“They had disarranged the centre setting,” she replied, “and we were unacquainted with its previous shape, so we kept the stone apart. Here, you will do it best yourself.” She handed over to me the central opal—the missing stone. “Nay,” said I, “you will please me best by keeping it. It is not much, but if you will accept it my happiness will be complete.” She gazed at me with that curious, unfathomable light I had sometimes seen shining in Vestné’s eyes when in a gentler mood. “Are you willing to sacrifice so fine a stone?” she queried. “If you put it in that light, you do me an honour of which I am unworthy. Take it as a gift, if you will be so kind, and do not mar its beauty with the shade of sacrifice.” “But if I take it the after-events may be somewhat awkward,” she observed curiously. I shook my head. “Nothing could be awkward that lay in your possession.” “I am to have a gift as well then?” she said. “If you will honour it with the name.” She laughed softly. “You have given me simple trust,” she went on. “I will try to repay it by accepting this, for trust is more to me than admiration, or power, or wealth, or anything beside.” After a pause she continued: “There is one point about which I am curious. Your book—do you still wish that it should succeed?” “You call it my book, but it is not mine. It belongs entirely to the writer.” “The writer has given it up.” “Burnt it?” said I, and I learnt from my own voice that annoyance is not an unknown quantity, even in heaven. She shook her head and laughed. “By no means. The writer says the book belongs to you, and would never presume to such an act. It is simply recognised as a failure, as undoubtedly it is.” “Then,” said I, “I am afraid I have made you a very worthless present, since the stone is the emblem of the book.” “I am fond of worthless presents. I am fond of failures. I am fond of rejections. You know the old story of the stone which the builders rejected, and it has always held good from then to now. We are very clever, we can make so much out of nothing. Sometimes, of course, the giver has to wait for many years, till the last great failure, death, has been accomplished, and I have known a man who, when shown his own worthless gifts in after times, took them to be amongst the most precious heaven held; and when their history was unfolded to him one big tear of thankfulness rolled from his glistening eyes, and fell, a diamond of rare price—another gift in lieu of that which we returned to him. Whatever is brought to us can never fall fruitlessly. We accept everything that is given in purity and truth, and set it out to gain the interest that it merits.” “Then you accept my gift?”