I HAVE AYE had a liking for youthful folk, and youthful folk for me, I know not well wherefore; and Mr. Allan Elphinstone was a lad of an uncommon pleasant nature; but, for all that, I would have given much, just to have been able to keep him out of my house — but truly that was what I could not do. And to think of him setting so light by the Castle, and the ladies his mother made so great a work about. Nevertheless, that is not the immediate thing I have to speak about, seeing I have begun upon a new sheet of paper, for upon that Friday there came a letter from Grace, which I will just put in. —
“My dear Aunt, “I am glad that I can think of you again as at Sunnyside. The grim setting of your dark old Lilliesleaf did not become your picture, in my mind, half so well as the bright frame of our own pleasant home. And have you Mary with you again? It would almost be better not to tell me, for I grow envious. The air here carries evil things in it, aunt; you had better send for me to Sunnyside before I am altogether corrupted.
“I was about to say, that I had made my entree into Edinburgh society yesterday; it would, perhaps, be more correct to say, had got a glimpse of it; as I infer, from various things my aunt has said, that the indulgence is not to be repeated.
“I think I told you that hitherto I have only been with Mrs. Lennox and her family when they had no visitors, and on all occasions when strangers were with them, have been “allowed” to remain in my own room. Yesterday I was honoured to form one of a large party, and (far more important) to see Mr. Monteith.
“I do not deny being a little fluttered while I sat in a dark corner of Mrs. Lennox’s drawing-room, and saw her guests arriving; for I had no idea why she had brought me there. There were a great many strangers, some fine ladies, and fine gentlemen, and some very cultivated and intellectual looking people — but I was introduced to none. I even saw one or two girls, who had discovered me in my corner casting compassionating glances, as if they thought me the hapless governess or companion, doomed to sit and see what she could not share in. But at last I was roused by hearing the name — Monteith. And, after a while, my aunt came up to my corner and introduced me to him.
“He is a little man, neat, and almost finical, but also, as it seemed to me, very gentlemanly, and with a pleasant face. It hardly needed your admonition to make me observe him closely; but my attention was still more particular in consequence of it. My interest was very powerfully awakened, too, by the sudden change in my aunt’s demeanour. A stranger, like Mr. Monteith, who had never seen Mrs. Lennox and me together before, would have thought me absolutely a favourite. Do you know, aunt, I was greived at that, although I have never pretended to like Mrs. Lennox; it is so painful, so humiliating to see a person like her stooping to deception.
“But that has not anything to do with Mr. Monteith. He seems a man of some sarcastic humour, not very tolerant of other people’s foibles, and privileged to give expression to his intolerance rather broadly; but with a benevolence about him, nevertheless, which made him speak to me in the most kind, almost fatherly, manner, when in spite of all my aunt’s manoeuvres, and ill-concealed displeasure, I found myself seated at table by his side.
“There would seem to be, in some way or other, an odd sort of connexion between this old gentleman and myself, which made our conversation very awkward. A something which he imagines me to comprehend fully; and the consequence was, that after asking me questions of all kinds, as if there was a perfectly confidential understanding between us, and perceiving my hesitation and awkwardness, he himself began to look puzzled and perplexed, and as if he did not know what to make of me. With all his kindness, dear aunt, I am very much afraid Mr. Monteith thought me a fool.
“‘You are lately from the country, Miss Grace,’ he said, after various attempts at conversation had failed.
“I, too anxious to catch some weighty word from him, which might elucidate my position, to talk myself, returned a confused ‘Yes.’
“‘And yet have not brought so much of the bloom with you, as we see sometimes,’ he continued, ‘but you will get strong now I hope — they tell me you have been very delicate?’
“I was astonished, and could only stammer ‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘“You don’t know, Miss Grace? Ah! I am afraid my question about the country has sent your thoughts back to some pleasanter scene than this. But we cannot let you be so great a heretic as to dislike Edinburgh.’
“Mrs. Lennox’s eye seemed to be continually upon us, and she had managed that we should be seated very near the head of the table, so she now broke in, —
“‘Grace is greatly better since she came to me, Mr. Monteith. We intend to carry her off to the continent by-and-bye. She is quite a little novice yet, I assure you.
