"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty ring." "Where did you get it, Helen?" I asked. "I don't remember," she said quietly. "May I look at it?" I asked. "Oh, yes," and she slipped it from her finger and laid it in my hand. "What are these letters engraved within?" I asked. "Are there letters there?" she said. "I didn't know it. So there are. To H. R., from J. B. What does that mean?" "Don't you know?" I asked. Oh, it was hard to see that calm face, to hear that calm voice. Better the blush and silent avowal of love, even for another, than that blank gaze. "No. I do not know what those letters mean," she answered. "Perhaps 'H. R.' stands for your own name," said I. She smiled like a happy child. "Yes, yes. That must be it. But the 'J. B.,' what do they stand for?" I hesitated--who would not? "Perhaps they stand for--for John Bruce," I said slowly, looking her steadily in the eyes. She returned the gaze with the calm confidence of a child. "Who is John Bruce?" she asked. "I can't remember John Bruce." My heart gave a great leap, then sank like lead. Am I then such a villain that I rejoice at the thought that Helen Rankine has no memory of her lover? Where is the hate that I boasted of? It has gone. It could not live before the calm eyes of the girl by my side. But I had my duty to do. "John Bruce is in India, Helen," said I. "Don't you remember? And you were going to him, and when you reached him you were to marry him. He loves you dearly, and you loved him dearly. Can't you remember?" The troubled look came to the dark eyes and ruffled the calm brow. A faint flush passed across the rich, warm cheeks. Then, like a spoiled child, she shook her head and said: "No, no, no, no!" with a little pat of the foot and nod at the last "No." "I do not know anything about it at all. I do not know John Bruce, and of course I do not love him. How could I? But I know you, Arthur, and I love you," and she laid her hand in mine, with a pretty smile. I wonder if I'm the same man that set sail in the _Albatross_ six short weeks ago? The Arthur Hartley then was a mad, foolish boy. The Arthur Hartley now is a grave, serious man. I feel that years and years have passed, instead of weeks. How much I am changed let this prove: I held Helen's hand in mine and answered gently, "I am very glad you love me, Helen. I hope you will ever love me. I certainly love you dearly. I could not love a sister more." She smiled at this and patted my hand, and then we sat, hand in hand, without speaking, until the shadows deepened on the deck.