by Lois Mason
“Hurry into bed, my love,” he urged. “I swear you could not have a single tangle left.”
“Soon. There’s one thing I must tell you first.” She looked at him with such tenderness that his blood throbbed in every vein.
She picked up the bright spotted bag from the high, oak dresser and brought it over to her husband. Slowly, she opened it and showed him its bright contents glistening beneath the gas lamp.
“Papa gave this to me, while you were at the shipping-office. Do you remember you said I should have my own wedding-ring? I understand now what you meant by that. I have worn this other again, for convention’s sake, but it holds no sentiments for me. Have the ring fashioned from my father’s gold. My ring. And with what is left over, a watch-chain for you. There’s nought I should wish better for this, dear, dear husband.”
“Oh, Abby, my own one, I shall do as you command,” Rob said as he took the bag from her.
He knotted it again, then tucked it under the feather mattress in the meanwhile, for he had much more than his wife’s marriage symbol in his mind at present.
As the heat of amour fired his blood he pulled her, warm as the flurries of the nor’wester, down to him and with supreme self-control, gently, tenderly, kindled his wife’s flames to the pitch of his own conflagration.
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