"I will test her," he said to himself. "No one shall poison my mind against my beautiful wife without a cause. 'I will put it to the test and win or lose it all.'" He went to a jeweler's that morning and came back with a little box in his vest-pocket. Then he asked Bonnibel if she would walk down to the seashore with him. She complied with a gentle smile, and he found her a shady seat a little off from the crowd, where they could talk uninterrupted. She laid down her parasol, and removing her delicate gloves folded her white hands listlessly together. Colonel Carlyle took up the hand that wore the opal ring and looked at it fondly. "My dear," he said, "that is a very pretty ring you wear, but it is not beautiful enough for your perfect hand. I have brought you a much handsomer one with which to replace it." He took it from his pocket and showed it to her--a lovely, shimmering opal set round with gleaming pearls. "I have heard that opals are unlucky stones," he said, "but if you are not superstitious, and like to wear them, will you lay aside the simple one you now have and put this on instead?" and he made a movement as if he would withdraw the tabooed one from her finger. Bonnibel withdrew her hand quickly, and looked up into Colonel Carlyle's face. He saw her delicate lips quiver, and a dimness creep over her eyes, while her cheeks grew, if anything, paler than ever. Her voice trembled slightly as she answered: "I thank you for your beautiful gift; but I cannot consent to wear it in the place of the plainer one I now have." "And why not, my dear little wife? It would look much handsomer than the one you now wear on your finger." A faint flush tinged her snow-white cheek at the half-sarcastic emphasis of his words. Her glance wandered off to the sunlit sea and a tear rolled down her check as she said, very gently: "I am quite aware of that, Colonel Carlyle. Your ring is a marvel of beauty and taste, and I will wear it on another finger if you like; but I prize the other more for its associations than for its beauty or value. It was a keepsake from a friend. You remember the pretty words of the old song: "'Who has not kept some trifling thing, More prized than jewels rare, A faded flower, a broken ring, A tress of golden hair?'" There was a tone of unconscious pleading in her pathetic voice, and the heart of the jealous old husband gave a throb of pain as he listened. "It is true, then," he thought to himself. "It was a gift of a former lover." Aloud he said rather coldly: "Since you prize it so much as a keepsake, Bonnibel, put it away in some secret place, and preserve it as romantic people do such treasures--it will be safer thus." "I prefer to wear it, sir," she answered, with a glance of surprise at the persistency.