"That's scarcely treating me fair," protested the Squire, but he good-naturedly shambled along the platform, and went to get his buggy. "We won't begin to quarrel this early," he added with a laugh, "so--good night, my dear! and pleasant dreams to you!" "Good night!" echoed Sally, mechanically. She stood motionless until the sound of the vehicle grew faint in the distance, then, with quaking frame, she hurriedly jumped off the platform into the road, and groped her way to the spot where she had seen the dark, solitary figure standing fully revealed in that brief, intense light. She had heard no sound, save the Squire's clumsy movements, and later the rumble of his buggy along the pike, and as she eagerly started forward, the thought came to her that perhaps she was the dupe of her own vivid imagination--that the motionless figure imprinted on the retina of her eye, as it had been etched on the background of the night, was the creature of her excited brain, and had no part in the darkness without. "Milt!" she called out softly, inquiringly. She strained her ear attentively to the silence. The sound of labored breathing near at hand betrayed the presence she sought, and putting forth her hand fearlessly she touched the substance of the shadow she had seen. "Milt!" she once more called aloud. With a gesture of impatience, or anger, she knew not which, he roughly shook off the hand laid lightly upon him, with the impatient mumbling of a fierce oath. "So, it's true," he said at last; but his voice sounded strange and harsh, and totally unlike the familiar caressing tones she had so longed to hear once more. [Illustration: "SO IT'S TRUE," HE SAID, BUT HIS VOICE SOUNDED STRANGE AND HARSH.] A deep silence fell between them, and in its strained quiet she could hear her heart beating loudly in her bosom, as if it were the pendulum of some muffled clock ticking off the dreary moments of a life. "Yes," she answered, finally breaking the intense silence, her voice scarcely more than a faint whisper. It seemed that an age had passed since the question was asked. "Sally!" he cried sharply, as if her reply had been a keen knife thrust. "You don't mean it!" "It is true," she said, simply. "And I would not believe it, even though I read it by chance in one of the papers from here. I said it was a lie. I really thought it was one--a wicked lie--a damnable one--I didn't know women," he added, with a bitter laugh. "Don't blame me, Milt," she faltered. "I did it for the best." "For the best?" he echoed, scornfully, swift anger following close upon his words. "Is it for the best to wreck my life--my faith in you?" "It need not wreck your life, it must not," answered Sally, earnestly. "I'm not worth it. Oh! why did you come back?" she asked sorrowfully. "I came back to convince myself that it was a lie. I was a fool for coming, I'll admit that; but women have made fools of men ever since the days of Eve."