"That is true," said Griffith, approving his own sentiment, but not recognizing his own words. "Here's my mother's ring, on my little finger, sweet mistress. But I must ask you to draw it off, for I have but one hand."
Kate made a wry face, "Well, that is my fault," said she, "or I would not take it from you so."
She drew off his ring, and put it on her finger. Then she gave him her largest ring, and had to put it on his little finger for him.
"You are making a very forward girl of me," said she, pouting exquisitely.
He kissed her hand while she was doing it.
"Don't you be so silly," said she; "and, you horrid creature, how you smell of wine! The bullet, please."
"The bullet!" exclaimed Griffith. "What bullet?"
"The bullet. The one you were wounded with for my sake. I am told you put it in your pocket; and I see something bulge in your waistcoat. That bullet belongs to me now."
"I think you are a witch," said he. "I do carry it about next my heart. Take it out of my waistcoat, if you will be so good."
She blushed and declined, and, with the refusal on her very lips, fished it out with her taper fingers. She eyed it with a sort of tender horror. The sight of it made her feel faint a moment. She told him so, and that she would keep it to her dying day. Presently her delicate finger found something was written on it. She did not ask him what it was, but withdrew, and examined it by her candle. Griffith had engraved it with these words:—