onderfully than I ever hoped it
would," he said.

They were beside her open casement window. It was a warm, bright Sunday
morning and in a few minutes they would leave to meet his mother for the
long-deferred visit to the home of Consuello's parents.

"There have been stories of all kinds, told and untold, about Spring
street," he said, "but do you know the one I like best?"

She shook her head.

"The story you told to me of how it received its name," he said. "And do
you know why?"

Again she shook her head.

"Because you are to me 'Mi Primavera'--My Springtime."

They entered the waiting automobile to be whirled through the city and
out to the romantic hacienda where the languorous past so strangely and
sweetly blended with the vital present and the throbbing promise of a
future filled with love and life together.

The motor swung around a corner and into a throbbing thoroughfare down
the long, crowded course of which was pictured in an almost perpetual
perspective panorama the rushing torrent, the back-wash, the undertow,
the placid pools and the spectators upon the banks of the gigantic river
of human endeavor.

Through the cinema of John Gallant's mind there swept a thought that
here was presented a prophecy and a promise. Hand in hand they would
meet whatever the coming days might bring--toil, failure, happiness,
success. Love was the magic wand that made them all as one.

Steadily he clasped her warm, trusting fingers as they nestled in his
palm.

"We are starting down our Spring street, Mi Primavera," he said.

And as she looked up into his ardent eyes he knew that all his fondest
dreams were coming true.

THE END.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Spring Street, by James H. Richardson

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