conquer the wild desire to laugh.

"Isn't it too funny for words?" she laughed bravely through her tears.

Then, for some reason, both relapsed into dark, silent contemplation of
the dog who was so calmly enjoying his evening repast.

"I am sorry to admit it, Mr. Crosby, but I am growing frightfully
hungry," she said wistfully.

"It has just occurred to me that I haven't eaten a bite since seven
o'clock this morning," he said.

"You poor man! I wish I could cook something for you."

"You might learn."

"You know what I mean," she explained, reddening a bit. "You must be
nearly famished."

"I prefer to think of something more interesting," he said coolly.

"It is horrid!" she sobbed. "See, it is getting dark. Night is coming.
Mr. Crosby, what is to become of us?" He was very much distressed by her
tears and a desperate resolve took root in his breast. She was so tired
and dispirited that she seemed glad when he drew her close to him and
pressed her head upon his shoulder. He heard the long sigh of relief and
relaxation and she peered curiously over her wet lace handkerchief when
he muttered tenderly: