It was as big as a hazel-nut, or almost; it was cut, with
innumerable facets, in the shape of a heart; and it quivered and burned,
and flowed and rippled, liquidly, with the purest, limpidest red fire.

"'Tis the spirit of a rose, distilled and crystallized," said Lady
Blanchemain.

"'Tis a drop of liquid light," said John. "But why do you give it to me?
I can't wear it. I don't think I ought to accept it."

"Nobody asks you to wear it," said Lady Blanchemain. "It's a woman's
ring, of course. But as for accepting it, you need have no scruples.
It's an old Blanchemain gem, that was in the family a hundred years
before I came into it. It's properly an heirloom, and you're the heir.
I give it to you for a purpose. Should you ever become engaged, I desire
you to placcit upon the finger of the adventurous woman."

IV

Under a gnarled old olive, by the river's brim, Annunziata sat on the
turf, head bowed, so that her curls fell in a tangle all about her
cheeks, and gazed fixedly into the green waters, the laughing, dancing,
purling waters, green, and, where the sun reached them, shot with seams
and cleavages of light, like fluorspar. In the sun-flecked,
shadow-dappled grass near by, violets tried to hide themselves, but were
betrayed by their truant sweetness. The waters purled, a light breeze
rustled the olive-leaves, and birds were singing loud and wild, as birds
will after rain.

Maria Dolores, coming down the path that followed the river's windings,
stood for a minute, and watched her small friend without speaking. But
at last she called out, "_Ciao_, Annunziata. Are you dreaming dreams and
seeing visions?"

Annunziata started and looked up. "Sh-h!" she whispered, with an
admonitory gesture. She stole a wary glance roundabout, and then spoke
as one fearful of being overheard. "I was listening to the music of
Divopan," she said.

Maria Dolores, who had come closer, appeared at a loss. "The music
of--what?" she questioned.

"Sh-h!" whispered Annunziata. "I would not dare to say it aloud. The
music of Divopan."

"Divopan?" Maria Dolores puzzled, compliantly guarding her tone. "What
is that?"

"Divo--Pan," said Annunziata, dividing the word in two, and always with
an air of excessive caution.

But Maria Dolores helplessly shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't
understand. What is Divo--Pan?"

"Don't you know what a _divo_ is?" asked Annunziata, her clear grey eyes
surprised.

"Oh, a _divo?_" said Mari