You can’t tell what mischief that emerald ring might not have done.  But the sapphires that Wenna is wearing now are perfectly beautiful; and Wenna is not so heartbroken that she isn’t very proud of them.  I never saw such a beautiful ring.  Yours sincerely,

MABYN ROSEWARNE.

P.S.—­Are you never coming back to Eglosilyan any more?”

So the days went by, and Mabyn waited with a secret hope to see what answer Mr. Roscorla would send to that letter of confession and contrition Wenna had written to him at Penzance.  The letter had been written as an act of duty, and posted too; but there was no mail going out for ten days thereafter, so that a considerable time had to elapse before the answer came.

During that time Wenna went about her ordinary duties just as if there was no hidden fire of pain consuming her heart; there was no word spoken by her or to her of all that had recently occurred; her mother and sister were glad to see her so continuously busy.  At first she shrank from going up to Trelyon Hall, and would rather have corresponded with Mrs. Trelyon about their joint work of charity, but she conquered the feeling, and went and saw the gentle lady, who perceived nothing altered or strange in her demeanor.  At last the letter from Jamaica came; and Mabyn, having sent it up to her sister’s room, waited for a few minutes, and then followed it.  She was a little afraid, despite her belief in the virtues of the sapphire ring.

When she entered the room she uttered a slight cry of alarm and ran forward to her sister.  Wenna was seated on a chair by the side of the bed, but she had thrown her arms out on the bed, her head was between them, and she was sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Wenna, what is the matter? what has he said to you?”

Mabyn’s eyes were all afire now.  Wenna would not answer.  She would not even raise her head.

“Wenna, I want to see that letter.”

“Oh no, no!” the girl moaned.  “I deserve it:  he says what is true.  I want you to leave me alone, Mabyn:  you—­you can’t do anything to help this.”

But Mabyn had by this time perceived that her sister held in her hand, crumpled up, the letter which was the cause of this wild outburst of grief.  She went forward and firmly took it out of the yielding fingers:  then she turned to the light and read it.  “Oh, if I were a man!” she said; and then the very passion of her indignation, finding no other vent, filled her eyes with proud and angry tears.  She forgot to rejoice that her sister was now free.  She only saw the cruel insult of those lines, and the fashion in which it had struck down its victim.  “Wenna,” she said hotly, “you ought to have more spirit.  You don’t mean to say you care for the opinion of a man who would write to any girl like that?  You ought to be precious glad that he has shown himself in his true colors.  Why, he never cared a bit for you—­never!—­or he would never turn at a moment’s notice and insult you.”