Chapter: AFTER an early tea, the little country-girl strayed into the garden.
The enclosure had formerly been very extensive, but was now contracted
within small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences,
       and partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street.
       In its centre was a grass-plat, surrounding a ruinous little structure,
       which showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it had
       once been a summer-house.  A hop-vine, springing from last year's root,
       was beginning to clamber over it, but would be long in covering the
       roof with its green mantle.  Three of the seven gables either fronted
       or looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into the
       garden.

       The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of
       time; such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks and
       seed--vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their
       death than ever while flaunting in the sun.  The evil of these departed
       years would naturally have sprung up again, in such rank weeds
       (symbolic of the transmitted vices of society) as are always prone to
       root themselves about human dwellings.  Phoebe saw, however, that their
       growth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestowed
       daily and systematically on the garden.  The white double rosebush had
       evidently been propped up anew against the house since the commencement
       of the season; and a pear-tree and three damson-trees, which, except a
       row of currant-bushes, constituted the only varieties of fruit, bore
       marks of the recent amputation of several superfluous or defective
       limbs.  There were also a few species of antique and hereditary
       flowers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupulously weeded; as
       if some person, either out of love or curiosity, had been anxious to
       bring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining.  The
       remainder of the garden presented a well-selected assortment of
       esculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state of advancement.  Summer
       squashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a
       tendency to spread away from the main stock, and ramble far and wide;
       two or three rows of string-beans and as many more that were about to
       festoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered
       and sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and promised an early
       and abundant harvest.

       Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted
       these vegetables, and kept the soil so clean and orderly.  Not surely
       her cousin Hepzibah's, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like
       employment of cultivating flowers, and--with her recluse habits, and
       tendency to shelter herself within the dismal shadow of the
       house--would hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weed
       and hoe among the fraternity of beans and squashes.

       It being her first day of complete estrangement from rural objects,
       Phoebe found an unexpected charm in this little nook of grass, and
       foliage, and aristocratic flowers, and plebeian vegetables.  The eye of
       Heaven seemed to look down into it pleasantly, and with a peculiar
       smile, as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere overwhelmed, and
       driven out of the dusty town, had here been able to retain a
       breathing-place.  The spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a
       very gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built their
       nest in the pear-tree, and were making themselves exceedingly busy and
       happy in the dark intricacy of its boughs.  Bees, too,--strange to
       say,--had thought it worth their while to come hither, possibly from
       the range of hives beside some farm-house miles away.  How many aerial
       voyages might they have made, in quest of honey, or honey-laden,
       betwixt dawn and sunset! Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a
       pleasant hum out of one or two of the squash-blossoms, in the depths of
       which these bees were plying their golden labor.  There was one other
       object in the garden which Nature might fairly claim as her inalienable
       property, in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own.  This
       was a fountain, set round with a rim of old mossy stones, and paved, in
       its bed, with what appeared to be a sort of mosaic-work of variously
       colored pebbles.  The play and slight agitation of the water, in its
       upward gush, wrought magically with these variegated pebbles, and made
       a continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing too
       suddenly to be definable.  Thence, swelling over the rim of moss-grown
       stones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we regret to
       call a gutter, rather than a channel.  Nor must we forget to mention a
       hen-coop of very reverend antiquity that stood in the farther corner of
       the garden, not a great way from the fountain.   It now contained only
       Chanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken.  All of them were
       pure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an
       heirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime,
       to have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score of
       delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince's table.  In proof of the
       authenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited
       the shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have been
       ashamed of.  Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger
       than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind
       of movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the
       variations of their clucking and cackling.  It was evident that the
       race had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of
       too strict a watchfulness to keep it pure.  These feathered people had
       existed too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the present
       representatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to be
       aware.  They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now and
       then an egg, and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their own,
       but that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so
       admirable a breed of fowls.  The distinguishing mark of the hens was a
       crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly
       and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah's turban, that Phoebe--to the
       poignant distress of her conscience, but inevitably--was led to fancy a
       general resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable
       relative.

