"Tell her, from me, with my love,—not to be too prudent. I thought to be prudent, and see what has come of it."
"I will tell her what you say."
"Do, please; and, Harry, look here. Will she accept a little present from me? You, at any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so. Give her this,—it is only a trifle,"—and she put her hand on a small jeweller's box, which was close to her arm upon the table, "and tell her,—of course she knows all our story, Harry?"
"Yes; she knows it all."
"Tell her that she whom you have rejected sends it with her kindest wishes to her whom you have taken."
"No; I will not tell her that."
"Why not? It is all true. I have not poisoned the little ring, as the ladies would have done some centuries since. They were grander then than we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, though more cruel. You will bid her take it,—will you not?"
"I am sure she will take it without bidding on my part."
"And tell her not to write me any thanks. She and I will both understand that that had better be omitted. If, when I shall see her at some future time as your wife, it shall be on her finger, I shall know that I am thanked." Then Harry rose to go. "I did not mean by that to turn you out, but perhaps it may be as well. I have no more to say,—and as for you, you cannot but wish that the penance should be over." Then he pressed her hand, and with some muttered farewell, bade her adieu. Again she did not rise from her chair, but nodding at him with a sweet smile, let him go without another word.