rne line are
too much accustomed to frail little black-robed women with big, black
bundles; it is one of the city's most pitiful sights. She leaned her
head out of the window to catch a glimpse of the oleanders on Bayou
Road, when her attention was caught by a conversation in the car.

"Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and lately married too," said the elder
man. "I can't see what he is to do."

Neale! She pricked up her ears. That was the name of the groom in the
Jesuit Church.

"How did it happen?" languidly inquired the younger. He was a
stranger, evidently; a stranger with a high regard for the
faultlessness of male attire.

"Well, the firm failed first; he didn't mind that much, he was so sure
of his uncle's inheritance repairing his lost fortunes; but suddenly
this difficulty of identification springs up, and he is literally on
the verge of ruin."

"Won't some of you fellows who've known him all your lives do to
identify him?"

"Gracious man, we've tried; but the absurd old will expressly
stipulates that he shall be known only by a certain quaint Roman ring,
and unless he has it, no identification, no fortune. He has given the
ring away, and that settles it."

"Well, you 're all chumps. Why doesn't he get the ring from the owner?"

"Easily said; but--it seems that Neale had some little Creole
love-affair some years ago, and gave this ring to his dusky-eyed
fiancee. You know how Neale is with his love-affairs, went off and
forgot the girl in a month. It seems, however, she took it to
heart,--so much so that he's ashamed to try to find her or the ring."

Miss Sophie heard no more as she gazed out into the dusty grass. There
were tears in her eyes, hot blinding ones that wouldn't drop for pride,
but stayed and scalded. She knew the story, with all its embellishment
of heartaches. She knew the ring, too. She remembered the day she had
kissed and wept and fondled it, until it seemed her heart must burst
under its load of grief before she took it to the pawn-broker's that
another might be eased before the end came,--that other her father.
The little "Creole love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and
old and jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that, so
the ring was at the Mont de Piete. Still he must have it, it was his;
it would save him from disgrace and suffering and from bringing the
white-gowned bride into sorrow. He must have it; but how?

There it was still at the