As soon as the two girls could slip away from the others, Jane led Merry into the deserted parlor of the inn, where hair-cloth chairs and sofa, a marble-topped table, and bright-colored prints on the wall were revealed in the subdued light from windows hung with heavy draperies.
When they were alone, Merry whirled and caught Jane’s hands as she asked glowingly: “Can you guess what’s in the box? I told mother to forward it.”
For answer Jane stooped and kissed the flushed cheek of her friend. “Of course, I can guess,” she replied. “It’s the ring Jean’s brother was to send you from Paris.”
Merry soon had the small box unwrapped and a dew-drop clear diamond was revealed in a setting of quaint design. “Oh, Merry, how wonderfully beautiful it is!” Jane said with sincere admiration. Her shining-eyed friend slipped it on the finger for which it was intended, then, smiling up at her companion, she prophesied, “Some day another ring, as lovely as this one, will make you my sister.”
There was a wistful expression in the dark eyes, but Jane’s quiet reply was, “You are wrong, Merry. Even if Jean thinks he cares for me, he would not, if he knew, and what is more, I have no reason to believe that he even likes me better than he does his other girl friends.”
Merry, knowing that time alone could tell whether or not she was a prophet, changed the subject by asking: “From whom are your letters, dear? How selfish I have been, opening my box first when it is your birthday.” Jane glanced at the top envelope, then tore it open with breathless eagerness.
Merry surmised, and correctly, that the letter was from Jean Sawyer. It was the one Mr. Bently had taken from a pigeon-hole where it had been since the day before. It did not take long for Jane to read it, and when she looked up there was an expression of happiness shining through the tears that had come. Then suddenly and most unexpectedly, the girl sank down in the stiff chair by the marble-topped table and bending her head on her arms, she sobbed bitterly. Merry went to her and putting an arm about her, she implored: “Don’t, don’t cry, dearie. It will make your eyes red and the others will wonder. Tell me what is in the letter and let us try to think what it is best to do. Is it from Jean?”
Jane lifted her head and wiped her eyes. Then she held the letter out for her friend to read. There were few words in it, but they told how sincerely unhappy the lad was because Jane seemed not to wish for his friendship. Jean had written: “All I can think of is that in some way I have hurt you, and that I do so want to be forgiven. At least, be frank and tell me just why you do not wish my friendship.”
“Why don’t you tell him, dearie? If it would be hard to talk it over with him, write a little letter now and leave it until someone comes for the Packard ranch mail. Will you do that if I get the materials?”
Jane nodded miserably. “Yes, I would rather write it. Then I will go back with you next week and I shall never again see Jean Sawyer.”