Bureau. But the days passed, and no news came. In fact, one morning Cynthia showed me a letter she had just received from him. He was well and apparently on the most intimate terms with her again.
Then, when I would have cursed the ring as worthless—that night, suddenly, three zeppelins slid out of the sky and raided London.
In the midst of the commotion the telephone in my quarters rang.
Wonderingly I picked up the receiver. Who could wish to talk with me at a time like this?
It was from Cynthia’s father. Their home had been struck by a bomb. Cynthia had been killed!
With a cry I dropped the receiver and went to the bureau drawer in which I had laid the ring.
Tremblingly I took it out and held it up. As I feared, the red tint had gone. It was orange again!
Then, standing there, I understood. Wesslyn, in pledging his troth, had given the ring to her. It was his no longer, but hers. Its red had been a warning to her, not to him.
With a shudder I put the ring back and slowly closed the drawer.
Had I known—had I only known!
THE SUICIDE’S
AWAKENING
By GERTRUDE WRIGHT
Spirits of fire, who dwell in the deep,
Why do ye torture me out of my sleep?
Angels of darkness who float in the flame,
Why are ye moaning and calling my name?
Ghosts of the unredeemed, fallen from grace,
Why do your crimson wings flap in my face?
Demons that circle under the wave,
Why are ye howling over my grave?
Back, ye fiends, back again, to the unknown;
I am a dead thing: leave me alone.
Cold are my limbs and departed my breath;
I am not living, but this is not death.
