“We are going to the Isle of Wight, Mrs. Berry.”

“And a very suitable spot ye’ve chose, my dear!”

“He loves the sea.  He wishes to be near it.”

“Don’t ye cross to-night, if it’s anyways rough, my dear.  It isn’t advisable.”  Mrs. Berry sank her voice to say, “Don’t ye be soft and give way to him there, or you’ll both be repenting it.”

Lucy had only been staving off the unpleasantness she had to speak.  She saw Mrs. Berry’s eyes pursuing her ring, and screwed up her courage at last.

“Mrs. Berry.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Mrs. Berry, you shall have another ring.”

“Another, my dear?” Berry did not comprehend.  “One’s quite enough for the objeck,” she remarked.

“I mean,” Lucy touched her fourth finger, “I cannot part with this.”  She looked straight at Mrs. Berry.

That bewildered creature gazed at her, and at the ring, till she had thoroughly exhausted the meaning of the words, and then exclaimed, horror-struck:  “Deary me, now! you don’t say that?  You’re to be married again in your own religion.”

The young wife repeated:  “I can never part with it.”

“But, my dear!” the wretched Berry wrung her hands, divided between compassion and a sense of injury.  “My dear!” she kept expostulating like a mute.

“I know all that you would say, Mrs. Berry.  I am very grieved to pain you.  It is mine now, and must be mine.  I cannot give it back.”

There she sat, suddenly developed to the most inflexible little heroine in the three Kingdoms.

From her first perception of the meaning of the young bride’s words, Mrs. Berry, a shrewd physiognomist, knew that her case was hopeless, unless she treated her as she herself had been treated, and seized the ring by force of arms; and that she had not heart for.

“What!” she gasped faintly, “one’s own lawful wedding-ring you wouldn’t give back to a body?”

“Because it is mine, Mrs. Berry.  It was yours, but it is mine now.  You shall have whatever you ask for but that.  Pray, forgive me!  It must be so.”

Mrs. Berry rocked on her chair, and sounded her hands together.  It amazed her that this soft little creature could be thus firm.  She tried argument.

“Don’t ye know, my dear, it’s the fatalest thing you’re inflictin’ upon me, reelly!  Don’t ye know that bein’ bereft of one’s own lawful wedding-ring’s the fatalest thing in life, and there’s no prosperity after it!  For what stands in place o’ that, when that’s gone, my dear?  And what could ye give me to compensate a body for the loss o’ that?  Don’t ye know—­Oh, deary me!” The little bride’s face was so set that poor Berry wailed off in despair.

“I know it,” said Lucy.  “I know it all.  I know what I do to you.  Dear, dear Mrs. Berry! forgive me!  If I parted with my ring I know it would be fatal.”

So this fair young freebooter took possession of her argument as well as her ring.