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."

"Graydon!"

"Don't refuse! It's no use, dearest. We've lost a year or two. I