“Thou must not persuade me to put it on,” she half pleaded, as she looked at the ring; and then, as if to prevent herself from succumbing to temptation, she passed it back to Everett. The watch she examined carefully. “This will mark the seconds, the moments, and the hours of all thy life. It should remind one to make good account of his time.” “It has marked some very pleasant moments since I came to Zanah,” said Everett, and his tones conveyed to Walda a dim impression that made her suddenly shy. Some one knocked twice on the door, lifted the latch, and entered. It was Hans Peter, who carried in his hand a package of books, letters, and papers. “These have I brought from the post-office,” said the simple one, his pale eyes wandering from Walda to Everett as they sat close together. It was plain, even to a fool, that their conversation had been of a sort interesting only to themselves. “The elders ordered that thy mail be given into thy hands, and I have followed thee here that I might deliver the chronicles of the wicked world into thy keeping.” Everett thanked the simple one, who made no move to leave the room. Hans Peter still stood playing with his queer cap and balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other. “Wouldst thou give me the newspaper when thou hast read it?” he asked, with something like eagerness in his tone. “No, no, Hans Peter, I cannot disregard the rules of the colony,” Everett said, carelessly. “Dost thou not know that the fool cannot be hurt?” asked the simple one. “He hath so little knowledge that he knoweth not folly from wisdom. To him the wicked appear good and the good wicked.” Everett’s mail was scattered on the table where the simple one had put it. Among the envelopes the man of the world saw one that enclosed a photograph. “This may be a picture that will interest you,” he said. “Will you pardon me if I open it?” He tore off the envelope, and the photograph of a young and beautiful girl was disclosed. The hair was dressed in rather an elaborate fashion, and the gown was slightly décolleté. “This is my young cousin Beatrice,” he remarked. “She is one of my favorite relatives. I want you to tell me what you think of her, Walda.” “It is forbidden in Zanah that we should make the image of anything on earth,” declared Walda, turning her eyes away when Everett held the photograph towards her. “I beg your pardon,” he said. The fool had come close to Everett’s chair, and he now looked over the stranger’s shoulder. “Is she called beautiful?” he asked. “I believe she is,” said Everett. “Don’t you think she is a pretty girl?” “I like her hair and her necklace,” the simple one said. “She hath no cap or kerchief. Yea, she is like an angel.” He hesitated for a moment, looking from the picture to Walda, as if he were comparing the two faces, and he added: “She is not so fair as the prophetess of Zanah. Dost thou think her more comely than Walda Kellar?”