We must let her see something of the world,’
“‘Humph!’ said Mr. Monteith, in a kind of half soliloquy. ‘I have no idea of girls being carried about to see the world. Better at home. But my little friend here must be acquainted with some sort of a world. Ha, Miss Grace, do you start now? We have all our peculiar fancies on the subject. Edinburgh is my world. I suppose I may say London is your aunt’s. Now let me hear what your’s is.’
‘“It is very different from this, Sir,’ I said: ‘there is evil in it, too, doubtless; but there is simplicity, and faith, and goodness — and wisdom, also. I do not know whether these things abound in this greater world or no.’
“Mr. Monteith smiled.
“‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Come, we are gong to be friends, after all I thought it would be a strange thing if your mother’s daughter could not put half-a-dozen sensible words together. Now whereabouts does this paradise he?’
“I mentioned ‘Burrowstoun.’
“Mr. Monteith turned round upon me, uttered the monosyllable ‘Ay?’ in a startled tone, and then, compressing his lips, was silent a while.
“At length he said again, in the half soliloquy, which seems to be a peculiarity of his—’ She’s very like her mother.’
“‘Did you know my mother, Sir?’ I ventured to ask.
“‘Did I know her mother! Why, my dear, if I had not known your mother, and known her well, too, what do you think could have tempted her to make me—’ “‘Oh, Mr. Monteith!’ interrupted my cousin Harriet, who sat at his other hand; ‘you have never asked us to come out and visit you. Mr. Bellendean has just been telling me how sweetly you have furnished Broadlee. I am sure I should have made Mamma go out to call, even without an invitation, if I had known. Frederic Bellendean says there is such a delightful place for a picnic party on your grounds. Now won’t you ask us all to come.’
“‘Can’t promise, Miss Lennox,’ said Mr. Monteith, drily. ‘I should frighten you young ladies if I began to snarl through the wires of my cage, as is my custom sometimes.’
“‘Oh, I assure you, I am not so easily frightened,’ said Harriet; ‘and Fred. Bellendean says it is quite a treat to see Broadlee. Such sweet things you have got about it, Fred says.’
“‘I’m a sweet subject altogether, certainly,’ said Mr. Monteith, with a severe smile. ‘I’ve no millinery, Miss Harriet, about Broadlee — not a bit — and I really do not know what there is in it that would interest either young Bellendean or you. But as I was saying, Miss Grace,’ for Harriet had already resumed her former conversation with her favourite, Fred. Bellendean, ‘we must be friends, you and I. Yes, I knew your mother. My father stood in something of the same relation to her that I do to—’
“‘Are you noticing the resemblance, Mr. Monteith,’ said my aunt: ‘it is quite impossible to avoid being struck with it I could almost imagine the last twenty years a mere dream, and fancy that my brother’s wife was actually before me.’
“Better for her she is not, poor thing,’ said Mr. Monteith, hastily, and sinking his voice; ‘but is it twenty years since poor Grace Hunter was delivered from her troubles?’ Miss Grace Maitland, my dear, how old are you?’
“I answered ‘eighteen.’
“Mr. Frederic Bellendean looked up to us, and said flippantly, that ‘it was a great shame to question a young lady upon so delicate a subject,’ whereupon my cousin Harriet tittered.
“My friend, glancing bitterly upon the interrupter, muttered, ‘A greater shame to give puppy dogs the gift of speech. And so you are eighteen, Miss Grace. Ay, and your mother has lain in the little churchyard at Westergate some sixteen years.’
“‘Is that near Oakenshaw, Sir,’ I asked.
“Mr. Monteith looked at me kindly.
‘Oakenshaw,’ he repeated. ‘Child, you have your mother’s voice. Yes, she lies near the scene of her trials. Poor Grace! But you have never seen Oakenshaw yet.’
“I said I had not.
“‘Well, lay your commands on me, Miss Grace: I am quite at your service. It is not too long a drive for you, I daresay, especially as you seem to have less apprehension about your health than your anxious friends,’ and Mr. Monteith’s eye fell inquisitively upon Mrs. Lennox. ‘Let me see; to-morrow and Saturday I am engaged; let us say Monday. Will that suit you? Let it be Monday, then.’
“‘What is that, Mr. Monteith?’ said my aunt. ‘Are you plotting to run away with my niece? Be careful, Grace, I assure you he is quite a lady killer, that gentleman beside you; but did I not hear you speak of Oakenshaw? We have been talking of making a party to let Grace see her birthplace. Let us arrange it this evening — but now—’
“My aunt rose, and my conversation with my interesting new acquaintance was brought to a sudden conclusion. Nor did I see him again, for when the other ladies entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Lennox grasped my arm, and telling me she did not require my further presence, sent me upstairs to my own room.
