Imperfect as it was, however, it conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace, such as no practised art of external manners could have attained. It was too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected afterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man.

“Dear Clifford,” said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes a wayward infant, “this is our cousin Phoebe, — little Phoebe Pyncheon, — Arthur’s only child, you know. She has come from the country to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grown to be very lonely now.”

“Phoebe — Phoebe Pyncheon? — Phoebe?” repeated the guest, with a strange, sluggish, ill-defined utterance. “Arthur’s child!