During the few days that intervened before Dick’s birthday, little else was talked of anywhere than Mr. Hardcastle’s party, which was never spoken of, by the way, as Mrs. Hardcastle’s party, though upon that good lady devolved the onus of the weighty preparations.  It seemed purely Mr. Hardcastle’s affair, just as every thing did in which he was in any way concerned.  Impromptu meetings were held at every house in turn to discuss the coming event, and the latest bits of information regarding it were retailed with embellishments proportionate to the imagination of the accidental narrator.  Not a soul in Joppa but knew every proposed feature of the entertainment better than the hosts themselves.  The old people said it would be damp and rheumatic and would certainly be the death of them.  The young people said it would be divine, and quite worth dying for.  The people who were neither old nor young said nobody could tell how it would be till after it was over, and they felt it their duty to go to look after the others.  The day came, brilliantly clear and soft and warm:  such a day, in short, as Mr. Hardcastle had felt to be his due, and had expected of the elements all along as the one token of regard in their power to accord him, and he accepted his friends’ congratulations upon it with a grave bow which seemed to say:  “I ordered it so.  Pray, did you suppose I had forgotten to attend to the weather?” The sun set in a cloudless heaven; the evening star hung quivering over the green-topped hills; the twilight dropped noiseless and fragrant over earth and water, and the long-dreamed-of moment had arrived at last.

“Just let me have one more look at you, Gerald, before you start,” said Phebe, wistfully.  “Oh, how beautiful you look!  Nobody’s dresses ever fit like yours, and that great dark-red hat and feather,—­I thought I should not like it,—­but it makes a perfect picture of you.”

“For pity’s sake do stop!” begged Gerald.  “You know of all things I hate compliments.  Where’s that boy Olly?”

“He’s coming to me later.  I promised to make up to him for his not going to the party, poor little fellow.”

“Phebe, dear,” said Gerald, suddenly stooping to give her one of her rare kisses, “I cannot bear to leave you all alone so.  That miserable Miss Lydia and Olly aren’t any sort of company.  Let me stay with you.  I had a great deal rather.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Phebe, almost pushing her toward the door.  “I don’t mind a bit being left, and I wouldn’t have you stay for anything.  How lovely of you to propose it!  You are an angel, Gerald, even though you don’t like being told so, Good-by.  And—­Gerald,”—­she had followed her friend out into the hall, and stood leaning against the banisters,—­“Gerald, dear, will you tell Mr. Halloway I am going down-stairs to-morrow?”

Halloway was to be Gerald’s escort that evening, and stood waiting for her now in the hall below, and looking up at sound of Phebe’s voice, he gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and immediately sprang up the stairs.