“Will you think me very foolish, dear Aunt, if I confess that I was very much disappointed. Though I knew none of the people, they had yet kindly pleasant faces, many of them, and I have so much solitude now, that I grow very weary of it sometimes. I hear, however, that we are to go to Oakenshaw, on Monday, and I suppose the excuse Mrs. Lennox would give to Mr. Monteith for my nonappearance in the evening would be — my health.
“And now, Aunt, what do you think of my new friend? — I forgot to say that he is about the same age as our father at Pasturelands, and looks well, too, though he has not got so fine a head as our father. He has something to do with me, I see, though what I cannot tell; he is favourably inclined towards me also, I think, and would be my friend. And lastly, Mrs. Lennox is afraid of him. These three points are very clear, and I wish exceedingly that I may be able to see him alone on Monday, that I may ask him what all this is to end in.
“He did not mention my father at all, (he was not at home then) and invariably called me Miss Grace; never, not even when he spoke to me first, employing the ‘Maitland.’ If Maitland was not our own name at home, Aunt, the name of Sunnyside and Pasturelands, I should be greatly inclined to give it up and call myself Hunter.
“My father returned to-day — he has been at the country residence of some of his friends — shooting, I believe. This morning, however, I have seen some angry looks and gestures, from which, it seems evident, that upon some point, Mrs. Lennox and he are not perfectly at one. And a few words from Harriet has made me think it probable that the cause is connected in some way with Mr. Monteith’s introduction to me, and the projected visit to Oakenshaw.
“Harriet’s communications began with an exclamation of ‘what a bore that old Monteith is,’ to which, as I did not agree with her, I made no answer. ‘Conceive my uncle and mamma quarrelling about a stupid old man!’ was the next effusion of Harriet’s wisdom. I asked if Mr. Monteith was not a friend of my father’s.
“‘A friend,’ exclaimed Harriet, ‘why, you know — oh! but to be sure you don’t know, I had forgot,’ and my amiable cousin stopped to look at me, with a kind of contemptuous pity, and laughed.
“‘They are just such good friends,’ she continued, when the mirth was expended; ‘that if Mr. Monteith should happen to enter the room at this moment, and saw Mr. Maitland, he would turn round coolly and walk down stairs again; and my uncle returns the good feeling cordially. I would advise you, Miss Maitland, to carry out your intimacy with Mr. Monteith merely by way of showing how dutiful a daughter you are.’
“I was again silent, and Harriet resumed.
“‘But I was going to ask you, cousin, to do me a favour on Monday. Mamma, with her usual kindness, has filed upon me to go down along with you to that dull place Oakenshaw, in Mr. Monteith’s old-fashioned carriage. Now I promised Fred. Bellendean to go with him. Do contrive to pull some one else in on Monday morning, and so let me off. Mamma wont be angry at you then, and perhaps before we get home she will have forgotten all about it. Do now, there’s a good creature; but don’t, for the world, tell mamma.’
“There are wheels within wheels, aunt, and Miss Harriet Lennox’s flirtation may, perhaps, have the good effect of giving me an opportunity for the conversation I do so greatly desire.
“I enclose a note to Mary: of other things mentioned in your last letter I will speak hereafter. Do you think it is possible that this Mr. Monteith is your friend? He did seem to know the name of Burrowstoun. I would be very much rejoiced if it was the same person, that I might be able to speak to him of you.
“So there, aunt, I am done at present; if I had any one but you to deal with, I am sure they would have tired of me long ago.
“Your most affectionate, “GRACE MAITLAND.”
And truly there was also a note to Mary, the which I see that she, the foolish bairn, (though she’s a douce woman now) has tacked to my sheet of paper just the moment that I put down my pen to put Grace’s letter away among the rest, after I had written it all down here. I say, I see that Mary (for I am staying with her just now) has tacked Grace’s little note to my paper with a wafer, to save me the trouble of putting it in write, and this is it. —
“My dear Mary, “Are you wondering that after my aunt’s voluminous epistle I should still not ‘scorn to add a note.’ To tell the truth, I am becoming very much ashamed of writing so constantly about myself. Does my aunt think me very selfish? or is that the opinion in the Manse? I am very nervous on the subject, and feel myself blushing as sentence after sentence rises on my paper, all having for their burden that continual I — I; but then, Mary, what can I do? There is neither affection nor sympathy for me here, and though, perhaps, by and bye, the remembrance of poor Grace, even in your minds, may grow dim, I have almost my only consolation in knowing, that at present I can look to my aunt and you all for both affection and sympathy.
