“No, Madelaine,” he said solemnly, “in my love for you there’s no doubt. There’s never been a doubt. And I brought you something to-night I hope to leave with you—as a pledge between us—until ‘the war is over.’”
His fingers were steady, as steady as his voice when he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his uniform and from it took a little box of wine-red plush. He snapped back the cover.
The library lamp caught an iridescent drop of white fire, cold as a thousand winters, pure as a baby’s tear, with all the love and tragedy of the race deep in its refractive depths.
Gordon passed it across.
It was the ring he hoped her to wear,—the gift which stood for his heart. It was significant that the man did not take the ring from its white satin casket. He did not try to crush it on her finger.
The girl gazed down upon it.
“You beautiful, beautiful thing!” she whispered reverently.
“Somehow I had to save it for the last minute, dear. I’ve carried it for weeks because—because—I either wanted to go away deliriously happy or knowing there wasn’t any hope. Then war would be mighty welcome.”
“Don’t say that, Gordon! It—implies a weakness!”
“I might as well be honest, Madge.”