Gladys sat down upon the rock to explore a pocket, so small and empty that Canaris could not help smiling, as he, too, leaned and looked with a lover’s freedom.
“Only my old chain. I must put back the cross, else I shall lose it,” laughed Gladys, as she brought out a little cord of what seemed woven yellow silk.
“Is it your hair?” he asked, his eye caught by its peculiar sunshiny hue.
“Yes; I could not buy a better one, so I made this. My hair is all the gold I have.”
“Give it to me, and you wear mine. See, I have an amulet as well as you.”
Fumbling in his breast, Canaris undid a slender chain, whence hung a locket, curiously chased, and tarnished with long wear. This he unslung, and, opening, showed Gladys the faded picture of a beautiful, sad woman.
“That is my Madonna.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Mine now.” The girl touched it with her lips, then softly closed and laid it on her lap.