To-Morrow

Graydon's cold face was suddenly illumined; the incomprehensible sweetness of pain rushed through his blood. He had given up his hope as blighted after the harsh hour with Droom; he could not believe his newfound success. Doubt, unbelief, enveloped him as he raised her head, a kiss crying for its kind. His arm crept behind her shoulders. She did not offer a repulse; her wet cheek touched his in submission. It was the first time his hungry arms had held her in centuries it seemed to him--and to her; it was the first time their lips had met--except in dreams--since that horrid night so long ago.

"Jane, Jane!" he was whispering in her ear; her plans, her purposes, her sacrifices, were running away from her in riotous disorder. She could not hold them in check; they fled like weaklings before the older and stronger hopes and desires.

They did not know of the blockade of cabs at the corner of Forty-second Street, nor how long they stood there. Shouting cabmen and police officers tried to rival the white blizzard in profuseness, but they did not hear them.

"Oh, Graydon, I cannot, I must not," she was crying, holding his hand with almost frenzied disdain for the words so plaintively loyal. "It is out of the question, dearest. You know it is. I love you, oh, how I love you. But I--I must not be your wife. I--I--"

"I've had enough of this, Jane," he said so firmly that she stiffened perceptibly in his arms. "It's all confounded rot. Excuse me, but it is. I know you think you're right, but you're not. Old Elias gave the best advice in the world. You know what it was. We've just got to make our own happiness. Nobody else will do it for us, and it's just as easy to be happy as it is to be the other way. I'm tired of pleading. I've waited as long as I intend to. We're going to be married to-morrow."