“And—yes—no—yes—if it isn’t a ring?” cried Mr. Dear, holding something up.
“Oh, actuality!” said Miss Dear.
Priscilla seized it with a gasp of joy. “It is!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is.”
It was the ring. Priscilla rubbed it clean, and the gold was as golden as ever, and the turquoise had the same darling blue.
“Well,” said Mr. Dear, “if that isn’t the queerest go?”
Priscilla was so happy she nearly cried, and Miss Dear kissed Priscilla, and kissed dad, and the very little servant jumped about, and Mr. Dear kissed Miss Dear, and kissed Priscilla, and wrung Priscilla’s father’s hand. They both said, “What an extraordinary coincidence!” And Priscilla’s father promised Mr. Dear a copy of the book as soon as he could get one, and Mr. Dear said it ought to be in the Daily Mail.
And then Priscilla and her father said “Good-night” and “Thank you” several times, and at last got away and hurried home to relieve the mind of Priscilla’s mother, who, as you may suppose, was wondering what had become of them.
That is only one story of the ring of fortitude. There are several others, which I may tell you at another time—how it comforted Priscilla in other times of need, and gave her strength, and how now and then she lent it to others, and it helped them too. But if you are inclined to doubt such a strange coincidence as I have related, you have only to go into Mr. Dear’s shop—O. W. Dear, Pastrycook and Confectioner—and just mention the topic of a lost ring, and he will not only tell you the whole story from beginning to end, but show you the Life of Young, and also the crack in the floor; and Miss Dear will bear him out.
But don’t forget to buy a teacake, for he makes the best in London.