pawn-broker's; no one would have such an odd
jewel, and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer. Well, he must
have it; she might starve in the attempt. Such a thing as going to him
and telling him that he might redeem it was an impossibility. That
good, straight-backed, stiff-necked Creole blood would have risen in
all its strength and choked her. No; as a present had the quaint Roman
circlet been placed upon her finger, as a present should it be returned.

The bumping car rode slowly, and the hot thoughts beat heavily in her
poor little head. He must have the ring; but how--the ring--the Roman
ring--the white-robed bride starving--she was going mad--ah yes--the
church.

There it was, right in the busiest, most bustling part of the town, its
fresco and bronze and iron quaintly suggestive of mediaeval times.
Within, all was cool and dim and restful, with the faintest whiff of
lingering incense rising and pervading the gray arches. Yes, the
Virgin would know and have pity; the sweet, white-robed Virgin at the
pretty flower-decked altar, or the one away up in the niche, far above
the golden dome where the Host was. Titiche, the busybody of the
house, noticed that Miss Sophie's bundle was larger than usual that
afternoon. "Ah, poor woman!" sighed Titiche's mother, "she would be
rich for Christmas."

The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller. The
damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window, but always
there behind the sewing-machine drooped and bobbed the little
black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the coarse jeans
pants piled in great heaps at her side. The Claiborne Street car saw
her oftener than before, and the sweet white Virgin in the flowered
niche above the gold-domed altar smiled at the little supplicant almost
every day.

"Ma foi," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent and Michel one
day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothin', nothin', almos', and las'
night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav' to mek him build fire.
She mos' freeze."

Whereupon the rumour spread that Miss Sophie was starving herself to
death to get some luckless relative out of jail for Christmas; a rumour
which enveloped her scraggy little figure with a kind of halo to the
neighbours when she appeared on the streets.

November had merged into December, and the little pile of coins was yet
far from the sum needed. Dear God! how the money did have to go! The