” He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered her onto the flat surface of the picnic bench. You seemed complete—without that. He leaned forward to better drink her in. She moved a little nearer to him. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. ” He stood before the door. That glove is still preserved. “I’ve thought about it. “You Mr. He'll settle it bravely.
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