“Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed.” That at least was true. “Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?” He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice within. “Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free,” she stammered, struggling on the very verge of the precipice. “You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead,” the Wanderer said, stroking her hair. It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving man--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge. He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced at his own hand. “Do you know this ring?” he asked, holding it before her, with a smile. “Indeed, I know it,” she answered, trembling again. “You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you something better. Have you it still?” She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it down. “I had it in my hand last night,” she said in a breaking voice. True, once more. “What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears.” “I little thought that I should have yourself to-day,” she tried to say. Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand as her head nestled on his shoulder. “When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----” She sobbed aloud.