“Here, you odd little chicken!” said Phoebe; “here are some nice crumbs for you!”

The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its, mother — possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in miniature, — mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on Phoebe’s shoulder.

“That little fowl pays you a high compliment!” said a voice behind Phoebe.

Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had found access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable than that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and, while Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.