Thanks--and
now--to thy mother's health! And that shall be the last."

She emptied the glass, and as she put it down again, he noticed that
she shuddered as if some ice-cold hand had suddenly grasped hold of
her.

"Let us go," she said.

He paid the bill and again offered her his arm. When they got out they
found that the large soft flakes had changed into a driving snow-storm,
that met them full in the face.

"Where shall we go now?" asked he.

"It is all the same to me. I have no longer any home. I thought
indeed--but it is quite too boisterous and wretched to take leave of
each other in the open air. Are we far from your lodgings?"

"I am in the old quarters still. Over the bridge, and then only a
hundred yards. Come."

"That is--" said she, holding him back as if considering. "What will
the people you lodge with think if you suddenly bring a girl back with
you?"

"Have you not your veil on!"

"I? I do not care about myself. To-morrow I shall be--who knows how far
away, where I can defy all comments. But it might get told to your
mother, and give you trouble hereafter."

"Have no fear," he said, pressing the hand that rested on his arm. "My
room has a private entrance, and the people of the house burn no light
on the stairs. We shall not meet any one."

With rapidly beating heart, he led her along the now deserted streets,
and often they were obliged to stand still and lean against each other,
while the icy blast swept by. Once when he turned his back to the storm
and drew her closer to his breast, he bent down and hurriedly kissed
her through her veil. She made no resistance--only said, "I think the
worst is now over, we may go on." After that they did not speak another
word till they reached the house.

* * * * *

The steep staircase was--as he had said it would be--quite dark, and as
they went up it, on tip-toe, he first, holding her hand so that she
might not miss a step, no one came across them. Only they heard
children's voices through the door, and saw a light shine through the
key-hole of the room in the upper story, telling of a Christmas tree
there.

He carefully closed his door, and let her precede him into the small
dark room, which was only lit by the glow in the stove, and the
reflection of the snow. He then bolted both doors. "The kitchen is next
to us," he said, "but there is no one there now. We need not talk in a
whisper. But the landlady ma