“Your affectionate nephew,
    “Ferdinand B. Kensington.”

Miss Deborah read this letter like one dazed.  She had to read it a second time before she could comprehend its purport.

“Ferdinand going to be married!  He never said a word about it when he was here.  And he don’t say a word about Californy.  Then again he says he hasn’t seen me for years.  Merciful man!  I see it now—­the other fellow was an impostor!” exclaimed Miss Deborah, jumping, to her feet in excitement.  “What did he want to deceive an old woman for?”

It flashed upon her at once.  He came after money, and he had succeeded only too well.  He had carried away four hundred and fifty dollars with him.  True, he had left a note, and security.  But another terrible suspicion had entered the old lady’s mind; the ring might not be genuine.

“I must know at once,” exclaimed the disturbed spinster.  “I’ll go over to Brandon, to the jeweller’s, and inquire.  If it’s paste, then, Deborah Kensington, you’re the biggest fool in Centreville.”

Miss Deborah summoned Abner, her farm servant from the field, and ordered him instantly to harness the horse, as she wanted to go to Brandon.

“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Abner.

“To be sure, I can’t drive so fur, and take care of the horse.”

“It’ll interrupt the work,” objected Abner.

“Never mind about the work,” said Deborah, impatiently.  “I must go right off.  It’s on very important business.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to go after dinner?”

“No, we’ll get some dinner over there, at the tavern.”

“What’s got into the old woman?” thought Abner.  “It isn’t like her to spend money at a tavern for dinner, when she might as well dine at home.  Interruptin’ the work, too!  However, it’s her business!”

Deborah was ready and waiting when the horse drove up the door.  She got in, and they set out.  Abner tried to open a conversation, but he found Miss Deborah strangely unsocial.  She appeared to take no interest in the details of farm work of which he spoke.

“Something’s on her mind, I guess,” thought Abner; and, as we know, he was right.

In her hand Deborah clutched the ring, of whose genuineness she had come to entertain such painful doubts.  It might be genuine, she tried to hope, even if it came from an impostor; but her hope was small.  She felt a presentiment that it would prove as false as the man from whom she received it.  As for the story of the manner in which he became possessed of it, doubtless that was as false as the rest.

“How blind I was!” groaned Deborah in secret.  “I saw he didn’t look like the family.  What a goose I was to believe that story about his changin’ the color of his hair!  I was an old fool, and that’s all about it.”

“Drive to the jeweller’s,” said Miss Deborah, when they reached Brandon.