HEN Miller's train reached Darley and he alighted in the car-shed, he was met by a blinding snow-storm. He could see the dim lantern of the hotel porter as he came towards him through the slanting feathery sheet and the yet dimmer lights of the hotel.

“Heer! Marse Miller!” shouted the darky; “look out fer dat plank er you 'll fall in er ditch. Marse Alan Bishop is at de hotel, an' he say tell you ter stop dar—dat you couldn't git home in dis sto'm no how.”

“Oh, he's in town,” said Miller. “Well, I was thinking of spending the night at the hotel, anyway.”

In the office of the hotel, almost the only occupant of the room besides the clerk, sat Abner Daniel, at the red-hot coal stove.

“Why,” exclaimed Miller, in surprise, “I didn't know you were in town.”

“The fact is, we're all heer,” smiled the old man, standing up and stretching himself. He looked as if he had been napping. “We fetched the women in to do some tradin', an' this storm blowed up. We could 'a' made it home all right,” he laughed out impulsively, “but the last one of 'em wanted a excuse to stay over. They are et up with curiosity to know how yore trip come out. They are all up in Betsy an' Alf's room. Go up?”

“Yes, I reckon I'd better relieve their minds.”

Abner offered to pilot him to the room in question, and when it was reached the old man opened the door without knocking. “Heer's the man you've been hankerin' to see all day,” he announced, jovially. “I fetched 'im straight up.”

They all rose from their seats around the big grate-fire and shook hands with the lawyer.

“He looks like he has news of some kind,” said Adele, who was studying his face attentively. “Now, sir, sit down and tell us are we to be rich or poor, bankrupt or robber.”

“Don't put the most likely word last,” said Abner, dryly.

“Well,” began Miller, as he sat down in the semicircle. “As it now stands, we've got a chance to gain our point. I have a signed agreement—and a good one—that your price will be paid if we can get the citizens through whose property the road passes to donate a right of way. That's the only thing that now stands between you and a cash sale.”

“They 'll do it, I think,” declared Alan, elatedly.

“I dunno about that,” said Abner. “It's owin' to whose land is to be donated. Thar's some skunks over in them mountains that wouldn't let the gates o' heaven swing over the'r property except to let themselves through.”

No one laughed at this remark save Abner himself. Mrs. Bishop was staring straight into the fire. Her husband leaned forward and twirled his stiff fingers slowly in front of him.

“Huh! So it depends on that,” he said. “Well, it does look like mighty nigh anybody ud ruther see a railroad run out thar than not, but I'm no judge.”

“Well, it is to be tested two weeks from now,” Miller said. And then he went into a detailed and amusing account of how he had brought Wilson to terms.

“Well, that beats the Dutch!” laughed Abner. “I'd ruther 'a' been thar 'an to a circus. You worked 'im to a queen's taste—as fine as split silk. You 'n' Pole Baker'd make a good team—you to look after the bon-tons an' him to rake in the scum o' mankind. I don't know but Pole could dress up an' look after both ends, once in a while, ef you wanted to take a rest.”

“I'm always sorry when I heer of it bein' necessary to resort to trickery,” ventured Mrs. Bishop, in her mild way. “It don't look exactly right to me.”

“I don't like it, nuther,” said Bishop. “Ef the land's wuth the money, an'—”

“The trouble with Alf,” broke in Abner, “is that with all his Bible readin' he never seems to git any practical benefit out'n it. Now, when I'm in doubt about whether a thing's right or wrong, I generally find some Scriptural sanction fer the side I want to win. Some'rs in the Bible thar was a big, rich king that sent a pore feller off to git 'im kilt in battle so he could add his woman to his collection. Now, no harm ever come to the king that I know of, an', fer my part, I don't think what you did to yank Wilson into line was nigh as bad, beca'se you was work-in' fer friends. Then Wilson was loaded fer bear his-se'f. War's over, I reckon, but when Wilson's sort comes down heer expectin' to ride rough-shod over us agin, I feel like givin' a war-whoop an' rammin' home a MiniÉ ball.”

“I sha 'n't worry about the morality of the thing,” said Miller. “Wilson was dead set on crushing you to powder. I saw that. Besides, if he takes the property and builds the road, he 'll make a lot of money out of it.”

After this the conversation languished, and, thinking that the old people might wish to retire, Miller bade them good-night and went to his own room.

A snow of sufficient thickness for sleighing in that locality was a rare occurrence, and the next morning an odd scene presented itself in front of the hotel. The young men of the near-by stores had hastily improvised sleds by taking the wheels from buggies and fastening the axles to rough wooden runners, and were making engagements to take the young ladies of the town sleighing.

“Have you ever ridden in a sleigh?” Miller asked Adele, as they stood at a window in the parlor witnessing these preparations.

“Never in my life,” she said.

“Well, you shall,” he said. “I 'll set a carpenter at work on my buggy, and be after you in an hour. Get your wraps. My pair of horses will make one of those sleds fairly spin.”

About eleven o' clock that morning Alan saw them returning from their ride, and, much to his surprise, he noted that Dolly Barclay was with them. As they drew up at the entrance of the hotel, Alan doffed his hat and stepped forward to assist the ladies out of the sled.

“Miss Dolly won't stop,” said Miller. “Get in and drive her around. She's hardly had a taste of it; we only picked her up as we passed her house.”

Alan's heart bounded and then it sank. Miller was smiling at him knowingly. “Go ahead,” he said, pushing him gently towards the sled. “It's all right.”

