As they crossed a rustic bridge that spanned a small but rapid torrent, they paused and looked down at the foam sailing along in solid-looking blocks; at the wet and mossy rocks, and the small noisy waterfall.
“How I should like to go down there and dabble!” said Alice, taking off her gloves.
In pulling off the left one she also drew off her wedding-ring, which instantly disappeared in the current below.
She looked after it, or rather at the spot where it had fallen in, in silent consternation; then, turning to her husband with awestruck face, exclaimed:
“My ring is gone! What am I to do?”
“I’m sure I can’t say,” he replied coldly.
“Can’t you fish it up some way—if you were to wade in?” she cried excitedly.
“I don’t know what you call wading, but the water there is at least nine feet deep, and your ring is probably a quarter of a mile off by this time,” he answered, with provoking indifference.
“But what am I to do for my wedding-ring?” she urged piteously, looking down at her hand with burning cheeks.
“Buy another, I conclude; you can get one for a guinea or thirty shillings. It depends upon whether you like them thick or thin. This will be your third, so you must have quite a settled opinion on the subject,” he replied, calmly aiming bits of gravel at a particular rock in the torrent below.