"Good heavens! why do you look so ashamed about it?"
"Because--I ... have it still."
"Oh, not really!" He smiled. A feeling of pleasure shot through him.
Without answering, she felt in the pocket of her dress, and laid before him on the table a little straw box plaited out of coloured blades. It was hardly bigger than a baby's fist.
He held it in his hand, and examined it all over attentively. Something rattled inside.
"May I open it?"
"You needn't ask, Herr!"
It was a ring of glass beads--blue, white, and yellow, such as a little girl, following the first instincts of vanity, threads for herself. He took it out, and tried to force it on his little finger, but it was far too narrow, and he couldn't get it over his nail.
"Did I give you the ring too?" he asked.
"No, Herr, it belonged to my dear mother. It cut into her flesh once, and that's why I used to wear it day and night till the thread broke. Then she had been dead a long time, and as it was the only keepsake I had of her, I threaded the beads again, and have never parted with the ring, and I always have it on me."