“It is very dreary and melancholy to be alone, Mary, more especially when one has the din and bustle of gay society ringing in one’s ears all day; and then what can I do but flee with all haste to Sunnyside — my only refuge?
“Do you think I should not repine so much? lecture me then, and I shall receive it with all humility, but good my little sister, when you shall become a great lady one of these days, send for me to be your humble companion, and I will, (don’t tell my aunt), I will positively — run away.
“And so, I suppose, I shall need, after the fashion of womankind, to put the one particular thing for which I write, if not in my postcript, at least at the very end of my note.
“Jessie has found out the quarters of the Burrowstoun carrier, and is just about to go thither with a parcel for Sunnyside, with the contents of which (they are only a few little remembrances), I hope you will be pleased. The trifles for our acquaintance, the bride Christian, are such as Jessie thinks she would like herself, if she were in the same interesting circumstances; and the other little things, I hope my aunt and you will be pleased with for poor Grace’s sake. My clandestine walks with Jessie, for the purpose of purchasing them, are the most pleasant I have had since I left Sunnyside.
“Neither my aunt nor you ever mention Claud. You forget that I, too, am a daughter of the Manse. Tell me what he says in his letters, and how he is doing at College. I have never seen him again.
“And so, sister Mary, farewell for this one day. Fail not to be aunt Margaret’s amanuensis, and send me a big letter. And do not let our father and mother in Pasturelands forget, “Your affectionate sister, “GRACE MAITLAND.”
So, it may be thought, we were a kind of curious, after we had read the letters, about what the things were that Grace had sent to us, especially Mary, for I myself was taken up with thinking about my bairn’s story.
There was something in the picture she gave of Mr. Monteith that started me, though I could not say there was much about it, like the blythe Harry Monteith I knew in my young days. But years make a strange odds, and maybe one that had been sundered from me long would scarce have known the minister’s daughter of Pasturelands, in the quiet eldern woman that had set up her lone tabernacle at Sunnyside. But, however, I settled in my mind to bid Grace at no hand speak about me to her new friend. Maybe it was not right, but I could not think of having my name mentioned to him — if it should be him. And if it was not, of course, he could know nothing of me.
But, truly I could not get a moment for right and quiet meditation, concerning Grace, all that night, seeing that Mary was aye wondering what could be in the parcel. And little settledness there was in the house (for Jenny was mostly as bad as her) until upon the Saturday afternoon, they got it at last And a big parcel it was, with a fine gown in it for Christian Lightfoot, and a tea-pot, glancing like silver, (I have never minded since to ask Grace whether it was plated, or only an imitation, but well it looked, I can say that), and with a real silver ball on the top to lift the lid by. And then there was a fine big printed Bible for Jenny, (Jenny had long been speaking about getting one, for she would not hear of putting on glasses). And there were two very little parcels, carefully put up in the inside of Christian’s gown, and marked for Mary and me.
And what should be in mine but a pair of real golden glasses, the like of which I had never seen at Burrowstoun, except on Mr. Essence, the minister of Cosieland, that had been tutor to the Earl! But I had hardly time to wonder at my fine spectacles, when Mary gave a cry, and behold, in her parcel, which in the inside was a little box all lined with velvet, there lay a bit little gold ring, and a bracelet, made as I saw in a moment of my dear bairn’s own hair.
The very speech was taken from my niece Mary. She looked at them, and she looked at me, with the water standing in her eyes, and as if she knew not what to do.
“Preserve me, Mary,” said I, for I was greatly astonished, “where has the bairn gotten the siller?”
And truly that word seemed to waken Mary, for then she put the ring upon her finger, and sat down at my foot, on Grace’s stool, and laid the bracelet on my knee, that we might both look at it the better. And it had also a clasp of gold, with “Mary Maitland,” engraven upon it, in letters so small that I had to put on my grand glasses, before I could see them at all.
And proud Mary was when I had clasped it on her bit little white wrist, and the ring upon her finger. The bairn had never worn such things all her days before, and every now and then there would be a glance at her hand; for truly the innocent thing was but a mortal bairn after all, and no far past seventeen.
