"But surely, Phœbe, you see that a simple life is more conducive to happiness than a complex, artificial life can possibly be. It is my duty to strive for the saving of souls and we have been friends so long that I take a special interest in you and desire to see you safe in the shelter of the Church." "Phares, I'll tell you frankly, if I ever wear plain garb it will be because I _feel_ that it is the right thing for me to do, not because some person persuades me to." "Of course, that is the only way to come. But can't you come now?" "I can't. I hurt you when I say that, but I want you to be my good friend, as always, in spite of my worldliness. Will you, Phares?" He opened his lips to speak, but she went on quickly: "Because I am learning every day how much I need the help and friendship of all my friends." He longed to throw down the reins he was holding and tell her what was in his heart, but something in her manner, her peculiar stress on the word "friendship" restrained him. She was, after all, only a child. Only eighteen--too young to think of marriage. He could wait a while longer before he told her of his love and his desire to marry her. "I will, Phœbe," he promised. "I'll be your friend, always." "I thought so," she breathed deeply in relief. "I knew you wouldn't fail me. Look at that field, Phares--oh, this is a perfect day! There should be a superlative form of perfect for a day like this! Those fields have as many colors as the shades reflected on a copper plate: lilac, tan, purple, rose, green and brown." The preacher answered a mere "Yes." She turned again and looked at the fields they were passing. "Perhaps," she thought, "before that corn is ripe I'll be in Philadelphia!" But she did not utter the thought, for she knew the preacher would not approve of her going to the city. He should know nothing about it until it was definitely settled. The thought of studying music in Philadelphia left her restless. If only the preacher would be more talkative! "It's just perfect to-day, isn't it, Phares?" she asked radiantly, resolved to make him talk. But his answers were so perfunctory that she turned her head, made a little grimace through the open side of the carriage and mentally dubbed him "Bump-on-log." Very well, if he felt indisposed to talk to her, she could enjoy the drive without his voice! Suddenly she laughed outright. "What----" he looked at her, puzzled. "What's funny?" she finished. "You." "I?" "Yes, you. If sales affect you like this you must be careful to avoid them. You've been half asleep for the last half hour. I think the horse knows the way home; you haven't been driving at all." "I have not been asleep," he contradicted gravely, "just thinking." "Must be deep thoughts." "They were--shall I tell them to you?" "Oh, no, not to-day!" she cried. "I've had enough excitement for one day. Some other time. Besides, we are almost home."