u so unhappy, too. I am more sane and reasonable now, and so send
you greeting and beg you not to grieve for that which can never be. It
is quite impossible, dear friend, and I entreat you, as you care for
me, never to speak of it again; never again to make me feel that I can
give you so little when you have given so much. And do not try to see
me for a little while. I shall miss your visits, and so will my
father, who is very fond of you; but it is better that we should not
meet, until we can take up our old relations--if that can ever be._

"_I am sending you a little keepsake in case we should drift apart on
the eddies of life. It is the ring that I told you about--the one that
my uncle gave me. Perhaps you may be able to wear it as you have a
small hand, but in any case keep it in remembrance of our friendship.
The device on it is the Eye of Osiris, a mystic symbol for which I have
a sentimentally superstitious affection, as also had my poor uncle, who
actually bore it tattooed in scarlet on his breast. It signifies that
the great judge of the dead looks down on men to see that justice is
done and that truth prevails. So I commend you to the good Osiris; may
his eye be upon you, ever watchful over your welfare in the absence of_

"_Your affectionate friend,_
"RUTH."

It was a sweet letter, I thought, even if it carried little comfort;
quiet and reticent like its writer, but with an undertone of affection.
I laid it down at length, and, taking the ring from its box, examined
it fondly. Though but a copy, it had all the quaintness and feeling of
the antique original, and, above all, it was fragrant with the spirit
of the giver. Dainty and delicate, wrought of silver and gold, with an
inlay of copper, I would not have exchanged it for the Koh-i-noor; and
when I had slipped it on my finger its tiny eye of blue enamel looked
up at me so friendly and companionable that I felt the glamour of the
old-world superstition stealing over me too.

Not a single patient came in this evening, which was well for me (and
also for the patient), as I was able forthwith to write in reply a long
letter; but this I shall spare the long-suffering reader excepting its
concluding paragraph:

"_And now, dearest, I have said my say; once for all I have said it,
and I will not open my mouth on the subject again (I am not actually
opening it now) 'until the times do alter.' And if the times do never
alter--if it shall come t