e.

"What--this very month? I hope the birthday hasn't passed."

"No-o, not yet," she answered reluctantly. She saw by now what was in
the wind, and didn't want to seem greedy.

I persisted. "Tell me when."

"The twenty-fifth. But you are _not_ to."

"Not to--what?"

"You know."

"Yes, I will. It's a guardian's duty to his ward, and in this case a
pleasure."

"I'd much rather you didn't, really." And she looked as grave as a
statue of Justice. "Some day you'll know why."

I waived the subject at this point, for I felt obstinate, and wanted to
give her a present. There was, and is, no doubt in my mind that her
reason is a schoolgirl reason. Madame de Maluet has probably brought her
up to believe it is not _comme il faut_ for a _jeune fille_ to accept a
present from a _monsieur_. Still, her voice and expression were so
serious, even worried, that I'm wondering if it could be anything else.
Anyhow, I have bought the present, and intend to give it her on the
25th. It is a quaint old marquise ring, with a cabuchon ruby surrounded
by very good diamonds. I think she will like it, and I don't see why she
shouldn't have it--from me. I feel as if I would like to make up to her
for the injustice I've been doing her in my mind all these years since
she was a little child, left to me--poor, lonely baby. Only I don't
quite know how to make up. I don't even dare to confess myself, and say
I am sorry I never seemed to take any interest in her as she grew up.
She must have wondered why I never asked to have her picture sent me, or
wanted her to write--or wrote; and she must have felt the cold neglect
of the only person (except an old French lady, her godmother) who had
any rights over her. Beast that I was! And I can't explain why I was a
beast. No doubt she adores the legend (it can't be a memory) of her
mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the
truth, though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man
one or two things, I suppose.

I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.

This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of
Winchester, and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till
nearly two o'clock.

The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me;
the "Piazza"; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral
Close with its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide
cathedral glories from