“I tell you I never wear a ring,” I said, impatiently.

“‘Scuse me, Mars’ George, suh,” he said, humbly.  And, lifting my left hand, laid it in his wrinkled, black palm, peering closely.  I also looked, and saw at the base of my third finger a circle like the mark left by a wedding-ring.

“That is strange,” I said; “I never wore a ring in all my life!”

“Das de sign, suh,” muttered the old man; “das de Ormond sign, suh.  Yo’ pap wore de ghos’-ring, an’ his pap wore it too, suh.  All de Ormonds done wore de ghos’-ring fore dey wus wedded.  Hit am dess dat-a-way.  Mars’ George—­”

He hesitated, looking up at me with gentle, dim eyes.

“Miss Dorry, suh—­”

He stopped short, then dropped his voice to a whisper.

“’Fore Miss Dorry git up outen de baid, suh, I done tote de bre’kfus in de mawnin’.  An’ de fustest word dat li’l Miss Dorry say, ‘Cato,’ she say, ‘whar Mars’ George?’ she say.  ’He ‘roun’ de yahd, Miss Dorry,’ I say. ‘’Pears lak he gettin’ mo’ res’less an’ mis’ble, Miss Dorry.’

“‘Cato,’ she ’low, ‘I spec’ ma’ haid gwine ache if I lie hyah in dishyere baid mo’n two free day.  Whar ma’ milk an’ co’n pone, Cato?’

“So I des sot de salver down side de baid, suh, an’ li’l Miss Dorry she done set up in de baid, suh, an’ hole out one li’l bare arm—­”

He laid a wrinkled finger on his lips; his dark face quivered with mystery and emotion.

“One li’l bare arm,” he repeated, “an’ I see de sign!”

“What sign?” I stammered.

“De bride-sign on de ring-finger!  Yaas, suh.  An’ I say, ‘Whar yo’ ring, Miss Dorry?’ An’ she ‘low ain’ nebber wore no ring.  An’ I say, ’Whar dat ring, Miss Dorry?’

“Den Miss Dorry look kinder queer, and rub de ghos’-ring on de bridal-finger.

“‘What dat?’ she ’low.

“‘Dasser ghos’-ring, honey.’

“Den she rub an’ rub, but, bless yo’ heart, Mars’ George! she dess natch’ly gwine wear dat pink ghos’-ring twill yo’ slip de bride-ring on....  Mars’ George!  Honey!  What de matter, chile?...  Is you a-weepin’, Mars’ George?”

“Oh, Cato, Cato!” I choked, dropping my head on his shoulder.

“What dey do to mah l’il Mars’ George?” he said, soothingly. “‘Spec’ some one done git saucy!  Huh!  Who care?  Dar de sign!  Dar de ghos’-ring!  Mars’ George, yo’ is dess boun’ to wed, suh!  Miss Dorry, she dess boun’ to wed, too—­”

“But not with me, Cato, not with me.  There’s another man coming for Miss Dorry, Cato.  She has promised him.”

“Who dat?” he cried.  “How come dishyere ghost-ring roun’ yo’ weddin’-finger?”

“I don’t know,” I said; “the chance pressure of a riding-glove, perhaps.  It will fade away, Cato, this ghost-ring, as you call it....  Give me that rag o’ lace; ... dust the powder away, Cato....  There, I’m smiling; can’t you see, you rascal?...  And tell Tulip she is right.”

“What dat foolish wench done tole you?” he exclaimed, wrathfully.