We sat down on a rude bench in the path, and I told her of my childhood, of the days when Sylvia and I were sweethearts, of our little quarrels and frolics, of her mother's beauty and gentleness. The girl laughed at the recital of our misadventures, and the tears came into her eyes when I touched on my boyish affection for my playmate. Then she told me of her own life, so peaceful and happy in the little village, and in the neighboring town, where she had been educated with all the care and diligence of the New England impulse. I looked at my watch. "It is quarter past eleven," I said ruefully, "and my train left at ten." "There's another train at three," she replied. "You will go home and dine with us? We dine at twelve in the country, you know." If I was somewhat ashamed to face Mary Eastmann, she received us with the same stolidity she had manifested when we first met, and at once insisted that I should remain for dinner. "Go into the parlor," she said abruptly. Phyllis plucked the sleeve of my coat. "Don't go in there," she whispered; "that's Aunt Mary's room exclusively, and I'm afraid you'll not find it very cheerful. Come out on the porch." "I know the room," I whispered back, as we went out together. "At least I know the type. Lots of horse-hair belongings. Square piano against the wall. Wax flowers under a glass case on the mantel. Steel engravings of Washington crossing the Delaware. Family album, huge Bible, and 'Famous Women of Two Centuries' on the centre table. Seashells, blue wedgwood and German china things mingled in delightful confusion on the what-not. If not wax flowers, it's wax fruit." Phyllis laughed--how much her laugh was like her mother's--and nodded her head. "Not a bad description," she assented; "you must have the gift of second sight." "Not second sight. Suppose we call it the gift of second childhood." We sat on the porch and looked down on the lawn that sloped to the orchard, and watched the robins run across the grass. And I pointed out to Phyllis the very tree under which Sylvia and I had stood the day we had our first memorable quarrel, confessing that while at the time there was no doubt in my mind that Sylvia was clearly at fault, I was now prepared to concede, after plenty of reflection, that possibly she might have had a reasonable defence. The recital of this pathetic incident led to other reminiscences connected with the old house and its grounds, and I was hardly in the second chapter when Mary came out and ordered us in to dinner. Mary never invited, never requested; she merely ordered. We sat at the table, and at a severe look from Mary I stopped fumbling with my napkin, while Phyllis--sweet saint!--folded her hands and asked the divine blessing. Pagan philosopher that I was, I was singularly moved by the simple faith of these two women, and I think that when I am led back into the fold of my family creed, a girl as young and fair and holy as Phyllis will be the angel to guide me.