"This girl came to me a week ago with a request that I should give her sufficient money to enable her to attend a school of art. I hate art schools; the word art, as applied to them, is a misnomer. I have my own views with regard to art--she is a mistress who must be wooed in a very different manner. This girl, Rosamund Lindley is her name, trod severely on my most cherished prejudices when she made her daring request. "To show, however, that I bear her good-will, I leave her, and request that it may be given to her at once, the valuable ruby ring which belonged to my mother, and which for many years I wore myself. You will find the ring in my mother's jewel-case, in drawer fifty, room eight, in the second story of this house. "Rosamund Lindley and her mother may possibly attend my funeral. I hope they will. In that case, please give Rosamund the ruby ring in the presence of my other relatives, and, although I lay no command upon her in the matter, tell her, if she values the memory of old Geoffrey Rutherford, not to sell the ring. "I am, my dear Gray,-- "Yours faithfully,-- "Geoffrey Rutherford." Immediately after reading the letter Mr Gray put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a small, old-fashioned morocco case. "You will like, ladies and gentlemen, to see the ruby ring," he said, in his blandest tones. CHAPTER THREE. THE OCTAGON ROOM. There was immediately a great buzz and clatter in the room. All the relatives rose in a body, and pressed round the table near which Mr Gray stood. My mother and I, surely the most interested persons present, were thus pushed quite into the background. We had not a chance of seeing the ring until the other relatives had first gazed at it. It was taken out of its velvet bed, and handed solemnly from one to another. I don't think an individual praised it. The comments which reached my ears were somewhat as follows: "What an old-fashioned shape!" "Dear, dear, how clumsy!" "The centre stone is large, but is it real?--I doubt it." A very morose-looking Scotchman pronounced the ring "no canny." A lady near immediately took up the sentiment, and said that the gem had an evil look about it, and she was truly thankful that the ring was not left to her. A gentleman, who I was told afterwards was a poet and wrote verses for the magazines, said that the ruby itself had an eye of fire, and if it were his he feared it would haunt him. In short, one and all of the relatives expressed their scorn of the ring, and their utter contempt for Cousin Geoffrey. Not a woman in the room now spoke of him as a poor dear, nor a man as an eccentric but decidedly jolly sort of old boy. There were several muttered exclamations with regard to Cousin Geoffrey's sanity, but no expression of affection came from a single pair of lips. At last Mr Gray's voice was distinguished, rising above the general din.