“I’m no ghost! Larry, don’t—you—know me?” she faltered. Indeed he must have thought her a phantom. Great, clammy drops stood out upon his brow.
“Dear old—redhead!” she whispered, brokenly, with a smile of agony and joy. He would know her when she spoke that way—called him the name she had tormented him with—the name no one else would have dared to use.
Then she saw he believed in her reality. His face began to work. She threw her arms about him—she gave up to a frenzy of long-deferred happiness. Where Larry was there would Neale be.
“Allie—it ain’t—you?” he asked, hoarsely, as he hugged her close.
“Oh, Larry—yes—yes—and I’ll die of joy!” she whispered.
“Then you shore ain’t—daid?” he went on, incredulously.
How sweet to Allie was the old familiar Southern drawl!
“Dead? Never....Why, I’ve kissed you!... and you haven’t kissed me back.”
She felt his breast heave as he lifted her off her feet to kiss her awkwardly, boyishly.
“Shore—the world’s comin’ to an end!... But mebbe I’m only drunk!”