"It isn't news," said Nettie, "it is only something that I have made up my mind I ought to say. Jerry, I think, that is, I don't think, I mean"— And there she stopped.
"Just so," said Jerry, nodding his head gravely, "that is plain, I am sure, and interesting; I agree with you entirely." After that, both of them had to laugh a little, and the story did not get on.
"But I truly mean it," Nettie said at last, her face growing grave again, "and I ought to say it. What I want to tell you is, that I have made up my mind that you and I must not be friends any more."
Jerry did not laugh now, he did not even whistle. His knife suddenly stopped, and he squared around to get a full view of her face.
"What!" he said at last, as though he did not think it possible that he could have understood her.
"Yes," she said firmly, "I mean it, Jerry, and it is real hard to say; you and I ought not to be friends, or, I mean we must not let folks know that we are friends. We mustn't take walks together, nor work together. I don't mean that I shall not like you all the same; but we mustn't have anything to do with each other."
"Why not, pray? Have I done anything to make you ashamed of me? I'll try to behave myself, I'm sure."
This was so ridiculous that Nettie could not help smiling a little.
"O, Jerry!" she said, "you know better than to talk in that way. It sounds strange, I know, and it is real hard to do, but I am sure it is right, and we must do it."