"No, Mary, no," cried Dorothy, with much of her old spirit. "That must not be,--at least not now." Then more gently, as she observed Mary's look of surprise, "Naught that he nor any one can say or do will mend what has been done; and it is my earnest wish that the matter be let alone, just as it is, for the present. Perhaps the future may show some way out of it." But she spoke as though saying one thing and meaning quite another. "Will you tell Jack all this?" Mary asked, with an odd look. "Me?" cried Dorothy, in great alarm. "No, no, Mary; you must do that. I do not wish to have him speak to me of the matter; I could not bear it." And she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the very prospect of such a thing. Mary's white forehead wrinkled as though from perplexity, while her slender fingers tapped nervously upon the arm of her chair. She knew not what to make of the girl,--of her words and actions, of her strange and sudden sickness and faintings, of all that had come to her since the advent of this young Britisher. And within these past few minutes a new anxiety had found its way into her mind, and this prompted her to ask, "Can it be, Dot, that you have permitted this stranger to come between you and your only brother, who loves you best of all in the world?" But Dorothy evaded the question. "That he does not," she asserted, taking her hands from in front of her face and trying to smile; "'t is you he loves best of all." Mary flushed a little, but replied with tender earnestness, "But you know, Dot, he and I are one. We both love you next to each other, and we wish to serve you and assure your happiness." Dorothy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I doubt if I shall ever be happy again, Mary," she said; "and the best way to serve me is to leave me alone and let me go my own way." She spoke as though wishing to dismiss the matter, and, rising from her chair, walked over to the window and stood looking off over the meadow lands and toward the sea. It was a cheering, hopeful sight, for the snow was gone, and everything in nature was beginning to show a touch of the coming spring. Later that same morning they were in Mary's room, the young wife busy with some sewing, while Dorothy, with much of the former color showing in her face, was moving restlessly about. "Dorothy!" Mary spoke suddenly, as though impelled by a hasty resolution, and there was a look in her blue eyes that made a fitting accompaniment to her words; but she kept them averted from Dorothy, who had turned and was coming slowly toward her. "Dorothy," she repeated, as the girl drew close to her, "where is that ruby ring?" Dorothy came to a stop, and every drop of blood seemed to find its way to her face. "Eh,--ring,--what ring?" She glanced at her hands, and then at Mary's face, still turned partially away from her.