Berry racked her distracted wits for a further appeal.

“But, my child,” she counter-argued, “you don’t understand.  It ain’t as you think.  It ain’t a hurt to you now.  Not a bit, it ain’t.  It makes no difference now!  Any ring does while the wearer’s a maid.  And your Mr. Richard will find the very ring he intended for ye.  And, of course, that’s the one you’ll wear as his wife.  It’s all the same now, my dear.  It’s no shame to a maid.  Now do—­now do—­there’s a darlin’!”

Wheedling availed as little as argument.

“Mrs. Berry,” said Lucy, “you know what my—­he spoke:  ’With this ring I thee wed.’  It was with this ring.  Then how could it be with another?”

Berry was constrained despondently to acknowledge that was logic.

She hit upon an artful conjecture: 

“Won’t it be unlucky your wearin’ of the ring which served me so?  Think o’ that!”

“It may! it may! it may!” cried Lucy.

“And arn’t you rushin’ into it, my dear?”

“Mrs. Berry,” Lucy said again, “it was this ring.  It cannot—­it never can be another.  It was this.  What it brings me I must bear.  I shall wear it till I die!”

“Then what am I to do?” the ill-used woman groaned.  “What shall I tell my husband when he come back to me, and see I’ve got a new ring waitin’ for him?  Won’t that be a welcome?”

Quoth Lucy:  “How can he know it is not the same; in a plain gold ring?”

“You never see so keen a eyed man in joolry as my Berry!” returned his solitary spouse.  “Not know, my dear?  Why, any one would know that’ve got eyes in his head.  There’s as much difference in wedding-rings as there’s in wedding people!  Now, do pray be reasonable, my own sweet!”

“Pray, do not ask me,” pleads Lucy.

“Pray, do think better of it,” urges Berry.

“Pray, pray, Mrs. Berry!” pleads Lucy.

“—­And not leave your old Berry all forlorn just when you’re so happy!”

“Indeed I would not, you dear, kind old creature!” Lucy faltered.

Mrs. Berry thought she had her.

“Just when you’re going to be the happiest wife on earth—­all you want yours!” she pursued the tender strain.  “A handsome young gentleman!  Love and Fortune smilin’ on ye!”—­

Lucy rose up.

“Mrs. Berry,” she said, “I think we must not lose time in getting ready, or he will be impatient.”

Poor Berry surveyed her in abject wonder from the edge of her chair.  Dignity and resolve were in the ductile form she had hitherto folded under her wing.  In an hour the heroine had risen to the measure of the hero.  Without being exactly aware what creature she was dealing with, Berry acknowledged to herself it was not one of the common run, and sighed, and submitted.

“It’s like a divorce, that it is!” she sobbed.

After putting the corners of her apron to her eyes, Berry bustled humbly about the packing.  Then Lucy, whose heart was full to her, came and kissed her, and Berry bumped down and regularly cried.  This over, she had recourse to fatalism.