"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." "You're harder than I thought you were," he said. "Is that the way you feel towards all your friends?" "I love my friends as well as any one," I answered. "But I never hold them when they wish to be gone. My life-yarn spins against some other yarn, catches the fibres, and twists into the very heart"---- "So far?" he asked, turning his eyes down to mine. "Yes," I said, coolly,--"for the time being. You don't play at your friendships, do you? If so, I pity you. As I was saying, they're like one thread. By-and-by one spindle is moved, the strands spin away from each other, and become strange yarn. What's the use of sending little locks of wool across to keep them acquainted? They're two yarns from henceforth. Reach out for some other thread,--there's plenty near,--and spin into that. We're made all up of little locks from other people, Mr. Ames. Won't it be strange, in that great Hereafter, to hunt up our own fibres, and return other people's? It would take about forty-five degrees of an eternity to do that." "I shall never return mine," he said. "I couldn't take myself to pieces in such a style. But won't you write at all?" "To what purpose? You'll be glad of one letter,--possibly of two. Then it will be, 'Confound it! here's a missive from that old maid! What a bore! Now I suppose I must air my wits in her behalf; but, if you ever catch me again,'----_Exit_." "And you?" he asked, laughing. "I shall be as weary as you, and find it as difficult to keep warmth in the poor dying body. No, Mr. Ames. Let the poor thing die a natural death, and we'll wear a bit of crape a little while, and get a new friend for the old." "So you mean to forget me altogether?" "No, indeed! I shall recollect you as a very pleasant tale that is told,--not a friend to hanker after. Isn't that good common sense?" "It's all head-work,--mere cold calculation," he said; "while I"----He stopped and colored. "Your gods, there, are downright turn-coats," I said, coming down from the stile. "Their red mantles are nothing but pearl-colored now, and presently they'll be russet-gray. That whippoorwill always brings the dew with him, too; so I must go home. Good-night, and good-bye, Mr. Ames." "I scarcely know how to part with you," he said, taking my hand. "It's not so easy a thing to do." "People say, 'Good-bye,' or 'God bless you,' or some such civil phrase, usually," I said, with just the least curl of my lip,--for I knew I had got the better of him. He colored again, and then smiled a little sadly. "Ah! I'm afraid I leave a bigger lock than I take," he exclaimed. "Well, then, good friend! good-bye, and God bless you, too! Don't be quite so hard as you promise to be."