"Do you like me better than you liked Zebedee Prymmer?"
"Yes, Micah, I do."
"Better than Sylvester Mercer?"
She hesitated, not in any doubt of her own feelings on the subject, but from anxiety as to the propriety of answering such a question.
"Do you?" he asked, peremptorily.
"Sylvester is dead and gone to heaven," she remarked, with extreme amiability.
"Yes,—peace to his ashes,—he'll not care. Answer me, Hippy."
"Yes," she said, blushing and bridling a trifle. "I like you better than Sylvester."
"Do you like me better than Justin?"
She nervously leaned over and picked a hair off his coat sleeve. Surely this was a cruel question.