Not a thought of his daughter's happiness; she would have to do as he ordered. Thus, in the secrecy of Miser Farebrother's room, the web was forming in which Phoebe was to be entangled and her happiness wrecked. Outside this room everything was bright. Phoebe had told Aunt and Uncle Leth of her father's goodness, and they, simple-minded and guileless as herself, rejoiced with her. "Upon my word," said Uncle Leth, "it almost makes my dream true." Phoebe moved about, singing, smiling, laughing to herself now and then, and scattering flowers of gladness all around her. "I never saw our dear Phoebe so bright," said Aunt Leth. "Our visit to Parksides is a most beautiful surprise, quite different from what I expected." It was not the only surprise; there was another, even more subtly sweet to Phoebe. This was the appearance of Fred Cornwall, who, finding no bell at the gates by which he could announce his arrival, walked boldly through, and suddenly presented himself. They were all outside the house, awaiting Mrs. Pamflett's summons to tea. "Why," exclaimed the arch-conspirator Fanny, calling astonishment into her features, "if there isn't Mr. Cornwall coming up the walk! Who would have thought it? and how ever did he find us out?" Phoebe turned toward the young man, blushing, and with a palpitating heart. "I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," said he; "but as it is your birthday I thought I might venture." "How did you know?" asked Phoebe, her hand in his. "A little bird told me," was his reply. "How do you do, Aunt Leth? How do you do, Miss Fanny?" He exchanged pleasant words of greeting with his friends and looked very handsome, and by no means ill at ease, though an uninvited guest. Well dressed, well mannered, a gentleman every inch of him. At the door of the house, unseen by anyone of the happy group, Mrs. Pamflett appeared. She saw the meeting, and noted Phoebe's blushing face. She partly closed the door, and, retreating a step, stood there, watching and debating within herself. Fred Cornwall held in his hand a bunch of flowers, very choice specimens, loosely tied, and arranged with charming grace. Not in the shape of a regulation bouquet, but infinitely more beautiful in their apparently careless form. He offered them to Phoebe, and she accepted them. Mrs. Pamflett set her thin white lips close. Then the young gentleman presented, as birthday gifts, the presents he had bought for Phoebe on his Continental trip, accompanying them with heart-felt wishes. Phoebe, trembling, thrilling, was in the seventh heaven of joy. When, however, she recovered her self-possession, she felt herself in a difficulty. Would her father be angry? Aunt Leth, seeing the light shadow on her face, moved aside with her. "You are thinking of your father, Phoebe?" she said. "Yes, aunt."