‘It is wonderful,’ said Eleanor, in a low voice, feeling humbled, puzzled, and ashamed. This view of Magdalen’s life had never intruded itself into her mind. And it was as if she heard a voice echoing in the air about her, ‘Judge not!’ ‘Yes, it is wonderful, and very humbling to me. And to you also, he left this ring.’ He took a case from his breast-pocket, and gave it to her. It contained a ring set with a large pearl of unusual size and beauty, surrounded by brilliants, in a fine and delicate small pattern. ‘He wished you to wear it always,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘This was in a private letter to me, half finished, which he must have left amongst his other papers when he came down here with Otho, just before that wedding. He said it was more like his idea of you than anything he had ever seen.’ Eleanor was weeping silently as Michael placed this ring upon her hand. ‘Why did he think of me in that way?’ she whispered, between her tears. ‘It was so wrong, so unlike the truth. It makes me afraid. I shall always feel that I am a renegade when I look at it.’ ‘It made him a great deal happier, at any rate,’ said Michael, gently. ‘And now, Eleanor, something else. I saw Otho while I was in town.’ ‘Yes?’ she said, in a slow, reluctant whisper. ‘Well, he is indeed a broken man. His sins have come home to him, and Ada avenged herself fearfully; but how, do you suppose?’ She shook her head. ‘Not by her own death; he hardly alluded to it. That whole connection with Ada was the merest freak. It is, as it were, by chance alone—that awful chance which we call Destiny—that that caprice has had such effects for us all. It is, through Gilbert’s death, and his alone. It sounds odd to say such a thing of the regard of one man for another, but one might almost say that his affection for Gilbert has been the one love of his life——’ ‘I know what you mean; and it is so, in a way. Gilbert had more of his heart and soul than any one else—even Magdalen.’ ‘Yes, even Magdalen; for he trifled and played with her, and in fact, mastered her even in coming round to her wishes; but Gilbert, never. It was like the love of a dog for its master. It has knocked him down completely; he has no spirit left. He said there was nothing to live for when a fellow’s friend was gone, and he gave some dark hint as to being Gilbert’s murderer. I did not stay long with him. I don’t know what will become of him. It was absolutely necessary that I should see him on business; so I saw him, and had done with him.’ ‘Did he say nothing about Ada’s little child, and its death?’ ‘Not a word; and I did not, either. It seemed to me a desecration to mention such things to him.’