"Are YOU one of them?" she said, clutching his hand desperately.
"No, dear," he said soothingly,—"no; only, you see, I giv' my word to 'em as I giv' my house to-night, and I'm bound to protect them and see 'em through. Why, Lordy! Sade, you'd have done the same—for Chivers."
"Yes, yes," she said, beating her hands together strangely, "of course. He was so kind to bring me back to you. And you might have never found me but for him."
She burst into an hysterical laugh, which the simple-minded man might have overlooked but for the tears that coursed down her bloodless face.
"What's gone o' ye, Sadie," he said in a sudden fear, grasping her hands; "that laugh ain't your'n—that voice ain't your'n. You're the old Sadie, ain't ye?" He stopped. For a moment his face blanched as he glanced towards the mill, from which the faint sound of bacchanalian voices came to his quick ear. "Sadie, dear, ye ain't thinkin' anything agin' me? Ye ain't allowin' I'm keeping anythin' back from ye?"
Her face stiffened into rigidity; she dashed the tears from her eyes. "No," she said quickly. Then after a moment she added, with a faint laugh, "You see we haven't seen each other for so long—it's all so sudden—so unexpected."
"But you kem here, just now, calkilatin' to find me?" said Collinson gravely.
"Yes, yes," she said quickly, still grasping both his hands, but with her head slightly turned in the direction of the mill.
"But who told ye where to find the mill?" he said, with gentle patience.
"A friend," she said hurriedly. "Perhaps," she added, with a singular smile, "a friend of the friend who told you."