"But these ornaments," said Annot Lyle, gently and timidly refusing the
box, "belong to the family--I cannot accept--"

"They belong to me alone, Annot," said Allan, interrupting her; "they
were my mother's dying bequest. They are all I can call my own, except
my plaid and my claymore. Take them, therefore--they are to me valueless
trinkets--and keep them for my sake--should I never return from these
wars."

So saying, he opened the case, and presented it to Annot. "If," said he,
"they are of any value, dispose of them for your own support, when this
house has been consumed with hostile fire, and can no longer afford
you protection. But keep one ring in memory of Allan, who has done, to
requite your kindness, if not all he wished, at least all he could."

Annot Lyle endeavoured in vain to restrain the gathering tears, when
she said, "ONE ring, Allan, I will accept from you as a memorial of
your goodness to a poor orphan, but do not press me to take more; for I
cannot, and will not, accept a gift of such disproportioned value."

"Make your choice, then," said Allan; "your delicacy may be well
founded; the others will assume a shape in which they may be more useful
to you."

"Think not of it," said Annot, choosing from the contents of the casket
a ring, apparently the most trifling in value which it contained; "keep
them for your own, or your brother's bride.--But, good heavens!" she
said, interrupting herself, and looking at the ring, "what is this that
I have chosen?"