“You don’t say so!  Let me look at it.  It aint got no color.  Looks like glass.”

“It’s very expensive, though.  How much do you think it cost?”

“Well, maybe five dollars.”

“Five dollars!” ejaculated the young man.  “Why, what can you be thinking of, Aunt Deborah?”

“I shouldn’t have guessed so much,” said the old lady, misunderstanding him, “only you said it was expensive.”

“So it is.  Five dollars would be nothing at all.”

“You don’t say it cost more?”

“A great deal more.”

“Did it cost ten dollars?”

“More.”

“Fifteen?”

“I see, aunt, you have no idea of the cost of diamond rings!  You may believe me or not, but that ring cost six hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What!” almost screamed Aunt Deborah, letting fall her knitting in her surprise.

“It’s true.”

“Six hundred and fifty dollars for a little piece of gold and glass!” ejaculated the old lady.

“Diamond, aunt, not glass.”

“Well, it don’t look a bit better’n glass, and I do say,” proceeded Deborah, with energy, “that it’s a sin and a shame to pay so much money for a ring.  Why, it was more than half your year’s salary, Ferdinand.”

“I agree with you, aunt; it would have been very foolish and wrong for a young man on a small salary like mine to buy so expensive a ring as this.  I hope, Aunt Deborah, I have inherited too much of your good sense to do that.”

“Then where did you get it?” asked the old lady, moderating her tone.

“It was given to me.”

“Given to you!  Who would give you such a costly present?”

“A rich man whose life I once saved, Aunt Deborah.”

“You don’t say so, Ferdinand!” said Aunt Deborah, interested.  “Tell me all about it.”

“So I will, aunt, though I don’t often speak of it,” said Ferdinand, modestly.  “It seems like boasting, you know, and I never like to do that.  But this is the way it happened.

“Now for a good tough lie!” said Ferdinand to himself, as the old lady suspended her work, and bent forward with eager attention.

“You know, of course, that New York and Brooklyn are on opposite sides of the river, and that people have to go across in ferry-boats.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, Ferdinand.”

“I’m glad of that, because now you’ll know that my story is correct.  Well, one summer I boarded over in Brooklyn—­on the Heights—­and used to cross the ferry morning and night.  It was the Wall street ferry, and a great many bankers and rich merchants used to cross daily also.  One of these was a Mr. Clayton, a wholesale dry-goods merchant, immensely rich, whom I knew by sight, though I had never spoken to him.  It was one Thursday morning—­I remember even the day of the week—­when the boat was unusually full.  Mr. Clayton was leaning against the side-railing talking to a friend, when all at once the railing gave way, and he fell backward into the water, which immediately swallowed him up.”