"Yes, ma'am. Do you like it? I mean, do you like Millings? I hope you
do."

Sheila pressed her muff against her mouth and looked at him over it. Her
eyes were shining as though the moonlight had got into their misty
grayness. She shook her head; then, as his face fell, she began to
apologize.

"Your father has been so awfully kind to me. I am so grateful. And the
girls are awfully good to me. But, Millings, you know?--I wouldn't
have told you," she said half-angrily, "if I hadn't been so sure you
hated it."

They had come to the edge of the mesa, and there below shone the small,
scattered lights of the town. The graphophone was playing in the saloon.
Its music--some raucous, comic song--insulted the night.

"Why, no," said Dickie, "I don't hate Millings. I never thought about it
that way. It's not such a bad place. Honest, it isn't. There's lots of
fine folks in it. Have you met Jim Greely?"

"Why, no, but I've seen him. Isn't that Girlie's--'fellow'?"

Dickie made round, respectful eyes. He was evidently very much impressed.

"Say!" he ejaculated. "Is that the truth? Girlie's aiming kind of high."

It was not easy to walk side by side on the rutted snow of the road.
Sheila here slipped ahead of him and went on quickly along the middle rut