“A beautiful ring, my child; a beautiful design, beautifully wrought, but I see in it far more than the Christmas thought of your nativity which Rodney Moore meant to embody. It is the ring of prophecy. Red, the color of the martyrs; the heart’s blood upheld by thorns, but therein glowing and burning celestially. Yes, my child, it is indeed your betrothal ring!” Cis lifted her hand closer to her own eyes, dimmed with tears, and studied the ring as if it were new to her. Her hand shook so that the beautiful ruby emitted gleams of light, emphasizing the priest’s interpretation of it. Its wearer’s grief made it more beautiful. For some time there was silence in the bare little parlor. Father Morley spoke no word; he left Cicely to absorb the words which he had spoken to her, spoken in his low, thrilling voice, straight to her soul. He ran through his fingers the beads of the rosary which hung from the black braid girdle that strapped his cassock, not speaking, praying for the soul before him fighting, tossing on black waters into which he could not enter. As each soul must struggle alone in mortal danger, seizing or rejecting aid, so this priest could only stand on the shore ready with powerful help, but he could not force the issue. At last Father Morley arose and crossed the narrow room. He took from the wall a crucifix which Cicely had not noticed in taking account of its furnishings; it hung back of where she was sitting. It was a rare, a wonderful crucifix; the livid Figure upon it was marvellously carved with an expression of utter agony, dominated by a supreme love. This crucifix the Jesuit took from its nail, and, coming back, he bent over Cicely, holding out to her the cross. She dropped her shaking hands into her lap, and lifted her eyes, first to the crucifix, then, piteously, to the kind, insistent face above it which looked down on her with pity yet with the assurance of awaiting good in the deep-set eyes. “See, Cicely Adair, what was done for you. Can you count what you bear for Him? Can you refuse Him, especially that He promises surely that He will fill your soul with such joy as you have never known, if you hold to Him? Look, child, at the wounds; are you going to clinch your hands, like a niggard of the gift He asks? See the Side, riven that you may know what His Heart is! Will you go out from Him into shame, be an outcast from His altar, excommunicated? Cicely Adair, these lips are still athirst for the draft you hesitate to give them. Are you going to hold up to them vinegar and gall--again? You must give up Rodney; you must not betray your Lord; you must put that blood-red ruby at the foot of the cross. You must not delay. What is your answer, my child?” Cicely remained silent, trembling so that her whole body shook, but tearless, and all the time Father Morley waited, holding before her eyes the eloquent crucifix to plead with her.