“Nothing would be wicked for you,” decided David, “except to throw yourself away on that greasy little cad, Bamber. Promise me you won’t, Jennie. You’re about ten times too pretty and good for such a chap.”
“I told you I wasn’t goin’ t’ marry him b’fore,” murmured the girl. “I—I couldn’t.”
She pulled off her white cotton glove and spread her short-fingered, blunt little hand for his inspection.
“There!” she whispered. “I didn’t never ’xpect you’d see it. But that’s what I’ve bought with all the money you’ve give me for makin’ your toast the way you like it an’ your coffee an’ all. I’m goin’ t’ keep it always, t’ remember you by.”
David glanced carelessly at the pink little hand, with its close-clipped, shallow nails and stubbed fingertips.
“Do you mean—that?” he asked, touching the trumpery little ring with its circle of blue stones, which glittered speciously on the third finger.
“Yes,” breathed the girl. “You—you ain’t—mad, are you? I—wanted somethin’ t’ keep always, t’ put me in mind o’ you, when—I can’t do things f’r you no more; I love t’ do things f’r you, an’ I don’t s’pose I’ll always have the chance, after—after she——”
David felt a sudden moisture in his eyes. There was something touching, lovely, pathetic about this innocent, unasking love. He felt a little proud of his own understanding of it. Almost unavoidably, too, there came to his remembrance Barbara’s proud refusal to wear the costly ring he had urged upon her acceptance.
“I am not angry, dear little girl,” he said gently, “But I wish the keepsake was better, more worth while.”
“One of the stones did come out,” confessed the girl; “but I had it put back in, ’n’ I’m only goin’ t’ wear it f’r best.”