Hugh does not add that he has been asking Mrs. Merivale's permission to place a more important ring on her daughter's finger on his return from Egypt, provided that young lady raises no objections herself. Molly knows naught of this, however, and proceeds to place the ring on the third finger of her right hand with elaborate propriety, turning it round, and looking admiringly on the shimmering pearls, for they are fine ones, and being set with diamond dust, are shown to advantage.
"It is kind of you, Hugh; but I did not want anything to remember you by. I don't think I should have forgotten you. They are lovely pearls, and I am so fond of pearls, too."
The young fellow looks pleased.
"Don't you think it would look nicer on the other hand, Molly? I think rings look awkward somehow on the right."
"Well, it hurts awfully if anyone squeezes one's hand when shaking it. Now, who was it who used to make me scream nearly, rings or no rings? Oh, I know! poor old Sir Peter Beresford. You know, I suppose, that he died last year?"
"Yes, poor old fellow! What a nice old man he was. Here, let me put it on for you, Molly. There! it looks ever so much nicer on that finger. You will think of me and write regularly too, won't you, dear?"
"Yes," says Molly hastily; but she looks rather frightened, and Hugh hastens to change the subject.
"We are quits now," he says. "I have still got the ring you gave me!"
"The ring I gave you!" exclaims Molly staring.
"Yes, the ring you gave me. It is no use your pretending that you hav'n't given me one, because here it is!" and from a compartment of his pocketbook, in which he has been industriously hunting, he takes out and holds up a gorgeous arrangement of blue and white beads, strung on horse-hair—a present which Molly now remembers having made him with great solemnity when she was about ten years old.