       The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes,
       and other such scraps as were suitable to the accommodating appetite of
       fowls.  Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to
       recognize.  The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran,
       with some show of liveliness, to her feet; while Chanticleer and the
       ladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, and
       then croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage opinions of
       her character.  So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as to
       give color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a
       time-honored race, but that they had existed, in their individual
       capacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and
       were somehow mixed up with its destiny.  They were a species of
       tutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differently
       from most other guardian angels.

       "Here, you odd little chicken!" said Phoebe; "here are some nice crumbs
       for you!"

       The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its
       mother--possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in
       miniature,--mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on
       Phoebe's shoulder.

       "That little fowl pays you a high compliment!" said a voice behind
       Phoebe.

       Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had
       found access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable
       than that whence she had emerged.  He held a hoe in his hand, and,
       while Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself
       with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.

       "The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance," continued he
       in a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phoebe 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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."

       "If you would permit me," said the artist, looking at Phoebe, "I should
       like to try whether the daguerreotype can bring out disagreeable traits
       on a perfectly amiable face.  But there certainly is truth in what you
       have said.  Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the very
       sufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the originals are so.  There is
       a wonderful insight in Heaven's broad and simple sunshine.  While we
       give it credit only for depicting the merest surface, it actually
       brings out the secret character with a truth that no painter would ever
       venture upon, even could he detect it.  There is, at least, no flattery
       in my humble line of art.  Now, here is a likeness which I have taken
       over and over again, and still with no better result.  Yet the original
       wears, to common eyes, a very different expression.  It would gratify
       me to have your judgment on this character."

       He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case.  Phoebe
       merely glanced at it, and gave it back.

       "I know the face," she replied; "for its stern eye has been following
       me about all day.  It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the
       parlor.  To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait
       without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a
       modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band.  I don't
       think him improved by your alterations."

       "You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer,"
       said Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck.  "I can assure you
       that this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably meet.
       Now, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world's
       eye,--and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,--an
       exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness
       of heart, sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that
       cast.  The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be
       coaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part.  Here
       we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as
       ice.  Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At that
       mouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign
       smile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a
       public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be
       engraved."

       "Well, I don't wish to see it any more," observed Phoebe, turning away
       her eyes.  "It is certainly very like the old portrait.  But my cousin
       Hepzibah has another picture,--a miniature.  If the original is still
       in the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern and
       hard."

       "You have seen that picture, then!" exclaimed the artist, with an
       expression of much interest.  "I never did, but have a great curiosity
       to do so.  And you judge favorably of the face?"

       "There never was a sweeter one," said Phoebe.  "It is almost too soft
       and gentle for a man's."

       "Is there nothing wild in the eye?" continued Holgrave, so earnestly
       that it embarrassed Phoebe, as did also the quiet freedom with which he
       presumed on their so recent acquaintance.  "Is there nothing dark or
       sinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been
       guilty of a great crime?"

       "It is nonsense," said Phoebe a little impatiently, "for us to talk
       about a picture which you have never seen.  You mistake it for some
       other.  A crime, indeed! Since you are a friend of my cousin
       Hepzibah's, you should ask her to show you the picture."

       "It will suit my purpose still better to see the original," replied the
       daguerreotypist coolly.  "As to his character, we need not discuss its
       points; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one
       which called itself competent.  But, stay! Do not go yet, if you
       please! I have a proposition to make you."

       Phoebe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some
       hesitation; for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, on
       better observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony
       than any approach to offensive rudeness.  There was an odd kind of
       authority, too, in what he now proceeded to say, rather as if the
       garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by
       Hepzibah's courtesy.

       "If agreeable to you," he observed, "it would give me pleasure to turn
       over these flowers, and those ancient and respectable fowls, to your
       care.  Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon
       feel the need of some such out-of-door employment.  My own sphere does
       not so much lie among flowers.  You can trim and tend them, therefore,
       as you please; and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now
       and then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables with
       which I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah's table.  So we will be
       fellow-laborers, somewhat on the community system."

       Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe
       accordingly betook herself to weeding a flower-bed, but busied herself
       still more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so
       unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity.  She
       did not altogether like him.  His character perplexed the little
       country-girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the
       tone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impression
       left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified
       it, almost sternness.  She rebelled, as it were, against a certain
       magnetic element in the artist's nature, which he exercised towards
       her, possibly without being conscious of it.

