“And what makes you think that I am telling a lie?” “Because the ring is large enough to go over two of my fingers.” And Thibault’s finger would certainly have made two of Agnelette’s. “If it is too large, Agnelette,” he said, “we can have it made smaller.” “Good-bye, Monsieur Thibault.” “What! Good-bye?” “Yes.” “You are going to leave me?” “Yes, I am going.” “And why, Agnelette?” “Because I do not love liars.” Thibault tried to think of some vow he could make to reassure Agnelette, but in vain. “Listen,” said Agnelette, with tears in her eyes, for it was not without a great effort of self-control that she was turning away, “if that ring is really meant for me....” “Agnelette, I swear to you that it is.” “Well then, give it me to keep till our wedding day, and on that day I will give it back to you, that you may have it blessed.” “I will give it you with all my heart,” replied Thibault, “but I want to see it on your pretty hand. You were right in saying that it was too large for you, and I am going into Villers-Cotterets to-day, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.” The smile returned to Agnelette’s face and her tears were dried up at once. She put out her little hand; Thibault took it between his own, turned it over and looked at it, first on the back and then on the palm, and stooping, kissed it. “Oh!” said Agnelette “you should not kiss my hand, Monsieur Thibault, it is not pretty enough.” “Give me something else then to kiss.” And Agnelette lifted her face that he might kiss her on the forehead. “And now,” she said joyously, and with childish eagerness, “let me see the ring.” Thibault drew off the ring, and laughing, tried to put it on Agnelette’s thumb; but, to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. “Well, well,” he exclaimed “who would ever have thought such a thing?” Agnelette began to laugh. “It is funny, isn’t it!” she said. Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring. “Ah! my God, Monsieur Thibault,” cried the child “what does this mean?”