“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. He was chained to the ground, but started up at their approach. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. Can't I make you see?" "But I'm telling you Ruth loves you. .
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