"
"And the clinics?"
"Nobody ever died of a clinic--except the patient," she said grimly.
He stood looking at her steadily, and any one but Phebe would have known
the meaning of his expression; but she was examining the skull intently.
"You are sure you don't want it any longer?" she asked.
"No; I think there are some other things I would rather have," he
returned.
She shook her head.
"It is a good one, Mr. Barrett, small and quite perfect, and it is yours
by right of possession."
"Phebe," he said, as he came a step nearer her; "my ancestors were
Yankees and I inherit all their love of a trade. You take the skull and
give me--" and he took it as he spoke; "your hand, dear."
She drew her hand away sharply and turned to face him. Then the color
fled from her cheeks, only to rush back again and mount to the roots
of her hair.
"Oh, Gifford," she said brokenly; "I'd like to ever so much, only--do
you really think we'd better?"
An hour later, the two young people sat side by side on the sofa, talking
over and over the wonderful thing that had happened to them.
"I must go back to New York, the day after Christmas," Mr. Barrett said;
"but you will write to me often; won't you, Phebe?"
"If I have anything to tell," she answered; "but I never could write
letters, you know."
"You could once.
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