"'Tis a drop of liquid light," said John. "But why do you give it to me?
I can't wear it. I don't think I ought to accept it."

"Nobody asks you to wear it," said Lady Blanchemain. "It's a woman's
ring, of course. But as for accepting it, you need have no scruples.
It's an old Blanchemain gem, that was in the family a hundred years
before I came into it. It's properly an heirloom, and you're the heir.
I give it to you for a purpose. Should you ever become engaged, I desire
you to placcit upon the finger of the adventurous woman."




IV


Under a gnarled old olive, by the river's brim, Annunziata sat on the
turf, head bowed, so that her curls fell in a tangle all about her
cheeks, and gazed fixedly into the green waters, the laughing, dancing,
purling waters, green, and, where the sun reached them, shot with seams
and cleavages of light, like fluorspar. In the sun-flecked,
shadow-dappled grass near by, violets tried to hide themselves, but were
betrayed by their truant sweetness. The waters purled, a light breeze
rustled the olive-leaves, and birds were singing loud and wild, as birds
will after rain.

Maria Dolores, coming down the path that followed the river's windings,
stood for a minute, and watched her small friend without speaking. But
at last she called out, "_Ciao_, Annunziata. Are you dreaming dreams and
seeing visions?"