Hardly knowing if he were acting wisely, Alan took the reins and sat down by Dolly.

Adele stepped up behind to say good-bye to Dolly, and they kissed each other. It was barely audible, and yet it reached the ears of the restive horses and they bounded away like the wind.

“A peculiar way to start horses,” Alan laughed.

“A pleasant way,” she said. “Your sister is a dear, dear girl.”

Then he told her his fears in regard to what her father would think of his driving with her.

“He's out of town to-day,” she answered, with a frank upward glance, “and mother wouldn't care.”

“Then I'm going to enjoy it fully,” he said. “I've been dying to see you, Dolly.”

“And do you suppose I haven't wanted to see you? When Mr. Miller proposed this just now it fairly took my breath away. I was afraid you might happen not to be around the hotel. Oh, there is so much I want to say—and so little time.”

“When I'm with you I can' t talk,” he said. “It seems, in some way, to take up time like the ticking of a clock. I simply want to close my eyes, and—be with you, Dolly—YOU.”

“I know, but we must be practical, and think of the future. Mr. Miller tells me there is a chance for your big scheme to succeed. Oh, if it only would!”

“Yes, a pretty good chance,” he told her; “but even then your father—”

“He'd not hold out against you then,” said Dolly, just for an impulsive moment clasping his arm as they shot through a snow-drift and turned a corner of the street leading into the country.

“Then it must succeed,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “It must, Dolly.”

“I shall pray for it—that and nothing else.”

Feeling the slack reins on their backs, the horses slowed up till they were plodding along lazily. Suddenly the sled began to drag on the clay road where the wind had bared it of snow, and the horses stopped of their own accord, looking back at their increased burden inquiringly. Alan made no effort to start them on again. It was a sequestered spot, well hidden from the rest of the road by an old hedge of Osage orange bushes.

“We must not stop, dear,” Dolly said, laying her hand again on his arm. “You know driving is—is different from this. As long as we are moving in any direction, I have no scruples, but to stop here in the road—no, it won't do.”

“I was just wondering if we can start them,” he said, a mischievous look in his laughing eye.

“Start them?” She extended her hand for the reins, but he held them out of her reach. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Why, you saw the way they were started at the hotel,” he answered, in quite a serious tone. “Ray has trained them-that way. They won't budge an inch unless—”

“Oh, you silly boy!” Dolly was flushing charmingly.

“It's true,” he said. “I'm sorry if you object, for it's absolutely the only available way.”

She raised her full, trusting eyes to his.

“You make me want to kiss you, Alan, but—”

He did not let her finish. Putting his arm around her, he drew her close to him and kissed her on the lips. “Now, darling,” he said, “you are mine.”

“Yes, I am yours, Alan.”

As they were nearing her house he told her that Wilson had agents out secretly buying land, and that she must not allow her father to dispose of his timbered interests until it was decided whether the railroad would be built.

She promised to keep an eye on the Colonel's transactions and do all she could to prevent him from taking a false step. “You may not know it,” she said, “but I'm his chief adviser. He 'll be apt to mention any offer he gets to me.”

“Well, don't tell him about the railroad unless you have to,” he said, in parting with her at the gate. “But it would be glorious to have him profit by our scheme, and I think he will.”

“We are going to hope for success, anyway, aren't we?” she said, leaning over the gate. “I have believed in you so much that I feel almost sure you are to be rewarded.”

“Miller thinks the chances are good,” he told her, “but father is afraid those men over there will do their best to ruin the whole thing.”

Dolly waved her handkerchief to some one at a window of the house. “It's mother,” she said. “She's shaking her finger at me.”

“I reckon she's mad at me,” said Alan, disconsolately.

“Not much,” Dolly laughed. “She's simply crazy to come out and gossip with us. She would, too, if she wasn't afraid of father. Oh, young man, you 'll have a mother-in-law that will reverse the order of things! Instead of her keeping you straight, you 'll have to help us manage her. Father says she's 'as wild as a buck.'”

They both laughed from the fulness of their happiness. A buggy on runners dashed by. It contained a pair of lovers, who shouted and waved their hands. The sun was shining broadly. The snow would not last long. The crudest sled of all passed in the wake of the other. It was simply a plank about twelve inches wide and ten feet long to which a gaunt, limping horse was hitched. On the plank stood a triumphant lad balancing himself with the skill of a bareback rider. His face was flushed; he had never been so full of joy and ozone. From the other direction came a gigantic concern looking like a snow-plough or a metropolitan street-sweeper. It was a sliding road-wagon to which Frank Hillhouse had hitched four sturdy mules. The wagon was full of girls. Frank sat on the front seat cracking a whip and smoking. A little negro boy sat astride of the leading mule, digging his rag-clothed heels into the animal's side. Frank bowed as he passed, but his face was rigid.

“He didn't intend to ask me,” said Dolly. “He hardly speaks to me since—”

“Since what?” Alan questioned.

“Since I asked him not to come to see me so often. I had to do it. He was making a fool of himself. It had to stop.”

“You refused him?”

“Yes; but you must go now.” Dolly was laughing again. “Mother will be out here in a minute; she can't curb her curiosity any longer. She'd make you take her riding, and I wouldn't have you do it for the world. Good-bye.”

“Well, good-bye.”

“Now, you must hope for the best, Alan.”

“I'm going to. Good-bye.”