And there was comfort in her hand;_
_It was as if she walked a bridge_
_That led into a pleasant land._
_All that was long and long ago,_
_So long ago this ring has grown_
_To be a very part of me,_
_One with my finger and the bone:'_
His voice went trailing in a moan.

_'This is her ring--_
_This is her ring!_
_I dare not die and wear the thing!'_
His hand plucked at his finger thin
As if to ease him of his sin.
I gave a sudden gasping shout--
The wind that blew the window in
Had blown the candle out.

_'Quick, father, quick!_
_The ring ... her name....'_
There came a jagged spurt of flame;
The window seemed a furnace door
That gave upon a bed of ore;
The thunder rumbled out the muttered
Words that his failing tongue had uttered--
Another flash, a rending crack--
The old man crumpled like a sack;
I felt his stringy arms go slack.
How could he sit so dead, so still!
While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?

White shone his glimmering face, and dull
The sodden silence of the lull,
For when he died the wind had dropt;
And with his heart the storm had stopt,
All but a far-off mouthing sound
That seemed to sough from underground;
While silence paused to plan some ill,
Thwarted by thunder growling still.
All in the darkness of the place
With lightning playing on its face,
I fumbled with the corpse's ring
To which the dead hands seemed to cling;
The stiffening joints were loth to play--
After awhile it came away!

Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom,
I tiptoed from the dead man's room;
The door behind me like a hatch
Banged--the white splash of my match
Made shadow shapes dance on the wall
As if the devil pulled the string.
The light ran melting round the ring;
Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur:
_'J.A. to Theodosia Burr'_
Confession is a sacred thing!
I'll keep his secret like the sea;
The ring goes to the grave with me."

H.A.

[5] See the note at the back of the book.

PALMETTO TOWN

Sea-island winds sweep through Palmetto Town,
Bringing with piney tang the old romance
Of Pirates and of smuggling gentlemen;
And tongues as languorous as southern France
Flow down her streets like water-talk at fords;
While through iron gates where pickaninn