“Miss Phebe!” he said, taking both her hands in his.  “How glad I am to see you once more!”

Phebe shrank back from him with a little cry of dismay.  Ah! when does ever any thing happen exactly as we plan it shall?  She had pictured this meeting to herself over and over again during the long days of her seclusion,—­just what he would say and what she would say, and just how she would dress on that first day when she went down-stairs.  She meant to look so particularly nice on that first day!  And now to be caught in her plain little gray flannel wrapper with its simple red trimmings, her hair all loose and mussy, and even her very oldest slippers on,—­and with Gerald standing beside her in her rich, dainty, becoming attire as if to make the contrast all the more painfully striking!  Poor little Cinderella Phebe!  She looked up at Denham almost ready to cry, and said never a word.

“It has been such a long, long time!” he said, still holding her hands.  “I do not know how we have made out to spare you.”

“We shall not have to spare her much longer,” said Gerald.  “She is coming down-stairs to-morrow.”

And then Halloway dropped Phebe’s hands, and turning to Gerald, held out a hand to her.

“Forgive me for not even noticing you, Miss Vernor.  At first I could only see Miss Phebe.”

“Doesn’t Gerald look nice?” asked Phebe, trying to choke back the uncomfortable lump rising so unreasonably in her throat.  Halloway moved back a little and looked at Gerald, who stood fastening her long glove, utterly unconscious or unheedful of his scrutiny.  The light in the niche at the head of the stairs threw its full glow over both her and Phebe.

“Yes,” he answered, quietly, after an imperceptible pause, and, as he turned back to Phebe, it seemed to her that his eyes glanced over her with a suddenly awakened consciousness of the wrapper and the tumbled hair and even of the little worn-out slippers.  “You look pale,” he said, kindly.  “I know I am wrong to keep you standing here just because it is so pleasant to see you again.  And it is easier to say good-by, knowing I have only till to-morrow to wait now. A demain.”

“Good-night,” murmured Phebe, without looking up; “good-night, Gerald.”  And then she turned quickly into her room, and closed the door, and stood stock-still behind it, holding her breath and listening intently till she heard the front door close upon them and the last echo of their footsteps die away in the street outside.  Then she flung herself face downward upon the bed and cried miserably to herself out of sheer disappointment.  Why did it have to be all so very, very different from her dream?

CHAPTER XI.

“MY SON DICK.”