke merrily, in full enjoyment of his first spoonful of honey—not the colorless, flavorless white clover variety, but the goldenrod honey, rich and full in color and flavor. He smiled as he spoke, but Miss Phœbe looked grave.
"I trust not, indeed, Mr. Bliss," she said. "It would ill become my sister and me to lay snares of any kind for your feet. I always feel, however, that milk, or cream, and honey, being as it were natural gifts of a bounteous Providence, and frequently mentioned in the Scriptures, may be partaken of in moderation without fear of over-indulgence of sinful appetites. A little more? Another pound cake, Mrs. Bliss? No? Then shall we return to the parlor?"
"You spoke of your aunt, Mrs. Tree, Miss Blyth," said Mr. Bliss, when they were seated in the pleasant, shining parlor of the Temple of Vesta, the red curtains drawn, the fire crackling its usual cordial welcome.
"She is a—a singularly interesting person. What vivacity! what readiness! what a fund of information on a variety of subjects! She put me to the blush a dozen times in a talk I had with her recently."
"Have you been able to have any serious conversation with my aunt, Mr. Bliss?" asked Miss Phœbe, with a slight indication of frost in her tone. "I should be truly rejoiced to hear that such was the case."
"A—well, perhaps not exactly serious," owned the little minister, smiling and blushing. "In fact,"—here he caught his wife's eye, and checked himself—"in fact,—a—she is an extremely interesting person!" he concluded, lamely.
"Now, John, why should you stop?" cried Mrs. Bliss. "Mrs. Tree is the Miss Blyths' own aunt, and they must know her ever so much better than we do. She was just as funny as she could be, Miss Blyth. Deacon Weight had asked Mr. Bliss to call and reason with her on spiritual matters,—'wrestle' was what he said, but John told him he was no wrestler,—and so he went and tried; but he had hardly said a word—had you, John?—when Mrs. Tree asked him which he liked best, Shakespeare or the musical glasses—what do you suppose she meant, Miss Vesta? And when he said Shakespeare, of course, she began talking about Hamlet, and Macready, and Mrs. Siddons, who gave her an orange when she was a little girl, and he never got in another word, did you, John? And Deacon Weight was so put out when he heard about it! I'm gl—"