“The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance,” continued he in a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phœbe at first fancied it. “Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem very affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces so soon! They have known me much longer, but never honor me with any familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food. Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other traditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!” “The secret is,” said Phœbe, smiling, “that I have learned how to talk with hens and chickens.” “Ah, but these hens,” answered the young man,—“these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a barn-yard fowl. I prefer to think—and so would Miss Hepzibah—that they recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?” “My name is Phœbe Pyncheon,” said the girl, with a manner of some reserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other than the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid had given her a disagreeable idea. “I did not know that my cousin Hepzibah’s garden was under another person’s care.” “Yes,” said Holgrave, “I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature and simplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reaped here. I turn up the earth by way of pastime. My sober occupation, so far as I have any, is with a lighter material. In short, I make pictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my own trade, I have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in one of these dusky gables. It is like a bandage over one’s eyes, to come into it. But would you like to see a specimen of my productions?” “A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?” asked Phœbe with less reserve; for, in spite of prejudice, her own youthfulness sprang forward to meet his. “I don’t much like pictures of that sort,—they are so hard and stern; besides dodging away from the eye, and trying to escape altogether. They are conscious of looking very unamiable, I suppose, and therefore hate to be seen.”