that for the world."

"I don't think you could hurt or vex me in any way," said Phebe,
"excepting only through Gerald. For you don't know how I love her, Mr.
Halloway. I love her with all my heart and soul, I think, oh,
more--almost more--than any one else in the world."

"I know you do," he answered. "It is a love to envy her." Phebe was still
looking up at him from her low stool, her face raised as if in appeal.
She always looked very young for her years, and now she seemed not more
than a child of sixteen in the waning light. He could not help it this
time; he laid his hand very lightly for one briefest instant on her
pretty hair. "But you will not be less friends with me because I like
_you_ best?"

"I will not ever be less friends with you," Phebe replied, soberly. "I
don't change so."

"No," he said; "I know you do not. Nor do I."

And then he moved away from her, and began telling an irresistibly comic
story about a call he had made on a poor woman that afternoon (he could
not for the life of him help seeing the ludicrous side of every thing),
and from one subject they passed to another, and when Soeur Angélique
summoned them to tea, she found her reverend brother standing in the
middle of the room in the full swing of a chorus from "The Pirates," with
Phebe whistling the liveliest possible accompaniment, and both of them
gesticulating wildly. He stopped with a laugh as his sister appeared in
the door-way.