"Let us go, Phares," she said, the silence becoming intolerable. "Yes," he agreed. "And Phœbe," he added as they turned away from the quarry, "I hope you'll learn your lesson quickly and come back to us." They stepped from the sheltered path into the sunshine of the lane. Long trails of green lay in their path as they went, but the eyes of both were temporarily blinded to the loveliness of the June. When they reached the dusty road the preacher said good-bye and went on his way to the town. She stood where he left her; the suppressed feelings of the past half hour soon struggled to avenge themselves and she sped down the lane again, back to the refuge of the kindly tree, and there, under her sycamore, burst into passionate weeping. Some time after Phares left the girl at the end of the lane David Eby came swinging down the hill and entered the Metz kitchen. "Hello, Aunt Maria. Where's Phœbe?" "Why, I guess over at the quarry. She went for pennyroyal long ago and then Phares came and he went over after her, but I saw him go on the way to town a bit ago, so I guess she's still over there. Guess she's stumbling around after a bird's nest or picking some weeds that ain't no good. I don't see why she stays so long." "I'll go see," volunteered David. "Yes well. And tell her to hurry with that pennyroyal. I want it for red ants, but they can carry away the whole jelly cupboard till she gets here." "I'll tell her," said David, and went off, whistling. Phœbe's paroxysm of grief was short-lived. The soothing quiet of the quarry calmed her, but her eyes showed telltale marks of tears as David's steps sounded down the lane. She rose hastily, then sank back to her seat under the tree as she saw the identity of the intruder. "Whew, Phœbe Metz," he said and whistled in his old, boyish way as he sat beside her, "you're crying!" "I am not," she declared. "Then you just have been! I haven't seen you in tears for many years. Phœbe"--he changed his tone--"what's gone wrong? Anything the matter?" "Don't," she sniffed, "don't ask me or you'll have me at it again." She steadied her voice and went on, "I came over here so gloriously happy I could have shouted, because daddy said last night that I may go to Philadelphia this fall----" "Gee whiz!" David grabbed her hand. "Why, I'm tickled to death. But what--why are you crying? Isn't that what you want?" "Yes." She smiled, pleased by his interest and eagerness. "But just as I was happiest along came Phares and told me it was wicked to go. It's all a mistake to go, he said." "Ach, the dickens with the old fossil!" David cried. "And I'm not going to take that back or be sorry for saying it. Hadn't he better sense than to throw a wet blanket on all your happiness!" "Perhaps I needed it. I was just about burning up with gladness." "Well, don't you care what he's thinking about it. You go learn music if you want to and your father lets you go. Did he see you cry?"