"'The day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper, 'she and I had our last talk. She seemed better. Neither of us thought she was very ill. But she said it was wise when she felt well to discuss a few things. She told me how little money we had and where it was, and she said the Mother Superior had promised to let me stay in the convent if ever I needed a home. Then she took off her ring, the Community ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, and handed it to me. 'If I go before you,' she ended, 'I want you to send this ring to our friend in New York--our friend the editor.'
"The old woman stopped. In her hand she held something with which her fingers fumbled. Her head drooped.
"'I forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained her ears to catch. 'When she died so suddenly the next day I forgot everything except her going. When I remembered a few months later I did not know how to send the ring to you, so I waited. And when I came to New York those first horrible days in the lodging-house sent everything else out of my mind.' Her head drooped lower. 'You'll forgive me,' she ended.
"She rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her.
"'Why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. Why should you worry about it?'
"But the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had been checked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'Wait,' she said. 'To-day, this afternoon, I remembered it! The memory came to me with a kind of shock. I thought, "I have never given her the ring." It brought me out of my chair. I started to get the ring at once, but I could not remember where it was. I stood still, trying to think. Then suddenly that came to me, too. It was down in the corner of my biggest trunk, the one I had not unpacked, the one that holds all my winter things. So I unpacked it--and here is the ring.'
"She held it out. It was a heavy gold band with a raised Latin inscription on its outer surface. The editor took it in her hand, but her mind held only one idea.
"'You unpacked that great trunk,' she gasped, 'this frightfully hot day? With all those furs and flannels? Why, Mrs. Driscoll, how _could_ you do such a thing?'