a month, perhaps: both knew that. But the friendship of
young girls can build a week into a monstrous void. God bless their dear
hearts, and, if the wish be not wicked, keep them always as fresh!

Phil, who is a sturdy and somewhat timid lover, without knowing it,
affects an air of composure, and says,--

"I hope you'll have a good time, Adele; and I suppose you'll forget us
all here in Ashfield."

"No, you don't suppose any such thing, Mister Philip," says Adele,
roundly, and with a frank, full look at him that makes the color come to
his face; and he laughs, but not easily.

"Well, good bye, Adele."

She takes his hand, eagerly.

"Good bye, Phil; you 're a dear, good fellow; and you've been very kind
to me."

Possibly there may have been a little water gathering in her eye as she
spoke. It is certain that the upper lip of Phil trembled as he strolled
away. After walking a few paces out of sight and hearing, snapping his
fingers nervously the while, he used some bad interjectional language,
which we shall express more moderately.

"_Hang_ it, I'm sorry, _deused_ sorry! I didn't think I liked her so."

----Walking, with head down, snapping those fingers of his,--past his
own gate a long way, (though it is full dinner hour,)--mumbling again,--

"By George! I believe I ought to have said something; but, _hang_ it,
what could a fellow say?"

He hears the coach driving off, and with a sudden thought rushes home,
enters quietly, goes up the stairs, makes a feint as if he were entering
his chamber, but passes on tiptoe into the garret, opens the roof-door,
and from the housetop catches a last glimpse of the stage-coach rattling
down the south road. A wood hides it presently.

"Confound it all!" he says, with great heartiness, and goes down to
dinner.

"My son, you haven't a good appetite," says the kindly mother.

"I ate a big lunch," says Phil.

He knew it was a whopper.

XXXIII.

It is at Jennings's old City Hotel, far down Broadway, that Maverick has
taken rooms and awaits the arrival of Adele. That glimpse of her upon
the street of Ashfield (ay, he knew it must be she!) has added pride to
the instinctive love of the parent. The elastic step, the graceful
figure, the beaming, sunny face,--they all haunt him; they put him in a
fever of expectation. He reads over again the few last letters of hers
under a new light; up and down along the page, that lithe, tall figure
is always coming forward, and the