me, as I had supposed he
would. Of course I never thought of acknowledging to myself that it was
possible for me to love him. I was too good a sophist for that; and,
indeed, I think that between a perfect friendship and a perfect love a
fainter distinction exists than many people imagine. I have known
likings to be colored as rosily as love, and seen what called itself
love as cold as the chilliest liking.

One day, after spring had been some time come, I was returning from a
walk and saw that Mr. Ames's house was open. I could not see any person
there; but the door and windows were opened, and a faint smoke crept out
of the chimney and up among the new spring foliage after the squirrels.
I had walked some distance, and was tired, and the weather was not
perfect; but I thought I would go round that way and see what was going
on. It was one of those charming child-days in early May, laughing and
crying all in one, the fine mist-drops shining down in the sun's rays,
like star-dust from some new world in process of rasping up for use. I
liked such days. The showers were as good for me as for the trees. I
grew and budded under them, and they filled my soul's soil full of
singing brooks.

When I reached the lawn before the door, Mr. Ames came out to see
me,--so glad to meet that he held my hand and drew me in, asking two or
three times how I was and if I were glad to see him. He had called at
the house and seen Cousin Mary, on his way over, he said,--for he was
hungering for a sight of us. He was not looking as well as when he left
in the autumn,--thinner, paler, and with a more anxious expression when
he was not speaking; but when I began to talk with him, he brightened
up, and seemed like his old self. He had two or three workmen already
tearing down portions of the finishing, and after a few moments asked me
to go round and see what improvements he was to make. We stopped at last
at his chamber, a room that looked through the foliage towards my house.

"This is my lounging-place," he said, pointing to the sofa beneath the
window. "I shall sit here with my cigar and watch you this summer; so be
circumspect! But are you sure that you are glad to see me?"

"To be sure. Do you take me for a heathen?" I said. "But what are you
making such a change for? Couldn't the old house content you?"

"It satisfies me well enough; but I expect visitors this summer who are
quite fastidious, and this old worm-eaten wood-work wouldn't d