"Can it be Phoebe?" questioned she within herself. "It must be little

Phoebe; for it can be nobody else,--and there is a look of her father

about her, too! But what does she want here? And how like a country

cousin, to come down upon a poor body in this way, without so much as a

day's notice, or asking whether she would be welcome! Well; she must

have a night's lodging, I suppose; and to-morrow the child shall go

back to her mother."

Phoebe, it must be understood, was that one little offshoot of the

Pyncheon race to whom we have already referred, as a native of a rural

part of New England, where the old fashions and feelings of


relationship are still partially kept up. In her own circle, it was

regarded as by no means improper for kinsfolk to visit one another

without invitation, or preliminary and ceremonious warning. Yet, in

consideration of Miss Hepzibah's recluse way of life, a letter had

actually been written and despatched, conveying information of Phoebe's

projected visit. This epistle, for three or four days past, had been

in the pocket of the penny-postman, who, happening to have no other

business in Pyncheon Street, had not yet made it convenient to call at

the House of the Seven Gables.

"No--she can stay only one night," said Hepzibah, unbolting the door.

"If Clifford were to find her here, it might disturb him!"