It was then that she smiled fairly, a dear little pucker coming between her eyes.
"I know, Bosworth, dear," she said quaintly, "but would you mind taking a little care of me now? I am freezing. Please poke up the fire."
It was not until then that the fireplace renewed its roar of gladness, supported by his tardy but vigorous conscience.
Together they stood before the resulting blaze. Her hands were in his, clasped close to his breast. Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids.
[Illustration: "Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids."]
"Fourteen years is a long time, Bosworth, dear, for two people to love each other without knowing it," she said, ever so softly, freeing one hand only that it might be slipped up to his cheek and then to his hair.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Alternative, by George Barr McCutcheon
