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Busily as Mr. Hammond must be engaged in fighting
the battle of life, he was in no way wanting in his duty as a lover. He
wrote to Mary every other day; but though his letters were long, they
told her hardly anything of himself or his occupation. He wrote about
pictures, books, music, such things as he knew must be interesting to
her; but of his own struggles not a word.
'Poor fellow,' thought Mary. 'He is afraid to sadden me by telling me
how hard the struggle is.'
Her own letters to her betrothed were simple outpourings of girlish
love, breathing that too flattering-sweet idolatry which an innocent
girl gives to her first lover. Mary wrote as if she herself were of the
least possible value among created things.
With one of Mr. Hammond's earlier letters came the engagement ring; no
half-hoop of brilliants or sapphires, rubies or emeralds, no gorgeous
triple circlet of red, white, and green; but only a massive band of dead
gold, on the inside of which was engraved this posy--'For ever.'
Mary thought it the loveliest ring she had ever seen in her life.


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