In some surprise, Abner complied.

Deborah got out of the wagon hastily and entered the store.

“What can I do for you, Miss Kensington?” asked the jeweller, who recognized the old lady.

“I want to show you a ring,” said Aunt Deborah, abruptly.  “Tell me what it’s worth.”

She produced the ring which the false Ferdinand had intrusted to her.

The jeweller scanned it closely.

“It’s a good imitation of a diamond ring,” he said.

“Imitation!” gasped Deborah.

“Yes; you didn’t think it was genuine?”

“What’s it worth?”

“The value of the gold.  That appears to be genuine.  It may be worth three dollars.”

“Three dollars!” ejaculated Deborah.  “He told me it cost six hundred and fifty.”

“Whoever told you that was trying to deceive you.”

“You’re sure about its being imitation, are you?”

“There can be no doubt about it.”

“That’s what I thought,” muttered the old lady, her face pale and rigid.  “Is there anything to pay?”

“Oh, no; I am glad to be of service to you.”

“Good-afternoon, then,” said Deborah, abruptly, and she left the store.

“Drive home, Abner, as quick as you can,” she said.

“I haven’t had any dinner,” Abner remarked, “You said you’d get some at the tavern.”

“Did I?  Well, drive over there.  I’m not hungry myself, but I’ll pay for some dinner for you.”

Poor Aunt Deborah! it was not the loss alone that troubled her, though she was fond of money; but it was humiliating to think that she had fallen such an easy prey to a designing adventurer.  In her present bitter mood, she would gladly have ridden fifty miles to see the false Ferdinand hanged.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The plot against Fletcher.

The intimacy between Harry and Oscar Vincent continued, and, as during the former term, the latter volunteered to continue giving French lessons to our hero.  These were now partly of a conversational character, and, as Harry was thoroughly in earnest, it was not long before he was able to speak quite creditably.

About the first of November, Fitzgerald Fletcher left the Prescott Academy, and returned to his home in Boston.  It was not because he had finished his education, but because he felt that he was not appreciated by his fellow-students.  He had been ambitious to be elected to an official position in the Clionian Society, but his aspirations were not gratified.  He might have accepted this disappointment, and borne it as well as he could, had it not been aggravated by the elevation of Harry Walton to the presidency.  To be only a common member, while a boy so far his social inferior was President, was more than Fitzgerald could stand.  He was so incensed that upon the announcement of the vote he immediately rose to a point of order.