ely after the panic last May a new bank
had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the
tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer
office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being
summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn
features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and
he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face.

"Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before
yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's
will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?"

"Not till next December, sir," she replied.

"Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face
contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across
him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor.
You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age."

"Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously.

"None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe,
it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you
to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be
a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every
opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady,
my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should
get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as
my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a
few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and
surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never
disappoint me."

He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his
letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his
heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some
young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and
bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his
friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would
leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should
be!

"It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not
afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from
fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr.
Roland most of all.