And at last the first bright ray—uncheckered—burst through. Rosalie started up with a cry. The frog hopped up to witness. Both of them shed a tear of joy and admiration that glistened like a pearl, though dull beside this other. At last a gem of purest brightness was displayed, that shone with so soft a radiance, yet so pure and bright, that it lit up the garden like the bright sun on an early summer’s morning, and seemed a dazzling emblem of light. And Rosalie said: “This is the light which cures as well as beautifies—the talisman against all ills—the gift of God, the pearl above all price; never pearl shone like to it, or diamond, or ruby, or any stone dug from the mines or caves. I’ll take it to the Governor. None can fail but to acknowledge its beauty, if but for the one central spark from the raised inner surface.” And she took it to him, but as she offered it, said nothing, and he showed no surprise, but smiled gravely, as one who might approve in silence, but said no words. So Rosalie waited, and in a shorter time than she had ever stayed before, less than a week, was sent for by the Governor. The flashing jewel was on the table by his side. He looked across at her, but her eyes were fixed upon the stone. So soon, and it was back! And the time it had taken to dig! and the long months of blackness before! And at last her eyes travelled slowly from it back to his face. And he said with curious intonation: “The decision is the same as hitherto.” “But God’s decision! Tell me that!” and the pain in her voice was very terrible. “The decision of God is that it is as He has made it.” “That is sufficient. Thank you,” and she moved away; strong only in the friendship of that silent man, who in so few words conveyed so much of meaning. So once more she made her way to the little hut, where the frog as usual sat waiting; but her lips were set in a smile so stony, that she said never a word, but sat down in her chair by the fire, and forgot to try to form even a syllable. At last her eyes lighted on the frog sitting there upon the hearth. Its big, wide, mournful mouth drooped at the corners, and its round saucer eyes were brimming with tears, yet there was something very comic in its attitude—so much so that Rosalie laughed. At this it jumped so literally that had it not borne a charmed life it would certainly have settled in the fire, but as it was, it came down inside the fender, and then hopped out. “Ah! when you laugh in sorrow your heart must needs be broken altogether,” it said. “Oh, no! I feel nothing, nothing at all, one way or the other, only hard and empty, and sorry, not for myself, but for others, that they should be so blind.” “It’s well you feel hard. It doesn’t do to feel soft at times like this,” said the frog, and tried to speak cheerfully, but somehow failed.