'But you'll not let me be masterful?' said Wilmet earnestly.
'Just as much as is good for me—for us,' he said, smiling. Then after a moment's silence, he took out of his pocket a little box, and making a table of her lap, took out a ring of twined ruby and diamonds, such as could not but startle the instincts of Wilmet's soul.
'Oh, it is a great deal too beautiful! Please, I couldn't—'
'You must. It was my mother's.'
'Then she cannot like to part with it.'
'Did you not know that she died when I was five years old? Look!' and he showed where within the lid of the box was written, 'For my Little Johnny's Wife. August 1839. L. H.'
'Ought you not to keep it till—' faltered Wilmet, growing crimson as she found what she was saying.
'No,' he said decidedly, 'not after this. When I spoke to my father that Sunday evening, he unlocked his desk and gave me this, which I had not seen since I remember playing with it on my mother's bed. You will wear it, dearest. You will let me have the pleasure of knowing you have it on.'
The answer was the drawing off of her glove; and he fitted it on, but it was rather loose. 'I am afraid it will want a guard,' he said.
'I'll ask Felix whether I may take one of Mamma's,' she said. For the shapely notable fingers had never worn a ring before this almost sacred pledge; and the few jewels either too valuable or not valuable enough for the parents to have parted with in times of need had never been touched.