ing value, for the theft of which I had
been transported.

Straightway Catherine saw that it was too much for me, for she knelt
down beside me and called John to give her a flask of sweet waters
which stood on the table, and began bathing my forehead, the while
my brother looked on with something of a jealous frown.

"'Twas thoughtless of me, Harry," she whispered, "but they say joy
does not kill, and--and--dost thou know the ring?"

I nodded. It seemed to me that no jewels could ever be mined which I
would know as I knew that green star of emerald and those encircling
brilliants. That ring I knew to my cost.

"My Lord Ealing is dead," she said, "and thou knowest that he was a
kinsman of the Chelmsfords, and after his funeral came this ring and
a letter, and--and--thou art cleared, Harry. And--and--now I know
why thou didst what thou did, Harry, 'twas--'twas--to shield me."
With that she burst into a great flood of tears, even throwing
herself upon the floor of my cell in all her slim length, and not
letting my brother John raise her, though he strove to do so.

"'Tis here, 'tis here I belong, John," she cried out wildly, "for
you know not, you know not what injustice I have done this innocent
man. Never can I make it good with my life."

It is here that I shall stop the course of my story to explain the
whole matter of the ring, which at the time I was too weak and spent
with pain to comprehend fully as Catherine Cavendish related it. It
was a curious and at the same time a simple tale, as such tales are
wont to be, and its very simplicity made it seem then, and seem now,
well-nigh incredible. For it is the simple things of this world
which are always most unbelievable, perhaps for this reason: that
men after Eden and the Serpent, expect some subtlety of reasoning to
account for all happenings, and always comes the suspicion that
somewhat beside two and two go to make four.

My Lord Robert Ealing who had come to the ball at Cavendish Court
that long last year, was a distant kinsman of our family, and
unwedded, but a man who went through the world with a silly leer of
willingness toward all womenkind. And 'twas this very trait,
perhaps, which accounted for his remaining unwedded, although a
lord, though the fact that his estates were incumbered may have had
somewhat to do with it. Be that as it may, he lived alone, except
for a few old servants, and was turned sixty, when, long after my
transportation, he wedde