The ring was one whose peculiar value Lena was far from realising: a Maltese cross of old gold, set with four uncut emeralds. Seen by gaslight the stones lacked brilliancy, and she thought the ring itself awkward and heavy. From the first she had regarded the gift superstitiously, as if the dull green stones, like four dull eyes, emitted a baleful influence. It was significant of her utter lack of religious associations that the cross itself suggested no counter charm. Had she been a Catholic, that shape alone would have made the ring a talisman, but her people were Congregationalists, to whom religious symbols were anathema, and she herself had seldom gone to church. In fact, Lena was vaguely disappointed in the ring, and even ashamed of it. If her lover were as rich as he said, why had he not bought her a diamond? But repentance followed hard upon this questioning. The ring was not what she desired, but it was a pledge of his love, and she raised it to her lips. She was in this attitude, her thin, white shoulders glimmering bare, a graceful and nymph-like figure, when a light tap at the door froze her into immobility, and then she saw her mistress's face reflected in the mirror. With a little cry of embarrassment, she turned and leaned against the bureau, lifting one hand with that instinctive gesture which Greek sculptors have immortalised in many a lovely statue. "I did n't mean to frighten you, Lena," Miss Wycliffe said quietly, when she had shut the door carefully behind her and taken a chair. "I thought you might be ill, and came to see whether I could do anything for you." The words were kind, but there was something in the speaker's manner that was less assuring. Her face was pale, and her eyes were bright, but not with compassion. Confronting each other thus, they presented a striking contrast. The mistress's dark, rich beauty made the other's prettiness seem ephemeral, without reducing it to the level of the commonplace; for Lena was not common as servants are, either in her personality or in the atmosphere she created in her room. Even her visitor, absorbed as she was in her own purpose, was not unconscious of the cleanliness of the place, of the artistic aspiration represented by the few prints on the walls. "I did have a turn, Miss Wycliffe," Lena stammered, "but I feel better now. I thought, perhaps, if I went out to get the fresh air"-- "And saw the procession?" her mistress suggested, with a curious smile. Lena nodded guiltily, and a flush quickly spread beyond the limits of colour which art had fixed in her cheeks. "Perhaps that would do you good," Miss Wycliffe remarked. Then, with a penetrating regard, she added, "And I suspect you have a personal interest in the parade, Lena." "I want to see Mr. Emmet," the girl confessed, as if she could not resist the inquisition of the stronger nature confronting her. But there was pride, too, as well as implication, in the admission.