The Wishing-Ring Man

The Wishing-Ring Man, by
Margaret Widdemer

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Title: The Wishing-Ring Man
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[Illustration: He was fairly content with what he saw in her face.]

The Wishing-Ring Man
By MARGARET WIDDEMER

TO THE MEMORY OF MY OWN GRANDFATHER
E. S. W.
ONE OF THE DEAREST, BEST AND KINDLIEST OF MEN

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.

JOY IN AMBER SATIN
II. BY GRACE OF THE WISHING RING
III. PHYLLIS RIDES THROUGH
IV. THE RESCUE OF THE PRINCESS
V. THE SHADOW OF GAIL
VI. ROSE GARDENS AND MEN
VII. A VERY CHARMING GENTLEMAN
VIII. A FOUNTAIN IN FAIRYLAND
IX. THE TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE
X. CLARENCE SWOOPS DOWN
XI. PIRATE COUSINS TO THE RESCUE
XII. DINNER FOR FIVE
XIII. THE SERIOUS BUSINESS OF "IOLANTHE"
XIV. THE SLIGHTLY SURPRISING CLARENCE
XV. THE GIFT OF THE RING
CHAPTER ONE
JOY IN AMBER SATIN
Joy Havenith had no business at all to be curled up on the back stairs
under Great-Grand-Aunt Lucilla's picture. She ought to have been
sliding sweetly up and down the long double parlors with teacups and
cake, and she knew it. But she just didn't care.

As a matter of fact, Aunt Lucilla and the other ancestors ought to have
been in the parlors, too; but Grandfather had ordained differently. He
had gobbled the parlor walls for his autographed photograph collection,
and Grandmother, long before Joy was born or orphaned, had
sorrowfully hung her ancestors-in-law out in the long, narrow hall,
where they were a tight fit. Grandfather was one of the last survivors of
the old school of American poetry. He was tall and slender, and very
gentle and nice, but he always had things the way he said he wanted
them, and he preferred his autographed friends to his family portraits.
"It's rather a good thing it's so dark out here, Aunt Lucilla," said Joy to
the smiling Colonial lady in the dark corner above her. "You mayn't
much like being where people can't see you--but think how you'd feel,
up garret!"
Aunt Lucilla Havenith, red of lip, flashing of eye, blue and silver of
gown, laughed on down at her great-grand-niece, who was holding a
surreptitious little red candle up to talk to her. Aunt Lucilla, from all
accounts, had had too excellent a time in her life to mind a little thing
like being put in a back hall afterwards. She had been a belle from her
fifteenth year, eloped with her true-love at sixteen, and gone on being a
belle all the rest of her life, in the intervals of three husbands and ever
so many children. She had managed everything and everybody she
came across gaily all her life; she had been proposed to by practically
the whole Society of the Cincinnati; and had died at eighty-three, a
power and a charmer to the last.
"I don't think you need to mind dark corners one bit," said Joy, tipping
the candle so that the red wax dribbled down on her slim fingers. "If
Rochambeau and Lafayette and all the rest of the people in the
history-books had made a fuss over me--"
Joy sat down on the stairs again, on a cushion. Nobody used the back
stairs, fine curly ones that they were, and Joy's cushion, which she had
put there on purpose to be mournful on a fortnight before, was
untouched since last time.
Joy Havenith was nineteen, but you never would have known it. She

had been told so often by her grandparents that she was only a child yet,
that