He leaned across the table, caught her hands. She shook off his touch,
and her eyes were ablaze.

"Are you insane? How dare you cherish such a suspicion? The bare
conjecture is an insult, and you must know it is false. Married? I?"

"Forgive me if I wound you, but indeed I could conceive of no other
solution of the mystery of your self-sacrifice; for it is utterly
incredible that unless some indissoluble tie bound you, that cowardly
knave could command your allegiance. It maddens me to think that you,
so far beyond all other women, can tolerate the thought of that--"

"Hush! hush! You conjure phantoms with which to taunt and torture. You
pity me so keenly, that your judgment becomes distorted, and you chase
chimeras. Banish imaginary husbands, Western journeys, even the thought
of my wretched doom, and try henceforth to forget that I ever saw X--."

"What does this mean? It was not on your hand when I held it so long
that day--in my own. Tell me, and quiet my pain."

He pointed to the heavy ring, which was much too large for the wasted
finger where it glistened.

"What does it mean? A tale of woe. It means that when my broken-hearted
mother was dying among strangers, in a hospital, she kissed her wedding
ring, and sent it with her love and blessing to the child--she
idolized. It means--" She held up her waxen hand, and into her voice
stole immeasurable tenderness: "Shall I tell you all it means? This
little gold hoop inscribed inside 'I. B. to E. D.,' girdles all that
this world has left for me; memories of father, mother, sunny childhood
in a peaceful home, lofty ambitions, happy, happy beautiful hopes that
once belonged to the girl Beryl, whom pitiless calamity has broken on
her cruel wheel. Walled up, dying slowly in a convict's tomb, the only
light that shines into my desolate heart, flickers through this little
circle; and clasping it close through the long, long nights, when
horrible images brood like vampires, it soothes me, like the touch of
the dear hand which it graced so long, and brings me dreams of the
fair, sweet past."

Was it the mist in his eyes that showed her almost glorified by the
level rays of the setting sun, as like a tired child she leaned her
head against the wall, a pale image of resignation?

To lose her was a conjecture so fraught with pain, that his swart face
blanched, and his voice quivered under its weight of tender entreaty.

"What is it that sustains you in your frightful