"Do not ask me, dear; I cannot take it," said Joyce.
"I bought it myself, and I have so large an allowance that it cost me nothing; I wish it had. The having too much money takes from us the joy of self-sacrifice."
"I cannot take it," repeated Joyce. "How would that diamond look on the hand of a maid to little children? Besides, I have rings that belonged to my mother, if I wished to wear any."
"You have not forgiven me," sighed Adelaide.
"Yes, and I will take a gift, too, and prize it. Spend ten shillings on a little brooch in cut steel, and I will wear it, and never part with it while I live. And give me your likeness; I should like to have it, though I shall always picture your face as it looks to-night."
"You shall have these trifles, Joyce, and I will keep this, no matter how long, until you are willing to wear it." And restoring the ring to its case she put it into her pocket. "Now what else can I do for you?" she asked.
"My uncle breakfasts earlier than you and the rest do. I have been used to pour out his coffee and join him at table. I think he will miss me at first. Will you sometimes breakfast with him?"
"How selfish I have been not to notice this, or care for his loneliness! Rely on me, I will breakfast with him always, unless by some special chance I have been up very late the night before."
"I shall neither be missed nor wanted," said Joyce. "Indeed, I begin to fear I shall soon be forgotten."
But she smiled as she said it, for she was glad to think that the father and daughter would be brought together by her own departure.