She had pretty hands--such dear hands as men have loved and kissed
since, back in the garden, the First Woman gave hers to the First Man,
that he might lead her wheresoever he would.
In the midst of the wreckage, he perceived a divine compensation, for
Isabel would not fail him--she could not fail him now. Transfigured by
tenderness, her coldness changed to the utmost yielding, to-morrow would
bring him his goddess, a deeply-loving woman at last.
"How she will come to me," he said to himself, feeling, in fancy, her
soft arms around him, and her warm lips on his, while the life-current
flowed steadily from her to him and made him a man again, not a
weakling. His heart beat with a joy that was almost pain, for he could
feel her intoxicating nearness even now. Perhaps her sweet eyes would
overflow with the greatness of her love and her tears would fall upon
his face when she knelt beside him, to lay her head upon his breast.
"How she will come to me!" he breathed, in ecstasy. "Ah, how she will
come!"
And so, smiling, he slept, as the first shaft of sun that brought his
dear To-Morrow fell full upon his face.
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