"Do not be angry with me," she entreated. "I took it off in the wood, there where you found me. It is there still." "Pamela," his voice was stern. "Did _he_ remove your ring?" "No, no. A thousand times, no! How could you think I would let him?" "Forgive me, child--I ought to have known you better. But why did you take off the ring?" She looked to left and right, as though seeking a way of escape, and answered nothing. "I see," said Lord Glengall, and his face had a look of suffering. "You took it off because it irked you to wear it. You wanted to be free." "It was only a mood." "A bad mood for me, child. Why could you not have trusted me, and have told me I had asked too much? It would have been kinder." "I shall never forgive myself," cried Pam. "I am going back for the ring, Pam. Run away home now, and I shall bring it. Run now--I can keep you in sight till I see you within the door of Carrickmoyle. I shall not be long." "The ring is on the ground, by the well," said Pamela, her head hanging like the head of a sensitive child caught in the act of wrongdoing. "You will find it there, and my necklet and bracelet also." Her voice stumbled as she made her full confession. "Poor Pam!" said Lord Glengall. "Ah!" she said, "if you would only forget about it. There was never any man like you. If I do not love you now, it is only because he came first. I shall love you in time. I could not help it." "Kiss me, Pam, before you go. I have not asked you for kisses when I might." "I have done nothing but hurt you," she cried, conscience-stricken. Then she lifted her face for his kiss. [Illustration: "I have done nothing but hurt you," she said.] "And I have been hurting you, quite unconsciously, all the time. It is the old story of May and December. But, thank God! it is not too late." He lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic of him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on his hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired. Then Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he stood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back down the wood path. As he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him. He looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind, hunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their trail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy. Lord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head. "I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow," he said. Pat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into his face. "She has gone home," said Lord Glengall in answer, "and I should be a bad substitute." But Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany this friend of his back into the woods. "Ah! good little beast," said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. "It is good to have a dog sorry for one, Pat." [END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]