"Yes, sir." She looked at him from her cool, liquid eyes as steadily and with as much unconsciousness in her clear-lined face as if she had never heard him speak of marriage. "I've a word to say, if you'll come out to the gate." "All right." Addie put the cups on the table for her father and herself, and then followed Hounshell, who bade the weaver good-night. "I want you to treat me differently," said the miller, when they were alone. "This is a very serious matter, and there's more in it than you think. You ought to consider your father." The girl's eyes flashed. "You don't mean," she began, "that you--" "No, I don't mean any harm to him, of course. Take me or leave me, he'll be all right. But if you take me, my father-in-law don't remain in the weaving-room, by a long shot. I'll make him my partner instid." Addie appeared to weigh this. "Well, that's right," she said. "He ought to be." Hesitatingly, she went on: "I know it's generous of you, but--but--" "There's another reason, too," the suitor hastened to explain. "I can't tell you now, but I might afterward. It's very serious. Oh, I can't stand it, if you don't consent!" he almost groaned. She was startled by his strenuous manner. "What reason can it be?" she asked, quivering a little. "It's been on my heart so long," Hounshell said, pressing both hands on his chest. "It's there now," he continued, sinking his voice. At the precise instant of speaking his fingers felt beneath the coat that fateful fold of paper which the river had brought him, and both arms fell as if he had been struck. "Good God!" he exclaimed, staring at her. It seemed to him that she, too, must have felt the paper and its tell-tale words. "What have I been saying?" he asked, in a bewildered tone. The change in him within a few moments had been extraordinary, and Addie experienced a shock. Any one who had seen the wolfish glare of his eyes on the bridge would have been surprised at the human emotion he now betrayed. "You frighten me," said the girl, shrinking; but she was conscious of feeling more pity than fright. "Don't be frightened," urged Hounshell, trying to speak gently; but his voice broke. It sounded abject rather than soothing. "I s'pose I'm making mistakes again. You can't understand me. Only this--think of this: I shall never get over it if you don't have me. You may do me a great wrong by turning me off. Can't you consider about this a little more?" "I--I will try to consider, Mr. Hounshell," faltered Addie. "Then I'll go; I'll bid you good-night," he said, regaining some of his customary stiffness. "Good-night," she returned. He got into the waiting buggy; there was a grinding of wheels, a puff of whitish dust from them, and then the dusk obliterated him, much to her relief. She went back into the house slightly paler than when she had left it. "Father," she declared, "I never can marry that man." "What! Hounshell?" "Yes. There's something strange about him--and wrong."