Now, had George but known it, Becky had jewels in leather cases in the vaults of her bank which put his sapphire trinket to shame.  There were the diamonds in which a Meredith great-grandmother had been presented at the Court of St. James, and there were the pearls of which her own string was a small part.  There were emeralds and rubies, old corals and jade—­not for nothing had the Admiral sailed the seas, bringing back from China and India lovely things for the woman he loved.  And now the jewels were Becky’s, and she had not cared for them in the least.  If George had loved her she would have cherished his sapphire more than all the rest.

But he did not love her.  She knew it in that moment.  All of her doubts were confirmed.

The thing that had happened to her seemed incredible.

She put the sapphire back in its box, wrapped it, tied the string carefully and called Mandy.

“Tell Calvin to take this to Mr. Dalton.”

Mandy knew at once that something was wrong.  But this was not a moment for words.  The Bannisters did not talk about things that troubled them.  They held their heads high.  And Becky’s was high at this moment, and her eyes were blazing.

As she sat there, tense, Becky wondered what Dalton could have thought of her.  If she had not had a jewel in the world, she would not have kept his sapphire.  Didn’t he know that?

But how could he know?  To him it had been “a sweet dream—­a rare old tale,” and she had thought him a Romeo ready to die for her sake, an Aucassin—­willing to brave Hell rather than give her up, a Lohengrin sent from Heaven!

She shuddered and hid her face in her hands.  At last she crept into bed.  Mandy, coming in to straighten the room, was told to lower the curtains.

“My—­my head aches, Mandy.”

Mandy, wise old Mandy, knew of course that it was her heart.  “You res’ an’ sleep, honey,” she said, and moved about quietly setting things in order.

But Becky did not sleep.  She lay wide awake, and tried to get the thing straight in her mind.  How had it happened?  Where had she failed?  Oh, why hadn’t Sister Loretto told her that there were men like this?  Why hadn’t Aunt Claudia returned in time?

In the big box which Mandy had brought up were clothes—­exquisite things which Becky had ordered from New York.  She had thought it a miracle that George should have fallen in love with her believing her poor.  It showed, she felt, his splendidness, his kindly indifference to—­poverty.  Yet she had planned a moment when he should know.  When their love was proclaimed to the world he should see her in a splendor which matched his own.  He had loved her in spite of her faded cottons, in spite of her shabby shoes.  She had made up her list carefully, thinking of his sparkling eyes when he behold her.

She got out of bed and opened the box.  The lively garments were wrapped in rosy tissue paper, and tied with ribbons to match.  It seemed to Becky as if those rosy wrappings held the last faint glow of her dreams.