e told you a lie."

"Mary," again said her father, "see my grey hairs. Do not bring them
down with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great an affliction. Before
that God who made you, into whose presence there can come no thief,
tell me if you have the ring?"

Thus adjured, Mary raised her eyes, and once more assured her father in
the most solemn manner that she was innocent of the charge. The old man
had put his daughter to a severe test, and now he was satisfied of her
innocence.

"My child," he cried, "I do believe you. You would not dare to tell a
lie in the presence of God and before this young Countess and your
father. You are innocent, and therefore you may take comfort and fear
nothing. There is nothing to fear on earth but sin. Prison and death
are not to be compared to it. Whatever happens, we will put our trust
in God. All will yet come right, for He says, 'I will make thy
righteousness as the light and thy just dealings as the noonday.'"

Touched to the heart by the old man's faith, Amelia's suspicions also
vanished. "Truly," she said, "when I hear you speak in this way, I
believe that you have not the ring; but when I examine all the
circumstances how can I help believing? My mother says she knows
exactly the place where she laid it down. Not a living soul has been in
the room but Mary, and as soon as she left the Castle my mother missed
the ring. Who else, then, can have taken it?"

"It is impossible for me to say," replied Mary's father. "May God
prepare us for a severe trial, but whatever happens," said he, turning
his eyes to heaven, "I am ready. Give me but Thy grace, O Lord; it is
all I ask."

"Truly," said Amelia, "I came here with a heavy heart. It will be for
me the saddest birthday I have ever had. My mother has not yet spoken
to any one of her loss but myself, but it will not be possible to keep
the secret much longer. My father returns to the Castle at noon, and he
will certainly ask her where the ring is. It was a gift to her on the
day when I was born, and on every succeeding birthday she has worn it.
Farewell," said Amelia, turning to Mary, "I will tell my mother that I
consider you are innocent, but who will believe me?" Her eyes filled
with tears, and she left the cottage with a sad heart.

After the young Countess had gone, Mary's father sat for a long time
resting his head on his hand and with his eyes fixed on the ground. The
tears fell down his wrinkled cheeks, and Mary, touched