"What brought ye so early to home, Phoebe?" she said. "Warn't there no Shakespeare meetin' to-day?" "No. Mis' Beecher was to lead, an' she's been taken sick, so I came right home. But you can't sneak out of answerin' me like that, Miss Slyboots," Phoebe continued, in high spirits. Seating herself on the arm of her sister's chair, she put her arms about her neck and, bending over, whispered: "Tell me honest, now, Rebecca, did Joe Chandler ever propose to you?" "No, he never did!" the elder sister exclaimed, rising suddenly. "Now, Mr. Droop," she continued, "your hull plan is jest too absurd to think of----" Droop tried to expostulate, but she raised her voice, speaking more quickly. "An' you come 'round again after supper an' we'll tell ye what we've decided," she concluded. The humor of this reply was lost on Copernicus, but he moved toward the door with a sense of distinct encouragement. "Remember the rumpus we'll make with all them inventions," Droop called back as he walked toward the gate, "think of the money we'll make!" But Rebecca was thinking of something very different as she stood at the front door gazing with softened eyes at the pasture and woods beyond the road. She seemed to see a self-willed girl breaking her own heart and another's rather than acknowledge a silly error. She was wondering if that had really been Rebecca Wise. She felt again all the old bewitching heart-pangs, sweetened and mellowed by time, and she wondered if she were _now_ really Rebecca Wise. CHAPTER II A VISIT TO THE PANCHRONICON At precisely eight o'clock that evening, a knock was again heard at the door of the Wise home, and Droop was admitted by the younger sister. She did not speak, and her face was invisible in the dark hall. The visitor turned to the right and entered the parlor, followed by his young hostess. Rebecca was sitting by the lamp, sewing. As she looked up and nodded, Droop saw that her features expressed only gloomy severity. He turned in consternation and caught sight for the first time of Phoebe's face. Her eyes and pretty nose were red and her mouth was drawn into a curve of plaintive rebellion. "Set down, Mr. Droop. Give me yer hat," she said; and there was a suspicious catch in her voice. The visitor seated himself by the centre-table beside the lamp and sat slowly rubbing his hands, the while he gazed mournfully from one to the other of the silent sisters. Phoebe sat on the long horse-hair "settle," and played moodily with the tassel hanging at its head. There was a long pause. Each of the women seemed bent on forcing the other to break the silence. Poor Droop felt that his plans were doomed, and he dared not urge either woman to speech, lest he hear the death-sentence of his hopes. Finally, however, the awkward silence became unbearable. "Well?" he said, inquiringly, still rubbing his hands. "Well," Rebecca exclaimed, "it seems it's not to be done," and she looked reproachfully at Phoebe.