“Her remains were found five years afterward in an old unused well, and the explanation was perfectly clear. The romantic girl, believing in the witcheries of Hallow Eve, must have slipped away at midnight, when the moon was full, to look for her lover’s face in the old well. She probably lost her balance and fell in, and the mystery of her fate remained unknown all that time.” “Poor Linda!” sobbed Violet, with tears upon her cheeks. “And the lover, Amber--did he ever come to seek his betrothed?” “No, never; and when Linda was found in the well, with the opal ring on her skeleton hand, superstitious people shook their heads and declared the ring was of evil origin, that the Evil One himself had sent it to summon Linda to her dreadful death. Many, many strange stories were told by the credulous country people, and especially the silly slave-folk, but the one most generally credited was the story of Linda’s singing.” “Her singing!” Violet echoed, in affright. “Yes, she had an exquisite voice, and sang like a nightingale, ’tis said, and after her death she assumed the part of a banshee at Bonnycastle. It is said that whenever trouble or death hovers over that household, a phantom voice is heard singing over the old tower, in tones so sweet and sad and ghostly, that the very blood of the listener is curdled in the veins.” Violet shuddered and looked with new interest at the ring on her hand--the mysterious betrothal ring of poor romantic Linda, who had met so terrible a fate. “Does it frighten you to wear the ring now that you know its gruesome history?” inquired Amber, adding: “I am not a coward myself, but nothing could induce me to wear that ring. For one thing, the opal is always considered unlucky, and you must acknowledge that it brought misfortune to poor Linda Grant. Besides, I should always be wondering if it really had an evil origin, and it would frighten me to remember the years in which it was hidden from sight in the old well on that dead girl’s skeleton hand.” She expected to see Violet tear the magnificent jewel from her finger, and cast it away in horror, but she was disappointed, and chagrined, for the fair young girl raised it to her lips and kissed it as though it were sacred. “How different we are, Amber,” she said, softly. “All that you have told me only makes this ring dearer. My heart aches for poor dear Linda, and the lover who could never claim her for his own. I am sure he was a real, living lover, and probably her disappearance broke his heart. Their ill-fated love makes it sacred to me; and, besides, I must always remember that it is a pledge of my Cecil’s love, and that so long as it keeps its radiance undimmed, his love for me remains unchanged.” And as she had kissed the ring first for the sake of hapless dead Linda, she kissed it again for Cecil, her noble lover, with the love-light in his dark, tender eyes, and the music in his wooing voice.