So Jenny and her (and Jenny was greatly uplifted about her Bible) went down to Saunders Lightfoot’s that very night, with Grace’s present, for Christian was to be married on the Monday. And truly, the bits of presents that we had all got were a comfort to me in my meditation, seeing Grace’s aunt could not be so ill to her after all, when she had siller to buy all these dear things.
Doubtless, I did put in some notes into Mary’s little green purse, that Grace might have something in her hand, when she went into the strange house; but I think not it could buy so much gold. So when Mary came home from Burrowstoun, being very full about these bonniedies, as was but natural — for doubtless they were very bonnie to look upon, she began straightway to write to Grace, the which letter, being but short, I will put in. —
“My dear Grace, “I wish you could only have seen the joyful uproar of my aunt’s quiet parlour to-day when we opened your parcel. But now I do not know how to thank you; everything you have sent is so pretty and so delicately chosen, that my acknowledgments will only look clumsy beside them. But I can tell you this, Grace, that my aunt’s old spectacles did not need to be taken off and wiped half so often as these braw new ones do; and that my aunt has just been giving me a lecture for looking at my hand so much, and closed her last sentence with these ominous words, ‘The vanities of this world!’ But thank you, dear Grace, above all, for the bracelet, which is more than pretty, and which I shall wear always.
“For Christian Lightfoot and Jenny, what shall I say, but that they are above measure delighted and astonished that Miss Grace should be so mindful of the like of them. We don’t wonder at that, Grace, for we know you better.
“But I wonder very much why you have always liked so well to laugh at me. It is very wicked, Grace, and mischievous, and puts things into people’s heads. You know very well I never shall be a great lady; but I have found out something that will serve our purpose quite as much. I thought myself once (it was when Adam Blythe of the Meadows came of ago last month, and my father and my uncle James of Bourtree gave up their charge of him, and he got his affairs into his own hands), that when you were twenty-one you might choose for yourself, and come home to Sunnyside, if you liked. So I asked a person whom I thought likely to know, and he said I was right, and that your hither could not keep you against your will then.
“What do you think of that? And it will be only three years. I daresay there will be a great change upon us all by the time you come home, Grace; for even the very little time you have been away, I think I am not quite the same; that is, I am older a great deal (at least I think so), and not so much a girl.
“Oh! my aunt has been looking over my shoulder, and I have just got a shake, and a question as to whether my extreme admiration of my ring is a proof of greater womanliness or no. What do you think, Grace?
“I am glad you like Mr. Monteith. I don’t quite understand though how you can have lived in Edinburgh so long without liking either your aunt or your cousins. Mrs. Elphinstone, of Lilliesleaf, is the coldest lady I ever saw; and yet I think people who know her must like even her. She seems to care a good deal for my aunt, and my father and mother; but she does not like me. Is not that strange? And it cannot be pride of her great station, or of her wealth, for you know when they were young, she was very intimate with my aunt. So if she does not like me for my ownself, why then I have no reason to be angry. I like very well to make friends; but when people don’t want to be pleased, I do not see, Grace, why one should make any particular exertions to please them.
“But all that has nothing to do with your new friend. I am glad he is not young, and I hope he will turn out somebody, and bring you back to Sunnyside, that so these troubles may end with a ‘lived happy and died happy,’ like one of Jenny’s fairy tales.
“I thought I had said a great deal about Claud in the last letter I wrote; I know I intended to do so. My father met Dr. Ingine at Rures not long ago, at Mr. Shepherd’s, and he said Claud was pleasing everybody in Edinburgh, and winning honours fast. Now, my uncle James says, Dr. Ingine is not to be trusted always when he is speaking of students; but I don’t think that can be the case, for what motive had he to praise Claud, unless Claud deserved it; and we know better than my uncle what Claud can do.
“Christian Lightfoot is to be married on Monday. I am going down myself with Jenny to see the wedding. I don’t know how poor Christian will stand it, if old Dr. Driegh preaches at her for half an hour, as he did when his niece, Mary Vivey, was married to the great Glasgow merchant.
“Shall I send you a piece of Christian’s dreaming-bread? I wonder who you will dream about, Grace? I have to leave a corner for my aunt, so good bye.
“MARY MAITLAND.”
