He went into the dining-room with Isabel, said good-evening to his mother, and bowed civilly to her guests. The dinner proceeded in a polite, noiseless manner, until the end of the second course. Then Robert lifted his eyes, and they fell upon Jean Crawford's hand. The next moment he had risen and was at her side. "Give me the ring upon your right hand," he said in a voice that held as much passion as a voice could hold and be intelligible. "Why, Cousin Robert!" "I want that ring!" "Aunt Margaret said----" "Give me the ring. It is not yours. How dare you wear it?" "I was bringing it back! Oh, Aunt Margaret!" "Robert, I am ashamed of you!" "Mother, I want Theodora's ring--the ring stolen from my wife years ago. I must have it--I must, I must!" "Don't cry, Jean. Give him his ring. I'll give you a far handsomer one." Then the woman threw it down on the table, and Robert lifted it and left the room. Isabel sat until the tearful, protesting meal was over, and then she did the most remarkable thing--she went to her brother. He was sitting looking at the ring, recalling its history. He remembered going into Kendal one Saturday night, just after its receipt, and memory showed him again Theodora's delight and excitement, her wonder over its beauty, and her pride in her pupils' affection. He could see her lovely face, her shining eyes, he could feel her soft kiss, and the caress of her hand in his. Oh, what a miracle of love and beauty she was to him that night! He told Isabel all about it, and then he spoke of its theft, and of his frequent promises and failures to recover it for her. "But, brother," said Isabel, "you have now quite unexpectedly got it back. It is a good omen. Some day, when you are not looking for such a thing, you will get its owner back, you will put it on her finger. I feel sure of it." "I was a brute, Isabel." "You were a coward. You were afraid of mother." "No man ever had so many opportunities for happiness as Theodora offered me. I scorned them all. Why was I so blind, so unjust, so cruel? I am miserable, and deserve to be miserable. We can go to hell before we die, Isabel." "Yes, we can, but we send ourselves there. 'If I make my bed in hell,' said the great seer and singer. It is always _I_ that makes that bed, never God, never any other human being." And it was Robert Campbell, he himself, and no other, who had made his bed in that forlorn circle of hell, where men who have lost their Great Opportunity, weep and wail over their forfeited happiness. Poor Isabel, she remembered, and longed to remind her brother, that even there God was with him, waiting to be gracious, ready to help! But she was too cowardly, she did not like to give religious advice; she was only a woman--he would wonder at her. So she went away, and did not deliver the gracious message, and felt poor and mean because of her fear and her faithlessness.