Part 22

The old jester stroked his face and swung his long body back and forth in the wind of his content. “I've always argued,” said he, “that what is to be _will_ be, an' it _will_ be a sight sooner 'n most of us count on, ef we 'll jest keep our sperits up.”

The others moved on, leaving Adele and Miller together.

“Oh, just look at mamma and papa,” she said, in the round, full voice indicative of deep emotion. “They are so glad they are about to cry.”

“What a dear, dear girl you are,” said Miller, softly. “There is nothing to separate us now, is there?”

For a moment they met in a full look into each other's eyes. Adele's voice shook when she replied: “I believe I'm the happiest, proudest girl in all the world.”

“Then you love me?”

“I believe I've loved you from the very minute I met you in Atlanta last summer.”

Alan saw Dolly looking at him and waving her handkerchief, her face warm and flushed. He was tempted to go to her, but she still sat by her father and mother, and that fact checked him. Mrs. Barclay caught his eye, and, rising suddenly, came through the crowd to him. She extended her gloved hand.

“You and Dolly must stop your foolishness,” she said. “I've been thinking of a plan to help you two out. If I were you I wouldn't say a word to her now, but next Sunday night come and take her to church just like you used to. I 'll attend to Colonel Barclay. He is just tickled to death over this thing and he won't make any fuss. He is as stubborn as a mule, though, and when he has to give in, it's better not to let him think you are gloating over him. He won't bother you any more; I 'll see to that.”

Alan thanked her. He was so full of happiness that he was afraid to trust his voice to utterance. As Mrs. Barclay was going back to her husband and daughter, Pole Baker passed. Alan grasped him by the hand.

“Say, Pole,” he said, his voice full and quavering, “I want to tell you that I think more of you than I do of any man alive.”

“Well, Alan,” said Pole, awkwardly, yet with an eye that did not waver, “I kin shore return the compliment. Ef it hadn't been fer you an' yore advice I'd 'a' been in hell long ago, an' as it is, I feel more like livin' a straight, honest life than I ever did. You never axed me but one thing that I didn't grant, an' that was to give up whiskey. I don't know whether I ever will be able to do it or not, but, by the great God above, I'm agoin' to keep on tryin', fer I know you want it jest fer my good. I don't want a dram to-day, fer a wonder, an' maybe in time I 'll git over my thirst.”

As Alan was about to get into his buggy with his uncle, the Colonel and his wife and daughter passed. With a sheepish look on his face the old man bowed to the two men, but Dolly stopped before Alan and held out her hand.

“You were going away without even speaking to me,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Think of it--to-day of all days to be treated like that!”

“But your mother told me--”

“Didn't I tell you she couldn't be relied on?” broke in Dolly, with a smile. “I have more influence with papa than she has. I know what she told you. I made her confess it just now. Are you going to town to-day?”

“Yes,” he informed her; “we shall complete the arrangements there.”

“Then come right down to see me as soon as you possibly can,” Dolly said. “I'm dying to see you--to talk with you. Oh, Alan, I'm so--_so_ happy!”

“So am I,” he told her, as he pressed her hand tenderly. “Then I shall see you again to-day.”

“Yes, to-day, sure,” she said, and she moved on.

“She's all right,” said Abner Daniel, as Alan climbed in the buggy beside him. “She's all wool an' a yard wide.”

“I reckon you are satisfied with the way it come out, Uncle Ab,” said his nephew, flushing over the compliment to Dolly.

“Jest want one thing more,” said the old man, “an' I can't make out whether it's a sin or not. I want to face Perkins an' Abe Tompkins. I'd give my right arm to meet 'em an' watch the'r faces when they heer about the railroad, an' the price yore pa's land fetched.”

THE END