caught her fingers. "You wear my ring!" he said. "Marion, you wear my
ring! You do care for me still?"

She drew her hand away. "No," she said firmly. "No, Mark Telford, I do not
care for you. I have worn this ring as a warning to me--my daily
crucifixion. Read what is inside it."

She drew it off and handed it to him. He took it and read the words,
"You--told--a--lie." This was the bitterest moment in his life. He was
only to know one more bitter, and it would come soon. He weighed the ring
up and down in his palm and laughed a dry, crackling laugh.

"Yes," he said, "you have kept the faith--that you hadn't in me--tolerably
well. A liar, a coward, and one who strikes from behind--that is it, isn't
it? You kept the faith, and I didn't fight the good fight, eh? Well, let
it stand so. Will you permit me to keep this ring? The saint needed it to
remind her to punish the sinner. The sinner would like to keep it now, for
then he would have a hope that the saint would forgive him some day."

The bitterness of his tone was merged at last into a strange tenderness
and hopelessness.

She did not look at him. She did not wish him to see the tears spring
suddenly to her eyes. She brought her voice to a firm quietness. She
thought of the woman, Mrs. Gladney, who was coming; of his child, whom he
did not recognize. She looked down toward the abbey. The girl was walking
there between old Mr. Margrave and Baron. She had once hated both the
woman and the child. She knew that to be true to her blood she ought to
hate them always, but there crept into her heart now a strange feeling of
pity for both. Perhaps the new interest in her life was driving out