“Poor boy,” said Mary Wood, “poor boy.”
“I was young,” he said, brokenly, “and I was alone . . . alone in New York. Ah, New York, New York!”
He picked up his hat.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better be running along now.”
“Stop!” cried Mary Wood.
He did not know how it happened but they found themselves in each other’s arms.
“The past,” he heard Mary Wood saying, close to his ear, “is past. The future lies ahead. I care not what you have been, Edwin Dell. It is what you are that I love.”
“Oh, Mary,” was all he could say. “Oh, Mary.”
“True love,” she whispered, “conquers all.”