ay for it. I do not like to
trouble you so, but the stone is worth a good deal."

"Indeed," he protested, "I couldn't think of taking your ring. Let me do
this. It is such a small thing. I shall never miss it. Let it rest until
you are out of your trouble, at least."

"Please!" she insisted, holding out the ring. "I shall get right out of
this carriage unless you do."

"But perhaps some one gave you the ring, and you are attached to it."

"My father," she answered briefly, "and he would want me to use it this
way." She pressed the ring into his hand almost impatiently.

His fingers closed over the jewel impulsively. Somehow, it thrilled him to
hold the little thing, yet warm from her fingers. He had forgotten that
she was a stranger. His mind was filled with the thought of how best to
help her.

"I will keep it until you want it again," he said kindly.

"You need not do that, for I shall not claim it," she declared. "You are
at liberty to sell it. I know it is worth a good deal."

"I shall certainly keep it until I am sure you do not want it yourself,"
he repeated. "Now let us talk about this journey of yours. We are almost
at the station. Have you any preference as to where you go? Have you
friends to whom you could go?"

She shook her head.

"There are trains to New York every hour almost."

"Oh, no!" she gasped in a frightened tone.

"And to Washington often."

"I should rather not go to Washington," she breathed again.

"Pittsburg, Chicago?" he hazarded.

"Chicago will do," she asserted with relief. Then the carriage stopped
before the great station, ablaze with light and throbbing with life.
Policemen strolled about, and trolley-cars twinkled in every direction.
The girl shrank back into the shadows of the carriage for an instant, as
if she feared to come out from the sheltering darkness. Her escort half
defined her hesitation.

"Don't feel nervous," he said in a low tone. "I will see that no one harms
you. Just walk into the station as if you were my friend.