And I put in this little word myself: —
“At no hand, Grace, my dear bairn, say a word about me to your friend, Mr. Monteith; it is but an unlikely thing that he should be the one I once knew, though the name is the same, for you know there are many Monteiths, as there are many Maitlands, that are in no way sib to one another.
“And now, Grace, my dear, thank you for your present of the golden glasses, the which, for all their preciousness, are a douce and comely article of necessity, which it is not misbecoming for me, being an eldern gentlewoman, to wear, and that is more than I could say of almost any other braw thing you could have sent me. You would have laughed, I doubt not, at the bit little remainder of vanity that was yet smouldering within me, if you had seen me standing before the glass, with them on, looking at myself, and very rich and goodly to see they assuredly were, the like of them not being in Burrowstoun.
“So now, my bairn, mind what I have said about Mr. Monteith, and tell me what he says when you see him on Monday, and also what you think of the house at Oakenshaw. And aye be mindful of your duty, and look for counsel no just from the like of me, but from the Father of Light Himself, and may the brightness of His countenance be lifted up upon you at all times, my dear bairn.
“MARGARET MAITLAND.”
So Mary put up the letter, and we got it sent away, and the Sabbath passed in quietness, and, according to our humble endeavour, in a devout manner, as was becoming that good and pleasant day. And on the Monday forenoon, when Mary was putting on a better gown in honour of Christian’s wedding, there came a carriage to the door with Mrs. Elphinstone in it, and Mr. Allan riding on a horse at her side.
It was, without doubt, a very fine and sunshiny day to be a November day, but I wondered greatly at Mrs. Elphinstone, seeing she was so delicate in her health, venturing so far as Burrowstoun, with no other errand than to call on me, but I could see before long, by a look that she threw round upon Mr. Allan and Mary and me, that she had a jealous thought in her mind forbye, and that she had come to see with her own eyes what it was that brought her son to Sunnyside so often, and truly, I was in a manner vexed that she should have seen Mary, seeing it it was no will of mine that the bairn should be in Mr. Allan’s way.
So there was a constraint and a chill feeling about us all, especially before Mr. Allan went away; but seeing the young man had some errand to do at Cruive End, (where they had begun to the new houses, and were working at them with mettle,) and having a perception also, doubtless, that he was the cause of his mother being so distant and cold, he had the discretion to go soon away, leaving Mrs Elphinstone till he came back.
So, after that, she began to speak more, and to tell me of the grand party that was to be the next day, and once or twice she said a word to Mary, in a kind of strange way, as folk do when they are experimenting upon things they know not the nature of.
“Do you know the young ladies at the Castle, Miss Mary?” she asked.
“I have seen them, madam,” said Mary, for Mary, as was natural, was not pleased that any one should deal with her so, having aye her own bit pride, not that she was like Grace in that respect, for there was aye a kind of unconscious stateliness about Grace, as if bits of trifling things could never hurt the like of her; but Mary’s pride — poor bairn! it was never carried to an ill degree with her own will, but we are all weak — was more of the kind to take fire at a slighting word or look.
“Lady Julia is a sweet girl,” said Mrs. Elphinstone, turning her eyes in a keen way on Mary. “My Allan and she promise to be great friends. We spent last evening at the Castle, and they were singing — really, my taste is somewhat fastidious in music, but I confess their united voices charmed me.”
Last evening! It was the Sabbath day, the time that the Maker of us all has hallowed to Himself.
Mrs. Elphinstone saw Mary’s head lifted up quick and her eyes meet mine, and she said, with a smile:
“I am afraid I offend these rigid Scottish prejudices of yours, Miss Maitland. Nay, even your niece’s youthful forehead frowns righteous displeasure on me; but surely, even by your own showing, the innocent enjoyment of light-hearted young people, like my Allan and Lady Julia, does no dishonour to the day.”
There was a vision came across my eyes as she said that, of my three dear bairns, Grace, and Claud, and Mary, all bending their heads over my father’s big Bible, and communing joyfully at my fireside, of what was written there. Claud, with his fine head and high brow, growing up in his strength, and Grace, with her stately bearing, and her eyes like floods, and Mary, with her sunny face and her gold hair, rejoicing in the good and holy Sabbath day, no with the joy of songs and vain laughing, but with the thanksgiving of frill, still hearts.
“No, Mrs. Elphinstone,” said I, “it is a pleasant sight to man, and becomes all days well; but oh! the young things know little of gladness that can find it in no other way but that, upon the evening of the holy Sabbath day!”