Belonging to the Third Order
twenty years. Margaret had felt regret and something like remorse, he knew, over her share in his disappointed life. Her opportunity to make good the loss had come to her, and how promptly she had grasped it! She had given him full measure of good for the harm she had so unwillingly done—full to overflowing. Through the years there had been a little bitterness mingled with the love in his thoughts of her; he was only human. But the last drop of that disappeared in this hour of his happiness and her association with it.
He drew a ring from his finger. It was a heavy gold one, perfectly plain, and on the in side there was an inscription and a date:
"Margaret to Richard, 1881."
He showed it to his betrothed, and then slipped it on her finger.
"I knew her—this well," he said, smiling into the eyes of his new love. Then he added:
"When you see her, show this to Sister George, and tell her it never left my finger since Margaret Canterbury placed it there, until to-night. It has been the most precious thing in my life, so now I wish my wife to wear it."
