"
Miss Sophie heard no more as she gazed out into the dusty grass.
There were tears in her eyes, hot blinding ones that wouldn't
drop for pride, but stayed and scalded. She knew the story, with
all its embellishment of heartaches. She knew the ring, too.
She remembered the day she had kissed and wept and fondled it,
until it seemed her heart must burst under its load of grief
before she took it to the pawn-broker's that another might be
eased before the end came,--that other her father. The little
"Creole love affair" of Neale's had not always been poor and old
and jaded-looking; but reverses must come, even Neale knew that,
so the ring was at the Mont de Piete. Still he must have it, it
was his; it would save him from disgrace and suffering and from
bringing the white-gowned bride into sorrow. He must have it;
but how?
There it was still at the pawn-broker's; no one would have such
an odd jewel, and the ticket was home in the bureau drawer.
Well, he must have it; she might starve in the attempt. Such a
thing as going to him and telling him that he might redeem it was
an impossibility. That good, straight-backed, stiff-necked
Creole blood would have risen in all its strength and choked her.
No; as a present had the quaint Roman circlet been placed upon
her finger, as a present should it be returned.
The bumping car rode slowly, and the hot thoughts beat heavily in
her poor little head.
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