an suddenly to tremble. He came forward out of the shadow and she saw
him and came to meet him, and spoke his name again.

"I saw you when you went out," she said. "I was afraid you mightn't
wait. I hurried as fast as I could. I've--w-waited so long. Longer than
you."

They were so near together now, that she became aware how he was
trembling--shuddering fairly.

"You're c-cold," she said.

He managed at last to speak, and as he did so, reached out and took her
by the shoulders. "Come home," he said. "You must come home."

At that she stepped back and shook her head. But he had discovered while
his hands held her, that she was trembling, too.

The stage door opened again to emit a group of three of the ponies.

"My Gawd," one of them shrilled, "what a hell of a night!"

They stared curiously at Dane and the big man who stood there with her,
then scurried away down the alley.

"We can't talk here," he said. "We must go somewhere."

She nodded assent and they moved off side by side after the three little
girls, but slower. In an accumulation of shadows, half-way down the
alley, he reached out for her arm. It might have begun as an automatic
act--just an unconscious instinct to prevent her stumbling, there in the
dark. But the moment he touched her, the quality of it changed. He
gripped her arm tight and they both stood still. The next moment, and
without a word, they moved on again. At the corner of the alley, they
turned north. This was on Clark Street. Finally:

"Are you all right, Roddy? And the babies?" she managed to say. "It's a
good many days since I've heard from Portia." And then, suddenly, "Was
it because anything had gone wrong that you came?"

"I didn't know you were here until I saw you on the stage."

This was all, in words, that passed until they reached the bridge. But
there needed no words to draw up, tighter and tighter between them, a
singing wire of memories and associations; there was no need, even, of a
prolonged contact between their bodies. He had let go her arm when they
came out of the alley, and they walked the half-mile to the bridge side
by side and in step, and except for an occasional brush of her shoulder
against his arm, without touching.

But the Clark Street bridge, with a February gale blowing from the west
down the straight reach of the river, is not to be negotiated lightly.
Strong as they were, the force of the wind actually stopped them at the
edge of the draw, caugh