On the day when I first put the ring on her finger, Celia swore an oath that nothing but death, extreme poverty or brigands should ever remove it. I swore too. Unfortunately it fell off in the course of the afternoon, which seemed to break the spell somehow. So now it goes off and on just like any other ring. I took it from her and looked inside. "There are all sorts of things here too," I said. "Really, you don't seem to have read your wedding-ring at all. Or, anyhow, you've been skipping." "There's nothing," said Celia in the same mournful voice. "I do think you might have put something,"' I went and sat on the arm of her chair and held the ring up. "You're an ungrateful wife," I said, "after all the trouble I took. Now look there," and I pointed with a pencil, "what's the first thing you see?" "Twenty-two. That's only the----" "That was your age when you married me. I had it put in at enormous expense. If you had been eighteen, the man said, or--or nine, it would have come much cheaper. But no, I would have your exact age. You were twenty-two, and that's what I had engraved on it. Very well. Now what do you see next to it?" "A crown." "Yes. And what does that mean? In the language of--er--crowns it means 'You are my queen.' I insisted on a crown. It would have been cheaper to have had a lion, which means--er--lions, but I was determined not to spare myself. For I thought," I went on pathetically, "I quite thought you would like a crown." "Oh, I do," cried Celia quickly, "if it really means that." She took the ring in her hands and looked at it lovingly. "And what's that there? Sort of a man's head." I gazed at her sadly. "You don't recognize it? Has a year of marriage so greatly changed me? Celia, it is your Ronald! I sat for that, hour after hour, day after; day, for your sake, Celia. It is not a perfect likeness; in the small space allotted to him the sculptor has hardly done me justice. But it is your Ronald.... And there," I added, "is his initial 'r.' Oh, woman, the amount of thought I spent on that ring!" She came a little closer and slipped the ring on my finger. "Spend a little more," she pleaded. "There's plenty of room. Just have something nice written in it--something about you and me." "Like 'Pisgah'?" "What does that mean?" "I don't know. Perhaps it's 'Mizpah,' or 'Ichabod,' or 'Habakkuk.' I'm sure there's a word you put on rings--I expect they'd know at the shop." "But I don't want what they know at shops. It must be something quite private and special." "But the shop has got to know about it when I tell them. And I don't like telling strange men in shops private and special things about ourselves. I love you, Celia, but----" "That would be a lovely thing," she said, clasping her hands eagerly. "What?" "'I love you, Celia.'" I looked at her aghast. "Do you want me to order that in cold blood from the shopman?"