"Helen!" interrupted MacGregor, in a loud and stern voice, "what means this?--have you forgotten the charge?" "MacGregor," she replied, "I have forgotten nought that is fitting for me to remember. It is not such hands as these," and she stretched forth her long, sinewy, and bare arm, "that are fitting to convey love-tokens, were the gift connected with aught but misery. Young man," she said, presenting me with a ring, which I well remembered as one of the few ornaments that Miss Vernon sometimes wore, "this comes from one whom you will never see more. If it is a joyless token, it is well fitted to pass through the hands of one to whom joy can never be known. Her last words were--Let him forget me for ever." "And can she," I said, almost without being conscious that I spoke, "suppose that is possible?" "All may be forgotten," said the extraordinary female who addressed me,--"all--but the sense of dishonour, and the desire of vengeance." "_Seid suas!_"* cried the MacGregor, stamping with impatience. * "Strike up." The bagpipes sounded, and with their thrilling and jarring tones cut short our conference. Our leave of our hostess was taken by silent gestures; and we resumed our journey with an additional proof on my part, that I was beloved by Diana, and was separated from her for ever. CHAPTER NINETEENTH. Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest, Like the shroud of the dead, on the mountain's cold breast To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply, And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.