ONAS ARMSTRONG lay on his deathbed. He

was an old man who had passed his eightieth year, and it was not surprising that he was about to die.

All who knew him loved him; and though most of his friends and relatives had gone before, yet there were still many left who would mourn his loss. He, the old man, was rejoicing at the prospect of his approaching end. He had borne life nobly, had been tried in many a fiery trial and not been found wanting, but his strength was exhausted, and he longed to be at peace. Friends and neighbours crowded to his sick room; they wished to see him once more, and hear the words of wisdom that might fall from the mouth of one they had long honoured in the little hamlet as a father.

The old man had an only grandson whom he dearly loved, the child of a daughter he had lost in her heyday. Now Jonas had never been a rich

man, and all the world knew he could not have much to leave. The proceeds of his little farm had been spent more for the good of his friends than for himself, and he never made a secret of the matter that he had laid nothing by. There was no need to do so for his grandson. His father had been a doctor (Dora Armstrong had married above her station), and he had left his son an ample income, to which the mere pittance his grandfather could have left would have added little. While, on the contrary, the use old Jonas had made of his money had secured him many warm, grateful friends, who for his sake would love his grandson, and try to serve him.

Jonas was bidding his several friends good-bye, and setting his house in order with a calmness and vigour of mind that caused them to doubt the near approach of his end. He only smiled when they told him so.

'I know my hour is come,' he would say; 'I feel it. But I know also that I shall have life enough left me to finish my task.'

Lastly, after he had spoken to all, and had dismissed them with some little gift, some kind word of advice, he called for his grandson. The boy approached timidly. He had never been in a chamber

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of death before. When he beheld his grandfather sitting in the bed supported by cushions, his venerable face only a little paler than of wont, his silvery hair, that lovely hair which fell like a long fringe from the old man's head, smoothed as carefully as ever, David grew reassured, and stepped nearer.

For some minutes a solemn silence reigned in the room. The old man's eyes were fixed with an earnest, loving, far-away expression on his grandson. Who could tell whether they beheld the living youth beside him, or the mother in her fair womanhood, whom, together with his long lost wife, he should so soon rejoin? His lips moved softly, but no sound came forth. Doubtless the words were either those of prayer or blessing. Both perchance. Then he spoke. 'David, my son,' he said, 'they will have told you my hour is come. Nay, do not weep, boy. Sooner or later it comes to us all in the Lord's good time. It has come late to me; therefore it is not right that ye whom I leave behind should mourn. It would be ingratitude to the Almighty, who has granted my poor life to you so long.'

Once more his lips moved. He was surely praying this time, for his hands were folded and his head bent.

The youth did not say a word, but remained standing in awed silence.

'My boy,' went on the old man, 'I go to rejoin your parents. I am glad with heartfelt gladness that I can tell them what a good son you have been to me. Nay, interrupt me not; I have much to say, and but short time wherein to tell it.'

'David, you and all the hamlet know how I have lived. I have made no secret of the fact that I spent all I earned, and that I leave you nothing.'

'Dear grandfather—' broke in the boy.

'Nay, nay, hear me. I leave you no moneyed inheritance, for I have held it right to spend my earnings, knowing you safe from pecuniary troubles. Had you or any of mine been out in the cold, it would have been otherwise. As it is, I have done what I thought right. But one thing, my son, I can and do leave you. It is a possession that has passed from sire to son in our family for generations. Folk have called it "The luck of the Armstrongs." That was but vulgar talk. The gift brought no luck, but it does bring blessing; yet that only when rightly used and rightly understood. You have often wondered, perhaps, to see so rare and brave a ring upon the finger of a mere country farmer. But our ancestors were gentlefolk, boy, and it descended from them. See, they must have been fine gentlemen and cavaliers. What graced their forefinger scarce passes my smallest. My hand has

grown large with work. Work is no disgrace, David. Remember that, though you bear upon your finger a ring worn by a Chevalier Fitz-Armstrong. The knightly duty with which he served his God and king was no higher or grander labour than yours, if God had called you to till the ground and plough the field. Never forget that, boy.'

He paused a moment from exhaustion, for he had spoken hurriedly and with excitement.

'You would, no doubt, like to know how the ring first came into our family. I cannot tell you for certain; but for ages a tradition concerning it has been extant among our kin, and though it can scarcely be true, yet is the legend so touching, that through it, doubtless, the ring has always proved a blessing.

"The ring has been an heirloom among us since first Sir Reginald Fitz-Armstrong brought it from the far distant Holy Land, where he had fought with the first crusaders in the reign of William the Red. How it came into his possession, he would always tell thus:

'One night when it had fallen to him to guard the Holy Grave, an angel suddenly stood before him. And the angel said, "Reginald Fitz-Armstrong, thou art a true knight and holy, thou hast found favour in the eyes of the King of heaven and earth. Wherefore it