"My father," cried Mary, "well do you know that never in my life have I stolen even the smallest coin, and how should I take anything so valuable as the Countess's ring? I pray you, believe me; I have never in my life told you a lie."
"Mary," again said her father, "see my grey hairs. Do not bring them down with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great an affliction. Before that God who made you, into whose presence there can come no thief, tell me if you have the ring?"
Thus adjured, Mary raised her eyes, and once more assured her father in the most solemn manner that she was innocent of the charge. The old man had put his daughter to a severe test, and now he was satisfied of her innocence.
"My child," he cried, "I do believe you. You would not dare to tell a lie in the presence of God and before this young Countess and your father. You are innocent, and therefore you may take comfort and fear nothing. There is nothing to fear on earth but sin. Prison and death are not to be compared to it. Whatever happens, we will put our trust in God. All will yet come right, for He says, 'I will make thy righteousness as the light and thy just dealings as the noonday.'"
Touched to the heart by the old man's faith, Amelia's suspicions also vanished. "Truly," she said, "when I hear you speak in this way, I believe that you have not the ring; but when I examine all the circumstances how can I help believing? My mother says she knows exactly the place where she laid it down. Not a living soul has been in the room but Mary, and as soon as she left the Castle my mother missed the ring. Who else, then, can have taken it?"
"It is impossible for me to say," replied Mary's father. "May God prepare us for a severe trial, but whatever happens," said he, turning his eyes to heaven, "I am ready. Give me but Thy grace, O Lord; it is all I ask."
"Truly," said Amelia, "I came here with a heavy heart. It will be for me the saddest birthday I have ever had. My mother has not yet spoken to any one of her loss but myself, but it will not be possible to keep the secret much longer. My father returns to the Castle at noon, and he will certainly ask her where the ring is. It was a gift to her on the day when I was born, and on every succeeding birthday she has worn it. Farewell," said Amelia, turning to Mary, "I will tell my mother that I consider you are innocent, but who will believe me?" Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the cottage with a sad heart.
After the young Countess had gone, Mary's father sat for a long time resting his head on his hand and with his eyes fixed on the ground. The tears fell down his wrinkled cheeks, and Mary, touched by his grief, threw herself at his knees and besought him to believe in her innocence.
The old man raised himself and looked for a long time in her eyes, and then said—
"Yes, Mary, you are innocent. That look, where integrity and truth are painted, cannot be the look of guilt."