There was something else in one corner at the bottom of the box—a tiny case of black morocco.
Geoffrey seized it eagerly, turned back the lid, and a small, heavy ring of gold lay before him.
His heart leaped anew at the sight of it; nothing had been neglected to do honor to the beautiful girl whom William Mapleson had loved.
He turned it toward the light and read on its inner surface; “W. M. to A. D., Aug. 12th, 18——”
A heavy sigh, that was almost a sob, burst from him, though it was one of joy instead of sorrow.
“A fortune could not purchase these from me,” he said, looking up with moist eyes, while he reverently laid back in their place the priceless treasures he had found.
A spasm of pain contracted Colonel Mapleson’s face at his words, for he could well understand the feeling that lay behind them, and he could not fail to realize, too, something of the questionable position which his boy had occupied all his life.
He was very grave and thoughtful, and Mr. Huntress, as he watched him, could see that he was struggling with some weighty matter that lay upon his conscience.
At length he lifted his head, with a quick, resolute motion, showing that he had settled it, whatever it was.
“Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey,” he said, glancing from one to the other; “I have a long story to tell you, and a hard one, too, for not a soul in the world save you two and the clergyman who performed the ceremony really knows that I was ever married before the present Mrs. Mapleson became my wife. I am bound to tell this story not only to you, but also to her; that, as you cannot fail to understand, will be the hardest part of my confession.”