Rose, almost bewildered by the gleeful excitement of her friend, enters eagerly into all her arrangements, trips into her chamber to assist in her packing, insists, over and over, that she must write _often_, and _long_ letters. Girls of sixteen or thereabout are prone to expectancies of this kind. Their friendships cover reams. Their promises of never-dying attachment are so full, so rich! But as the years drop these girl friends into their separate spheres, with a new world of interests, domestic buffetings, nursery clamor, growing up around them, the tender correspondence, before they know it, is gone by. And the budget of sweet and gushing school-day epistles is cut through and through with the ruthless family shears to kindle the family lamp or to light the cigar of some exacting and surly _pater-familias_. "I suppose you will see Reuben in the city," Rose had said, in a chance way. "Oh, I hope so!" said Adèle. And of Reuben neither of them said anything more. Then with what a great storm of embraces Adèle parted from Rose! A parting only for a month, perhaps: both knew that. But the friendship of young girls can build a week into a monstrous void. God bless their dear hearts, and, if the wish be not wicked, keep them always as fresh! Phil, who is a sturdy and somewhat timid lover, without knowing it, affects an air of composure, and says,-- "I hope you'll have a good time, Adèle; and I suppose you'll forget us all here in Ashfield." "No, you don't suppose any such thing, Mister Philip," says Adèle, roundly, and with a frank, full look at him that makes the color come to his face; and he laughs, but not easily. "Well, good bye, Adèle." She takes his hand, eagerly. "Good bye, Phil; you 're a dear, good fellow; and you've been very kind to me." Possibly there may have been a little water gathering in her eye as she spoke. It is certain that the upper lip of Phil trembled as he strolled away. After walking a few paces out of sight and hearing, snapping his fingers nervously the while, he used some bad interjectional language, which we shall express more moderately. "_Hang_ it, I'm sorry, _deused_ sorry! I didn't think I liked her so." ----Walking, with head down, snapping those fingers of his,--past his own gate a long way, (though it is full dinner hour,)--mumbling again,-- "By George! I believe I ought to have said something; but, _hang_ it, what could a fellow say?" He hears the coach driving off, and with a sudden thought rushes home, enters quietly, goes up the stairs, makes a feint as if he were entering his chamber, but passes on tiptoe into the garret, opens the roof-door, and from the housetop catches a last glimpse of the stage-coach rattling down the south road. A wood hides it presently. "Confound it all!" he says, with great heartiness, and goes down to dinner. "My son, you haven't a good appetite," says the kindly mother. "I ate a big lunch," says Phil. He knew it was a whopper. XXXIII.