”these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a barn-yard fowl. I prefer to think — and so would Miss Hepzibah — that they recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?”

“My name is Phoebe Pyncheon,” said the girl, with a manner of some reserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other than the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid had given her a disagreeable idea.

“I did not know that my cousin Hepzibah’s garden was under another person’s care.”

“Yes,” said Holgrave, “I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature and