“You are taking me on trust, though, in spite of all you say, and it is beautiful.”

He laid his lips against hers.  “Yes,” he said; “it is beautiful, and it is best.”

It was very still in the room for a moment while she nestled close to him and his eyes drank in the sweetness of her face.

“See,” said he, taking a tiny velvet case from his pocket and touching the spring that opened it.  “I have amused myself finding a mate to your stone.  I thought perhaps you would let me wear your ring always, while you wear mine.”

He lifted the jewel from its white velvet bed and showed her the inscription inside:  “Mary, from Tryon.”  Then he slipped it on her finger to guard the wedding ring he had given her at the church.  His arm that encircled her clasped her left wrist, and the two diamonds flashed side by side.  The last gleam of the setting sun, ere it vanished behind the tall buildings on the west, glanced in and blazed the gems into tangled beams of glory, darting out in many colored prisms to light the vision of the future of the man and the woman.  He bent and kissed her again, and their eyes met like other jewels, in which gleamed the glory of their love and trust.

THE END.