a long breath, and said, 'To think of Margaret Moneypenny's boy
being in our house! I wish the minister was here. Phillis, in
what field is thy father to-day?'

'In the five-acre; they are beginning to cut the corn.'

'He'll not like being sent for, then, else I should have liked
you to have seen the minister. But the five-acre is a good step
off. You shall have a glass of wine and a bit of cake before you
stir from this house, though. You're bound to go, you say, or
else the minister comes in mostly when the men have their four
o'clock.'

'I must go--I ought to have been off before now.'

'Here, then, Phillis, take the keys.' She gave her daughter some
whispered directions, and Phillis left the room.

'She is my cousin, is she not?' I asked. I knew she was, but
somehow I wanted to talk of her, and did not know how to begin.

'Yes--Phillis Holman. She is our only child--now.'

Either from that 'now', or from a strange momentary wistfulness
in her eyes, I knew that there had been more children, who were
now dead.

'How old is cousin Phillis?' said I, scarcely venturing on the
new name, it seemed too prettily familiar for me to call her by
it; but cousin Holman took no notice of it, answering straight to