Silently Canaris stood watching her, as she re-slung both poor but precious relics, while the costlier one slipped down, as if ashamed to lie beside them. He caught and swung it on his finger, thinking of something he had lately read to Helwyze.
“Kharsu, the Persian, sent a necklace to Schirin, the princess, whom he loved. She was a Christian, and hung a cross upon his string of pearls, as you did,” he said aloud.
“But I am not a princess, and Mr. Helwyze does not love me; so the pretty story is all spoiled.”
“This thing recalled it. I have given you a necklace, and you are hanging a cross upon it. Wear the one, and use the other, for my sake. Will you, Gladys?”
“Did Schirin convert Kharsu?” asked the girl, catching his thought more from his face than his words; for it wore a look of mingled longing and regret, which she had never seen before.
“That I do not know; but you must convert me: I am a sad heathen, Helwyze says.”
“Has he tried?”
“No.”
“Then I will!”
“You see I’ve had no one to teach me any thing but worldly wisdom, and I sometimes feel as I should be better for a little of the heavenly sort. So when you wear the rosary I shall give you—‘Fair saint, in your orisons be all my sins remembered;’” and Canaris put his hand upon her head, smiling, as if half-ashamed of his request.