A thin and watery moon shed a
spectral light over the meadows, which seemed to float midway between
the ashen band of the road and the jagged tops of the pines on the
horizon. There was no wind, and the few remaining leaves on the trees
looked as if they were cut out of velvet. The promise of a hoar-frost
was in the air--and a silver veil lay already over the distance.
When he had turned into the branch road that led from the turnpike to
the mill, a gig passed him, driven rapidly, and Reuben Merryweather
called "good-night," in his friendly voice. An instant later a spot of
white in the road caught Abel's glance, and alighting, he picked up a
knitted scarf, which he recognized even in the moonlight as one that
Molly had worn. Looking back he saw that the other gig had stopped at
the turnpike, and as he hastened toward it with the scarf in his hand,
he was rewarded by a flash of bright eyes from the muffled figure at
Reuben's side.
"I found this in the road," he said, "you must have dropped it."
"Yes, it fell out--thank you," she answered, and it seemed to him that
her hand lingered an instant in his before it was withdrawn and buried
beneath the rugs.
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