"You should take your locket to a jeweler's," I said, "and have the spring secured."
"What locket is that?" asked Lance, looking up eagerly from his paper.
"Mine," she replied—"this." She held it out for his inspection. "I nearly lost it this morning," she said; "it fell from my neck."
"Is it the one that holds your sister's hair?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, opening it and holding it out for him to see.
What nerve she had, if this was what I imagined, the hair of the little dead child. Loving Lance rose from his chair and kissed her.
"You would not like to lose that, my darling, would you?" he said, "Excepting me, that is all you have in the world."
They seemed to forget all about me; she clung to him, and he kissed her face until I thought he would never give over.
"How lovely you were when I found you, Frances," he said. "Do you remember the evening—you were bending over the crysanthemums?"
"I shall forget my own life and my own soul before I forget that," she replied.