aid Janet, shrewdly; "doesn't that prove it? If he was
only paying his bet, you can make pretty sure that he'd have sent
the money and not a penny more than he owed."

"Yes; but do you think he'd do a thing like that?" said Sally, with
pride. "He'd know I wouldn't accept it that way."

"Well, perhaps not," Janet agreed; "but then he wouldn't have bought
a thing that cost a penny more than ten pounds, if so much. You don't
know men when they're parting with money that they've had to whip
some one else to get. You say he's not so very well off. At any rate,
he wouldn't have given you a thing that cost fifteen or twenty
pounds--those diamonds aren't so small--when he only owed you ten."

"But he didn't owe it to me!" Sally interrupted.

"Very well, he didn't. Then why do you think he's sent you this?"

"Because he thinks he does."

"Very well, again; then why does he send you something that's worth
so much more?"

Janet folded her arms in a triumph of silence. For a long time Sally
could frame no reply. It had seemed, only an hour before, that she
would have been so willing to seize at any straw which the tide of
affairs should bring her, and now that the solid branch had floated
to her reach, she could not find the confidence to throw her whole
weight upon it. It was the letter that thwarted her; the letter that
warned her from too great a hope.

"But read the letter," she said at last. "Read the letter again. Would
he ever have written as abruptly as that if--if what you suggest is
right? He might have asked me to--to think sometimes when I wore it--"

"Why? Is he a sentimentalist?"

"My goodness! No!"

"Well, then, he wouldn't. That's a stock phrase of the sentimentalist.
The sentimentalist is always thinking, that's all he does, and he
breaks his heart over it if other people don't act what he thinks."

"Well, he's not a sentimentalist, certainly."

She even smiled when she thought of his exclamations during the
fight.

"What are you smiling at?" asked Janet, quickly. "Something he said?"

"Yes."

"That wasn't sentimental?"

"Yes."

"Well, he certainly wouldn't have told you to think about him when
you wore it. I imagine I can guess exactly what sort he is."

"How can you guess?"

"Well, because I know what sort you are, and I fancy I know just the
type of man whom you'd fall in love with as rapidly as you've fallen
in love with this Mr. Traill. He's hard--he can bend you--he can break
you--h