I went to bed, and dreamed that I was as tall as cousin Phillis, and had a sudden and miraculous growth of whisker, and a still more miraculous acquaintance with Latin and Greek. Alas! I wakened up still a short, beardless lad, with “tempus fugit” for my sole remembrance of the little Latin I had once learnt. While I was dressing, a bright thought came over me: I could question cousin Phillis, instead of her questioning me, and so manage to keep the choice of the subjects of conversation in my own power. Early as it was, every one had breakfasted, and my basin of bread and milk was put on the oven-top to await my coming down. Every one was gone about their work. The first to come into the house-place was Phillis with a basket of eggs. Faithful to my resolution, I asked,— “What are those?” She looked at me for a moment, and then said gravely,— “Potatoes!” “No! they are not,” said I. “They are eggs. What do you mean by saying they are potatoes?” “What do you mean by asking me what they were, when they were plain to be seen?” retorted she. We were both getting a little angry with each other. “I don’t know. I wanted to begin to talk to you; and I was afraid you would talk to me about books as you did yesterday. I have not read much; and you and the minister have read so much.” “I have not,” said she. “But you are our guest; and mother says I must make it pleasant to you. We won’t talk of books. What must we talk about?” “I don’t know. How old are you?” “Seventeen last May. How old are you?” “I am nineteen. Older than you by nearly two years,” said I, drawing myself up to my full height. “I should not have thought you were above sixteen,” she replied, as quietly as if she were not saying the most provoking thing she possibly could. Then came a pause. “What are you going to do now?” asked I. “I should be dusting the bed-chambers; but mother said I had better stay and make it pleasant to you,” said she, a little plaintively, as if dusting rooms was far the easiest task. “Will you take me to see the live-stock? I like animals, though I don’t know much about them.” “Oh, do you? I am so glad! I was afraid you would not like animals, as you did not like books.” I wondered why she said this. I think it was because she had begun to fancy all our tastes must be dissimilar. We went together all through the farm-yard; we fed the poultry, she kneeling down with her pinafore full of corn and meal, and tempting the little timid, downy chickens upon it, much to the anxiety of the fussy ruffled hen, their mother. She called to the pigeons, who fluttered down at the sound of her voice. She and I examined the great sleek cart-horses; sympathized in our dislike of pigs; fed the calves; coaxed the sick cow, Daisy; and admired the others out at pasture; and came back tired and hungry and dirty at dinner-time, having quite forgotten that there were such things as dead languages, and consequently capital friends. PART II