"I must have cared when we first began to come here, only I was so blind I didn't know it."
"When did you—know?"
"Yesterday. I didn't keep it to myself very long."
When Shall It Be?
"Dear yesterday!" she breathed, half regretfully.
"Do you want it back?"
She turned reproachful eyes upon him. "Why should I want yesterday when I have to-day?"
"And to-morrow," he supplemented, "and all the to-morrows to come."
"Together," she said, with a swift realisation of the sweetness underlying the word. "Yesterday was perfect, like a jewel that we can put away and keep. When we want to, we can always go back and look at it."
"No, dear," he returned, soberly; "no one can ever go back to yesterday." Then, with a swift change of mood, he asked: "When shall we be married?"