"Mebbe ye do, s'pec ye do," said White with a shake of his head, "but hit air ter-morrer 'at ye yer 'im a comin'. He air dead shore to roll in ter-morrer. Don't ye fret, he air a comin' 'fore long, Milly." "He air a comin' right now: oh!" she cried, and flinging open the gate, she slipped through like a bird and ran down the road. "I knowed 'at ye'd come, John, oh, John! John!" White heard her say, her voice cutting with shrill sweetness through the still evening air. He went through the gateway, and, stumbling over the wood-pile, walked rapidly after her. Sure enough, there was Reynolds in the middle of the road, with Milly clinging to him. They were in a place where the strong star-light dimly outlined them. White stopped short and actually reeled like a drunken man. He went no nearer to them, but turned and staggered rather than walked back into the cabin. "Hit air all right, mother," he said to his wife as he entered. "He air out ther'--the Colonel air." She looked up with a start, for his voice was thick with excitement. "She--she--Milly'll be all right now. She won't go erstracted now, mother," he added, dropping into a chair and beginning to refill his pipe. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's Milly: At Love's Extremes, by Maurice Thompson