“You telegraphed for her?” I said to Jeanie.
She did not deny it; and I thought Mrs. Pennoyer cast one look at me as of contempt.
Then I saw her see the ring upon my finger, and her expression seemed to change.
We saw the happy pair go off, and we went back to our seats in the returning train. We three; and one of us most miserable, and that was I.
I had given up all hope of talking with Jeanie any more. She went off with Mrs. Pennoyer to a front seat, where I saw them in earnest consultation; and that ancient relict of justice tempered by mercy appeared to be speaking of me. I watched them; and I heard the words “Mr. Bruce” and “the ring;” and I saw Jeanie grow still more pale.
Finally, to my glad astonishment, she rose, and like a brave lady—not like those Northern girls I knew in Salem, who would not dare throw a man a life preserver to save him from drowning—sweet and gracious, she came back to me.
“Mr. Higginbotham” (what a name to set by Raoul, or even Bruce), “I must have my ring again,” said she.
“Never,” I answered. “It is not your ring, but mine.”
“I only lent it to you. I did not give it.”
“Then lend it to me a little longer—till I have seen you home,” I said.