"'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into her sister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we've ben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed a postman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house." "No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phoebe. Rebecca grunted crossly. "I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher, Phoebe," she said. "Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phoebe, saucily. Rebecca's face brightened. "My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phoebe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days." "Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phoebe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting--without the house?" "Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?" "Yes--say it so an thou wilt," said Phoebe, shyly. "Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do--at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blushing. "Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will," Phoebe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot." "Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too." Phoebe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca. "What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?" "You mean Sir Guy," said Phoebe, in injured tones. "Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?" "Why, truth to tell," said Phoebe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca." "My sakes--that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it? You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?" "Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?" She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange. "Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I? Shall I not?" "Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phoebe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London." "The Post-Office--" Phoebe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.