"No; I think there are some other things I would rather have," he returned.
She shook her head.
"It is a good one, Mr. Barrett, small and quite perfect, and it is yours by right of possession."
"Phebe," he said, as he came a step nearer her; "my ancestors were Yankees and I inherit all their love of a trade. You take the skull and give me—" and he took it as he spoke; "your hand, dear."
She drew her hand away sharply and turned to face him. Then the color fled from her cheeks, only to rush back again and mount to the roots of her hair.
"Oh, Gifford," she said brokenly; "I'd like to ever so much, only—do you really think we'd better?"
An hour later, the two young people sat side by side on the sofa, talking over and over the wonderful thing that had happened to them.
"I must go back to New York, the day after Christmas," Mr. Barrett said; "but you will write to me often; won't you, Phebe?"
"If I have anything to tell," she answered; "but I never could write letters, you know."
"You could once."