ow--for us.
And--and men don't buy clothes for women, Denny--not until they're
married!"

Her face was tensely earnest while she waited for the big man before
her to answer. And Young Denny turned his head, staring silently out
of the opposite window down toward the village, dark now, in the
valley below. He cleared his throat uncertainly.

"Do they?" She was leaning forward until her hair brushed his own. "Do
they, Denny?" A rising inflection left the words hanging in midair.

"I don't know just what the difference is," he began finally, his
voice very deliberate. "I've often tried to figure it out, and never
been quite able to get it straight"--he nodded his head again toward
the sleeping village--"but we--we've never been like the rest, anyhow.
And--and anyway," he reached out one hand and laid it upon her knees,
"we're to be married, too--when--when----"

With swift, caressing haste she lifted the slippers that lay cradled
in her lap and set them back inside the open package. Lightly she
swung herself down and stood before him, both hands balanced upon his
shoulders. For just the fraction of a moment her eyes lifted over his
head, flickering toward the stone demijohn that stood in the far,
shadowy corner near the door. Her voice was trembling a little when
she went on.

"Then let me come soon, Denny," she begged. "Can't it be soon? Oh, I'm
going to keep them!" One hand searched behind her to fall lightly upon
the package upon the table. "They're--they're so beautiful that I
don't believe I could ever give them back. But do we have to wait any
longer--do we? I can take care of him, too."

Vehemently she tilted her head toward the little drab cottage across
under the opposite hill.

"He hardly ever notices when I come or go. I--I want to come, Denny.
I'm lonesome, and--and--" her eyes darkened and swam with fear as she
stared beyond him into the dusky corner near the door, "why can't I
come now, before some time--when it might be--too late?"

He reached up and took her hands from his shoulders and held them in
front of him, absently contemplating their rounded smoothness. She
bent closer, trying to read his eyes, and found them inscrutable. Then
his fingers tightened.

"And be like them?" he demanded, and the words leaped out so abruptly
that they were almost harsh. "And be like all the rest," he
reiterated, jerking his head backward, "old and thin, and bent and
worn-out at thirty?" A hard, self-scathing n