“No,” she replied; “when we are married our husbands give us nothing but our children. The risk of getting them is hard enough and dangerous enough to prove to us the strongest love.” She took Sunbeam on her knee and pressed her cheek against her own. “This is my present,” she went on, “and it will last me in happiest contentment until I get another. But let me see these other presents, I am curious.” So Sunbeam opened hers first. It was a coral necklace of pale pink, one of the simplest gifts I had ever seen given to a child. But as soon as she saw it her eyes beamed and the glow of pleasure flushed on her cheeks. She jumped down and ran across to him, and threw her arms round his neck. “It’s just like Moonbeam’s. When she sees it she will be as pleased as I. And you really, really brought it from the earth?” “Really—really. So it’s very precious. I made it myself in spare moments from what material I could get.” “But how is it you’ve made it just like hers? It is exactly like.” “Well, I met Moonbeam’s father one day, and he told me he had been making a coral necklace—three plain beads and a rough one—for his little daughter, so I made one for my little daughter too.” And she kissed him again without any words, but her evident gratitude spoke more than words. By this I had begun to unfasten my packet. I felt more of an amused pleasure than anything else, as I expected nothing but some trifle, knowing the barren land on which, for the most part, he had worked. What was my surprise on finding my own ring—the one thing I had prized and lost. I think amazement must at first have overwhelmed all other feelings, then gratitude, such as I had never felt before. I glanced over to him. “Thank you,” I murmured, and could find no other words to give expression to my thoughts. “You thank me for that which is your own,” he smiled. “But that which was irrevocably lost,” I rejoined. “I do not think so. It needed one hard struggle to redeem it.” “And I, alone, was powerless. The struggle, so far as I was concerned, ended in total defeat.” There was a short silence, then he continued,— “The highest victories spring from defeat. Give me a soldier who stands on the dead bodies of his failures. When he has conquered failure by something higher than success he has become invincible, and his weakness has become his surest strength.” “You are pleased to see your ring again?” our mother questioned. “That scarcely expresses it, I think,” and I looked at it, and saw the many-coloured tints sparkling radiantly, as if appreciating their own return. The scarlet bloodstones had left my hand as I passed hell’s threshold, and now I replaced my own ring on the accustomed finger. I noticed one stone was missing from the centre, but chose rather not to mention it, feeling such gratitude for the ring itself. “Is it complete?” our mother asked. “One stone is missing.” “Do you grieve for it?” “How can I grieve?”