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“Well! I’ll get Marc around to the door in a few minutes. Get your things on.”

Bettie and Ed stood close together by the door. She was saying:

“You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Ed?”

“Why, course I will, Bettie. I was as much to blame as you was. I no business to git mad till I knew what I was gittin’ mad at.”

They were very tender now.

“I’ll–I’ll go home with you, if you want me to, ‘stead of with Milt,” she quavered.

“No, I’ve got to take S’fye home. It’s the square thing.”

“All right, Ed, but come an’ let me talk it all straight.”

“It’s all straight now; let’s let it all go, whaddy y’say?”

“All right, Ed.”

There was a kiss that the rest pretended not to hear. And bidding them all good-night, Bettie ran out to the fence, where Milton sat waiting.

The moon was riding high in the clear, cold sky, but falling toward the west, as they swung into the wood-road. Through the branches of the oaks the stars, set in the deep-blue, fathomless night, peered cold and bright. There was no wind save the rush of air caused by the motion of the sleigh. Neither of the young people spoke for some time. They lay back in the sleigh under the thick robes, listening to the chime of the bells, the squeal of the runners, and the weirdly-sweet distant singing of another sleigh-load of young people far ahead.

Milton pulled Marc down to a slow trot, and, tightening his arm around Bettie’s shoulders in a very brotherly hug, said:

“Well, I’m glad you and Ed have fixed things up again. You’d always have been sorry.”

“It was all my fault anyway,” replied the girl, with a little tremor in her voice, “and it was all my fault to-night, too. I no business to ‘a’ gone off an’ left him that way.”

“Well, it’s all over now anyway, and so I wouldn’t worry any more about it,” said Milton, soothingly, and then they fell into silence again.

The sagacious Marc Antony strode steadily away, and the two young lovers went on with their dreaming. Bettie was silent mainly, and Milton was trying to fancy that she was Eileen, and was remembering the long rides they had had together. And the horse’s hoofs beat a steady rhythm, the moon fell to the west, and the bells kept cheery chime. The breath of the horse rose into the air like steam. The house-dogs sent forth warning howls as they went by. Once or twice they passed houses where the windows were still lighted and where lanterns were flashing around the barn, where the horses were being put in for the night.

The lights were out at the home of Bettie when they drove up, for the young people, however rapidly they might go to the sociable, always returned much slower than the old folks. Milton leaped out and held up his arms to help his companion out. As she shook the robes down, stood up and reached out for his arms, he seized her round the waist, and, holding her clear of the ground, kissed her in spite of her struggles.

“Milton!”

“The las’ time, Bettie; the las’ time,” he said, in extenuation. With this mournful word on his lips he leaped into the sleigh and was off like the wind. But the listening girl heard his merry voice ringing out on the still air. Suddenly something sweet and majestic swept upon the girl. Something that made her look up into the glittering sky with vast yearning. In the awful hush of the sky and the plain she heard the beat of her own blood in her ears. She longed for song to express the swelling of her throat and the wistful ache of her heart.