'Sit down beside me for a minute. What was it you called me in your letter, before I was ill? Something--it looked strangely written by your hand, Polly.' 'Brother--my dear brother Rex,' almost inaudibly. 'Ah, I remember. It would have made me smile, only I was not in the humour for smiling. I did not write back to my sister Polly though. Richard calls you his little sister very often, does he not?' 'Yes, and I love to hear him say it,' very earnestly. 'Should you love it if I called you that too?' he returned, with an involuntary curl of the lip. 'Pshaw! This is idle talk; but sick people will have their fancies. I have one at present. I want you not to wear that rubbish any more,' touching her hand lightly. 'Oh, Rex--the ring you gave me?' the tears starting to her eyes. 'I never threw a flower away the gift of one that cared for me,' he replied, with a weak laugh. '"I never had a dear gazelle but it was sure to marry the market-gardener." Do you remember Dick Swiveller, Polly, and the many laughs we have had over him in the old garden at home? Oh, those days!' checking himself abruptly, for fear the pent-up bitterness might find vent. 'Children, you are talking too much,' interposed Mildred's warning voice, not slow to interpret the rising excitement of Roy's manner. 'One minute more, Aunt Milly,' he returned, hastily; then, dropping his voice, 'The gift must go back to the giver. I don't want you to wear that ugly little ring any longer, Polly.' 'But I prize it so,' she remonstrated. 'If I give it back to you, you will throw it in the fire, or trample on it.' 'On my honour, no; but I can't stand seeing you wear such rubbish. I will keep it safely--I will indeed, Polly. Do please me in this.' And Polly, who had never refused him anything, drew off the shabby little ring from her finger and handed it to him with downcast eyes. Why should he ask from her such a sacrifice? Every ribbon and every flower he had given her she had hoarded up as though they were of priceless value, and now he had taken from her her most cherished treasure. And Polly's lip quivered so that she could hardly bid him good-night. Richard, who saw the girl was fretting, tried by every means in his power to cheer her. He threw on another log, placed her little basket-work chair in the most inviting corner, showed her the different periodicals he had brought from Oxford for Roy's amusement, and gave her lively sketches of undergraduate life. Polly showed her interest very languidly; she was mourning the loss of her ring, and thinking how much her long-desired interview with Roy had disappointed her. Would he never be the same to her again? Would this sad misunderstanding always come between them? How was it she was clinging to him with the old fondness till he had mentioned Dr. Heriot's name, and then their hands had fallen asunder simultaneously? 'Poor Roy, and poor, poor Polly!' she thought, with a self-pity as new as it was painful.