Myra leaned over, and smiled into his adoring eyes.
“How can I go?” she whispered, tenderly.
Jim Airth took both her hands in his. His eyes blazed up into hers.
“Myra,” he said, “when shall we be married?”
Myra’s face flamed, just as the soft white clouds had flamed when the sun arose. But she met the fire of his eyes without flinching.
“When you will, Jim,” she answered gently.
“As soon as possible, then,” said Jim Airth, eagerly.
Myra withdrew her hands, and mounted two more steps; then turned to bend and whisper: “Why?”
“Because,” replied Jim Airth, “I do not know how to bear that there should be a day, or an hour, or a minute, when we cannot be together.”
“Ah, do you feel that, too?” whispered Myra.