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Perhaps—her thoughts flowed on while she twisted and bound her hair—the reason one felt him bad was because he had never been worthy of sorrow. ‘That’s the difficulty;—for all of us,’ Monica said aloud, and she took up the ring and held it to the light and examined it, and, seeing that it was engraved inside, put on her glasses to look more closely at what might be some quaint posy. But there were only four initials and a date;—not an old date—she bent her head and turned the ring to the light to read:—not 1718 or even 1818;—it was only the other day; only ten years ago:—G. I. from H. B. 1918.—‘G. I. from H. B. 1918,’ she repeated slowly, looking up at the candle-flame.