"Dear little woman!" cried the poor fellow, brightening. "I was afraid you would say that we could not afford another. Where did you buy it? How much did you give? I wish I had tried it before it was bought."
"Supposing it isn't bought at all?" I said, putting Monsieur Léon's treasure into the eager hands outstretched to receive it.
"Oh, then I suppose you have only borrowed it!"
He swept his fingers across the strings, and a sudden look of pleasure flashed into his face. "It is very good—better than mine, Louie. Do they want much money for it?"
"Who are 'they'?" I demanded, provokingly. "Ah, Ronald, I won't tantalise you any more! The guitar is yours, really yours; and there is nothing to pay for it."
"You are a little witch," said my husband. "Go and take off that shabby old bonnet of yours, and then come here and tell me all about it."
The bonnet was shabby; I knew that well enough; and I knew, too, that it would be a long time before I could get a fresh one. But the "outward adorning" did not occupy my mind just then, nor did I even bestow one regretful thought on the faded face inside the poor bonnet. I was eager to get back to Ronald's side, and see him enjoying his new possession. Moreover, I had a wonderful story to tell, and the telling of it would make the rest of the morning pass pleasantly away.
He was deeply interested in my account of the doctor's poor patient, and asked more questions about Monsieur Léon than I could possibly answer. And then the gift underwent a close examination; in fact, he scarcely cared to part with it even for a moment.
I had gone out of the room to speak to nurse, and when I returned I found my husband standing close to the window. He was looking into the guitar with earnest eyes, and glanced up at me as I came in, saying that he had just made a discovery.
"Do go back to your sofa, dear," I entreated.