“Here, then, Phillis, take the keys.” She gave her daughter some whispered directions, and Phillis left the room. “She is my cousin, is she not?” I asked. I knew she was, but somehow I wanted to talk of her, and did not know how to begin. “Yes—Phillis Holman. She is our only child—now.” Either from that “now”, or from a strange momentary wistfulness in her eyes, I knew that there had been more children, who were now dead. “How old is cousin Phillis?” said I, scarcely venturing on the new name, it seemed too prettily familiar for me to call her by it; but cousin Holman took no notice of it, answering straight to the purpose. “Seventeen last May-day; but the minister does not like to hear me calling it May-day,” said she, checking herself with a little awe. “Phillis was seventeen on the first day of May last,” she repeated in an emended edition. “And I am nineteen in another month,” thought I, to myself; I don’t know why. Then Phillis came in, carrying a tray with wine and cake upon it. “We keep a house-servant,” said cousin Holman, “but it is churning day, and she is busy.” It was meant as a little proud apology for her daughter’s being the handmaiden. “I like doing it, mother,” said Phillis, in her grave, full voice. I felt as if I were somebody in the Old Testament—who, I could not recollect—being served and waited upon by the daughter of the host. Was I like Abraham’s servant, when Rebekah gave him to drink at the well? I thought Isaac had not gone the pleasantest way to work in winning him a wife. But Phillis never thought about such things. She was a stately, gracious young woman, in the dress and with the simplicity of a child. As I had been taught, I drank to the health of my newfound cousin and her husband; and then I ventured to name my cousin Phillis with a little bow of my head towards her; but I was too awkward to look and see how she took my compliment. “I must go now,” said I, rising. Neither of the women had thought of sharing in the wine; cousin Holman had broken a bit of cake for form’s sake. “I wish the minister had been within,” said his wife, rising too. Secretly I was very glad he was not. I did not take kindly to ministers in those days, and I thought he must be a particular kind of man, by his objecting to the term May-day. But before I went, cousin Holman made me promise that I would come back on the Saturday following and spend Sunday with them; when I should see something of “the minister”. “Come on Friday, if you can,” were her last words as she stood at the curate-door, shading her eyes from the sinking sun with her hand. Inside the house sate cousin Phillis, her golden hair, her dazzling complexion, lighting up the corner of the vine-shadowed room. She had not risen when I bade her good-by; she had looked at me straight as she said her tranquil words of farewell.