the frolics, the joys
that have belonged to this staid New England home. From the very
parsonage door she has brought away a sprig of a rampant sweet-brier
that has grown there this many a year, and its delicate leaflets are
among her chiefest treasures.

More eagerly than ever she listens to the kindly voices that greet her
and speak cheer to her in the home of the Elderkins,--voices which she
feels bitterly will soon be heard no more by her. Even the delicate and
always respectful attentions of Phil have an added, though a painful
charm, since they are so soon to have an end. She knows that she will
remember him always, though his tenderest words can waken no hopes of a
brighter future for her. She even takes him partially into her
confidence, and, strolling with him down the street one day, she decoys
him to the churchyard gate, where she points out to him the stone she
had placed over the grave that was so sacred to her.

"Phil," said she, "you have always been full of kindness for me. When I
am gone, have a care of that stone and grave, please, Phil. My best
friend lies there."

"I don't think you know your best friends," stammered Phil.

"I know you are one," said Adele, calmly, "and that I can trust you to
do what I ask about this grave. Can I, Phil?"

"You know you can, Adele; but I don't like this talk of your going, as
if you were never to be among us again. Do you think you can be happiest
yonder with strangers, Adele?"

"It's not--where I can be happiest, Phil; I don't ask myself that
question; I fear I never can";--and her lips trembled as she said it.

"You can,--you ought," burst out Phil, fired at sight of her emotion,
and would have gone on bravely and gallantly, may be, with the passion
that was surging in him, if a look of hers and a warning finger had not
stayed him.

"We'll talk no more of this, Phil"; and her lips were as firm as iron
now.

Both of them serious and silent for a while; until at length Adele, in
quite her old manner, says: "Of course, Phil, father may bring me to
America again some day; and if so, I shall certainly beg for a little
visit in Ashfield. It would be very ungrateful in me not to remember the
pleasant times I've had here."

But Phil cannot so deftly change the color of his talk; his chattiness
has all gone from him. Nor does it revive on reaching home. Good Mrs.
Elderkin says, "What makes you so crusty, Phil?"

LX.

Maverick arrives, as he had promised to