But, as they turned, the windmiller ran out and after them.

"Stop, sir!" he cried.

"Well, what now?" said the stranger, sharply, as the horse was
pulled back on his haunches.

"Is it named?" gasped the miller.

"Oh, yes, all that sort of thing," was the impatient reply.

"And what name?" asked the miller.

"Jan. J, A, N," said the stranger, shouting against the blustering
wind.

"And--and--the other name?" said the windmiller, who was now
standing close to the stranger's ear.

"What is yours?" he asked, with a sharp look of his dark eyes.

"Lake--Abel," said the windmiller.

"It is his also, henceforth," said the stranger, waving his hand, as
if to close the subject,--"Jan Lake. Drive on, will you?"

The horse started forward, and they whirled away down the wet, gray
road. And before the miller had regained his mill, the carriage was
a distant speck upon the storm.