       After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of the
       fruit-trees and the surrounding buildings, threw an obscurity over the
       garden.

       "There," said Holgrave, "it is time to give over work! That last stroke
       of the hoe has cut off a beanstalk.  Good-night, Miss Phoebe Pyncheon!
       Any bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in your hair, and
       come to my rooms in Central Street, I will seize the purest ray of
       sunshine, and make a picture of the flower and its wearer."  He retired
       towards his own solitary gable, but turned his head, on reaching the
       door, and called to Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter in
       it, yet which seemed to be more than half in earnest.

       "Be careful not to drink at Maule's well!" said he.  "Neither drink nor
       bathe your face in it!"

       "Maule's well!" answered Phoebe.  "Is that it with the rim of mossy
       stones? I have no thought of drinking there,--but why not?"

       "Oh," rejoined the daguerreotypist, "because, like an old lady's cup of
       tea, it is water bewitched!"

       He vanished; and Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light,
       and then the steady beam of a lamp, in a chamber of the gable.  On
       returning into Hepzibah's apartment of the house, she found the
       low-studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate
       the interior.  She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gaunt
       figure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight-backed
       chairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which
       showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards a
       corner.

       "Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?" she asked.

       "Do, if you please, my dear child," answered Hepzibah.  "But put it on
       the table in the corner of the passage.  My eyes are weak; and I can
       seldom bear the lamplight on them."

       What an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive to
       every emotion of the human soul! In Hepzibah's tone, at that moment,
       there was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words,
       commonplace as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart.
       Again, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that her
       cousin spoke to her.

       "In a moment, cousin!" answered the girl.  "These matches just glimmer,
       and go out."

       But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmur
       of an unknown voice.  It was strangely indistinct, however, and less
       like articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the
       utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect.  So
       vague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe's mind was that of
       unreality.  She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound
       for that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her
       fancy.

       She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor.
       Hepzibah's form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, was
       now less imperfectly visible.  In the remoter parts of the room,
       however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was
       nearly the same obscurity as before.

       "Cousin," said Phoebe, "did you speak to me just now?"

       "No, child!" replied Hepzibah.

       Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them!
       Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of
       the deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundest
       emotion.  There was a tremor in it, too, that--as all strong feeling is
       electric--partly communicated itself to Phoebe.  The girl sat silently
       for a moment.  But soon, her senses being very acute, she became
       conscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room.
       Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and
       healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a
       spiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand.

       "My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "is
       there not some one in the room with us?"

       "Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause,
       "you were up betimes, and have been busy all day.  Pray go to bed; for
       I am sure you must need rest.  I will sit in the parlor awhile, and
       collect my thoughts.  It has been my custom for more years, child, than
       you have lived!"  While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept
       forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat
       against the girl's bosom with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell.
       How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it
       could afford to well over thus abundantly?

       "Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah's
       manner.  "If you begin to love me, I am glad!"

       She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very
       profoundly.  At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and, as
       it were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a
       footstep mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision.
       The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it, was going up along with
       the footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebe
       heard that strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to an
       indistinct shadow of human utterance.

 Maule's Well: After an early tea, Phoebe goes into the garden, which had fallen into decay. There are vegetables which make Phoebe wonder who had planted them, for it was surely not Hepzibah. She looks at the hen-coop, where the only hens remaining are no larger than pigeons and move oddly. Their race had degenerated. Holgrave enters the garden as Phoebe is feeding the hens. He tells Phoebe that he makes pictures out of sunshine, and says that daguerreotypes bring out the secret character of a person that no painting could ever detect. There is no flattery in his art. He shows her a daguerreotype that she thinks is Colonel Pyncheon in modern dress. Phoebe mentions the miniature that Hepzibah showed her, and Holgrave asks Phoebe whether the person in that picture looks capable of committing a great crime. That night, Phoebe finds Hepzibah awake in the parlor. Phoebe hears Hepzibah murmur, a sound that is so vague that it seems to come from pure emotion. Hepzibah asks Phoebe to go to sleep, while she will stay awake to collect her thoughts.

