"There's no other way," pursued Cynthia, without noticing him. "Surely, it is better than having her turned out in her old age--surely, anything is better than that. We can take the ring to-night after she goes to bed, and pry the diamond from the setting; it is held only by gold claws, you know. Then we will put in it the piece of purple glass from Docia's wedding ring--the shape is the same; and she will never find it out. Oh, mother! mother!" "I can't, "returned Christopher stubbornly; "it is like robbing her, and she so blind and helpless. I cannot do it." "Then I will," said Cynthia quietly, and, turning from him, she walked rapidly to the house. Later that night, when he had gone up to his little garret loft, she came to him with the two rings in her outstretched hand--the superb white diamond and the common purple setting in Docia's brass hoop. "Lend me your knife," she said, kneeling beside the smoky oil lamp; and without a word he drew his claspknife from his pocket, opened the blade, and held the handle toward her. She took it from him, and then knelt motionless for an instant looking at the diamond, which shone like a star in her hollowed palm. Presently she stooped and kissed it, and then taking the fine point of the blade, carefully pried the gold claws back from the imprisoned stone. "She has worn it for fifty years," she said softly, seeing the jewel contract and give out a deeper flame to her misty eyes. "It is robbery," he protested. "It is robbery for her sake!" she flashed out angrily. "All the same, it seems bitterly cruel." With deft fingers she removed the bit of purple glass from Docia's ring and inserted it between the gold claws, which she pressed securely down. "To the touch there is no difference," she said, closing her eyes. "She will never know." Rising from her knees, she gazed steadily at the loosened diamond lying in her hand; then, wrapping it in cotton, she placed it in a little wooden box from a jeweller of fifty years ago. "You must get up to-morrow and take it to town," she went on. "Carry it to Mr. Withers--he knows us. There is no other way," she added hastily. "There is no other way, I know," he repeated, as he held out his hand. "And you'll be back after sundown." "Not until night. I shall walk over from the cross-roads." For a time they were both silent, and he, walking to the narrow window, looked out into the moist darkness. The smell of the oil lamp oppressed the atmosphere inside, and the damp wind in his face revived in a measure his lowered spirits. He seemed suddenly able to cope with life--and with Fletcher.