No romantic antecedents ever turned up: his lineage remained uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his own honest name--John Halifax.
Jael kept coming in and out of the parlour on divers excuses, eyeing very suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when she heard me laughing--a rare and notable fact--for mirth was not the fashion in our house, nor the tendency of my own nature.

Now this young lad, hardly as the world had knocked him about even already, had an overflowing spirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to me an inexpressible relief.

It gave me something I did not possess--something entirely new.

I could not look at the dancing brown eyes, at the quaint dimples of lurking fun that played hide-and-seek under the firm-set mouth, without feeling my heart cheered and delighted, like one brought out of a murky chamber into the open day.
But all this was highly objectionable to Jael.
"Phineas!"-- and she planted herself before me at the end of the table--"it's a fine, sunshiny day: thee ought to be out." "I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I went on talking.
"Phineas!"-- a second and more determined attack--"too much laughing bean't good for thee; and it's time this lad were going about his own business." "Hush!--nonsense, Jael." "No--she's right," said John Halifax, rising, while that look of premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased all the boyish fun from his face.

"I've had a merry day--thank you kindly for it! and now I'll be gone." Gone! It was not to be thought of--at least, not till my father came home.