n the story she was
reading and forgot her uneasiness. Her left hand rested on the pile
of answered letters, to which Richard added one at intervals, she
mechanically lifting her palm and replacing it on the fresh
manuscript. Presently Richard observed this movement and smiled in
secret at the slim white hand unconsciously making a paper-weight of
itself. He regarded it covertly for a moment, and then his disastrous
dream occurred to him. There should be no mistake this time. He drew
the small morocco case from his pocket, and leaning across the table
slipped the ring on Margaret's finger.

Margaret gave a bewildered start, and then seeing what Richard had
done held out her hand to him with a gracious, impetuous little
gesture.

"I mean to give it you this morning," he said, pressing his lip to
the ring, "but the daylight did not seem fine enough for it."

"I thought you had forgotten," said Margaret, slowly turning the
band on her finger.

"The first thing I did in New York was to go to a jeweler's for
this ring, and since then I have guarded it day and night as
dragonishly as if it had been the Koh-i-Noor diamond, or some
inestimable gem which hundreds of envious persons were lying in wait
to wrest from me. Walking the streets with this trinket in my
possession, I have actually had a sense of personal insecurity. I
seemed to invite general assault. That was being very sentimental,
was it not?"

"Yes, perhaps."

"That small piece of gold meant so much to me."

"And to me," said Margaret. "Have you finished your letters?"

"Not yet. I shall be through in ten minutes, and then we'll have
the evening to ourselves."

Richard hurriedly resumed his writing and Margaret turned to her
novel again; but the interest had faded out of it; the figures had
grown threadbare and indistinct, like the figures in a piece of old
tapestry, and after a moment or two the magazine glided with an
unnoticed flutter into the girl's lap. She sat absently twirling the
gold loop on her finger.

Richard added the address to the final envelope, dried it with the
blotter, and abruptly shut down the lid of the inkstand with an air
of as great satisfaction as if he had been the fisherman in the
Arabian story corking up the wicked afrite. With his finger still
pressing the leaden cover, as though he were afraid the imp of toil
would get out again, he was suddenly impressed by the fact that he
had seen very little of Mr. Slocum that day.