“That shall be a secret until you come back. I will see Fred Reingold to-morrow and to-morrow night you shall know your fate.”
The following evening she met me at the door and smiled. “It is all arranged,” she said. “The year has been granted, you are to go.”
“When?”
“To-morrow morning on the first train.”
“But,”--I never finished the sentence.
“Every hour means success or failure,” Edith exclaimed reproachfully.
How that evening fled away we only realized.
When I kissed her good-bye she slipped three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills into my hand. Then she whispered, “remember this is St. Patrick’s day, March the 17th, and the time will expire at twelve o’clock at night, one year from to-day. I must give you something to bring you good luck, what shall it be?”
“That which you love the best, next to me.”
She glanced around the room, at her feet on a white rug lay a small black kitten. “There he is,” she said, pointing to the kitten, “my second love.”