“Judge Pyncheon!” answered her cousin angrily. “He will hardly cross the threshold while I live! No, no! But, Phœbe, you shall see the face of him I speak of.” She went in quest of the miniature already described, and returned with it in her hand. Giving it to Phœbe, she watched her features narrowly, and with a certain jealousy as to the mode in which the girl would show herself affected by the picture. “How do you like the face?” asked Hepzibah. “It is handsome!—it is very beautiful!” said Phœbe admiringly. “It is as sweet a face as a man’s can be, or ought to be. It has something of a child’s expression,—and yet not childish,—only one feels so very kindly towards him! He ought never to suffer anything. One would bear much for the sake of sparing him toil or sorrow. Who is it, Cousin Hepzibah?” “Did you never hear,” whispered her cousin, bending towards her, “of Clifford Pyncheon?” “Never. I thought there were no Pyncheons left, except yourself and our cousin Jaffrey,” answered Phœbe. “And yet I seem to have heard the name of Clifford Pyncheon. Yes!—from my father or my mother; but has he not been a long while dead?” “Well, well, child, perhaps he has!” said Hepzibah with a sad, hollow laugh; “but, in old houses like this, you know, dead people are very apt to come back again! We shall see. And, Cousin Phœbe, since, after all that I have said, your courage does not fail you, we will not part so soon. You are welcome, my child, for the present, to such a home as your kinswoman can offer you.” With this measured, but not exactly cold assurance of a hospitable purpose, Hepzibah kissed her cheek.