lace of
business, to be made tighter, and called for it on my way here this very
afternoon, and fortunately enough it was ready."

He took out the ring from its bed of pink cotton wool, and offered it to
Miss Parkinson.

"You see if you can get it on," he said; "try the little finger!"

She drew back, offended. "_I_ don't want to try it, thank you," she said
(she felt as if she might fling it into the bushes if she allowed
herself to touch it). "If you _must_ try it on somebody, there's the
statue! You'll find no difficulty in getting it on any of her
fingers--or thumbs," she added.

"You shall see," said Leander. "My belief is, it's too small for her, if
anything."

He was a true lover; anxious to vindicate his lady's perfections before
all the world, and perhaps to convince himself that his estimate was not
exaggerated. The proof was so easy, the statue's left hand hung
temptingly within his reach; he accepted the challenge, and slipped the
ring up the third finger, that was slightly raised as if to receive it.
The hand struck no chill, so moist and mild was the evening, but felt
warm and almost soft in his grasp.

"There," he said triumphantly, "it might have been made for her!"

[Illustration: "THERE," HE SAID TRIUMPHANTLY, "IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE
FOR HER!"]

"Well," said Ada, not too consistently, "I never said it mightn't!"

"Excuse me," said he, "but you said it would be too large for her; and,
if you'll believe me, it's as much as I can do to get it off her finger,
it fits that close."

"Well, make haste and get it off, Mr. Tweddle, do," said Ada,
impatiently. "I've stayed out quite long enough."

"In one moment," he replied; "it's quite a job, I declare, quite a job!"

"Oh, you men are so clumsy!" cried Ada. "Let _me_ try."

"No, no!" he said, rather irritably; "I can manage it," and he continued
to fumble.

At last he looked over his shoulder and said, "It's a singler
succumstance, but I can't get the ring past the bend of the finger."

Ada was cruel enough to burst out laughing. "It's a judgment upon you,
Mr. Tweddle!" she cried.

"You dared me to it!" he retorted. "It isn't friendly of you, I must
say, Miss Parkinson, to set there enjoying of it--it's bad taste!"

"Well, then, I'm very sorry, Mr. Tweddle; I won't laugh any more; but,
for goodness' sake, take me back to the Hall now."

"It's coming!" he said; "I'm working it over the joint now--it's coming
quite easily."

"But I can'