Millicent looked around at him. He was very pale.
“Can you beat it?” he demanded feebly. “That apple tree—it’s whirling. I think I’m—going to—”
“Oh, don’t, Mr. Stanwood.” His groping hand grasped her arm, and she held him with the other while he sank on the bank under the apple blossoms, his weight pulling her down beside him.
“Oh, shoot!” he gasped.
“Please don’t faint,” she said. “We’re so nearly there. Just lie still; I’ll go get Grandpa to help.”
She fled away, and he closed his eyes and called himself names.
Back they came, Millicent white and flushed by turns, and the old gentleman coming along with his hale and hearty tread.
“Not such a bad couch,” he said cheerily, bending over Hugh while Millicent stood with clasped hands, suffering all the throes of guilt. The regular road would have been little more than half as long, and she could hear Mrs. Lumbard’s comments on choosing the romantic path.
“Lie there a bit while Milly brings you some hot milk, then you’ll get to the house easily enough between us two sturdy ones. Tried to do a little too much, I guess.”
Millicent went back with winged feet and soon returned with the hot milk. He drank the milk, supported by Colonel Duane’s arm, and soon his dizziness ceased. Leaning on the two friends he walked slowly, and soon entered the back gate of their cottage. The little orchard made the place look in festive array.