"Sit down a moment, until the sun is quite down," he said, making room for me beside him on the topmost step. "See how splendid that sky is! a pavilion for the gods!"
"I should think they were airing all their finery," I answered. "It looks more like a counter spread with bright goods than anything else I can think of."
"That's a decidedly vulgar comparison, and you're not in a spiritual mood at all," he said. "You've snubbed me two or three times to-night, when I've tried to be sentimental. What's amiss with you?" and he bent his eyes, full of a saucy sort of triumph, upon mine.
"I don't like parting with friends; it sets me all awry," I said, giving back his own self-assured look. I was sorry to have him go; but if he thought I was going to cry or blush, he was mistaken.
"You'll write to me, Miss Rachel?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Ames,—not at all," I said.
"Not write? Why not?" he asked, in astonishment.
"Because I don't believe in galvanizing dead friendships," I answered.
"Dead friendships, Miss Rachel? I hope ours has much life in it yet," he said.
"It's in the last agony, Sir. It will be comfortably dead and buried before long, with a neat little epitaph over it,—which is much the best way to dispose of them finally, I think."