"Do not go for my pony; I shall get it for myself. I thank you very much."

And with an abrupt courtesy she passed him.

THE young Highland girl stepped quickly up a heather track, until she stopped before a low black cottage, thatched with brown sods. A bleak stone dyke surrounded it, and in some hurdle enclosures a few piteous-looking black-faced sheep were cropping the dry herbage. These enclosures comprised the fank; where, in summer, the wool-clipping was done, and where the cattle sought huddled warmth during the night storms of winter. A few dark pines crowned the huge gray rocks that rose behind the cottage. It was a desolate and eerie-looking spot. A little scrubby-brushed fox ran out, as the young girl stopped at the door, and, jumping at her plaid, clung playfully to the fringe with his teeth; but she shook it off and entered. The earthen-floor of the low-built room was strewn with withered brackens and heather, and the atmosphere was dense with peat smoke. A small black cow and a handsome little thoroughbred pony stood together tethered to a fir post, eating from one coggan full of potatoes; a flock of cocks and hens were roosted on the rafters, and many rude implements of farming, several corn flails amongst them, lay scattered about. Having tightened the saddle girths and loosened the bridle of her pony, the maiden passed into an inner room.

This was the family room. The flooring here also was earthen; there were two small windows, the broken panes of one being replaced by sheets of mica from the neighbouring

rocky hills. The hearth was built in the centre of the room, and one-half of the smoke escaped by a rent in the roof, the other half swept out into the entrance room. A table stood opposite the window; the bed was built into the wall next it, and hung with woollen-spun curtains. Two wooden shelves, above the patchwork counterpane, contained some strangely brown books, tea and snuff canisters, and an oaken box curiously carved and clasped. A quaint-looking clock hung in one corner, and a low rocking-chair, simply constructed with twined birch twigs, stood by a spinning-wheel opposite the fire. A small dresser, on which some pots and pans and crockery-ware were arranged, had a clothes screen drawn before it. Green branches of birch were loosely laid between the black rafters and ceiling, and a huge pile of fresh fire-wood filled the space from the bed to the opposite wall.

A tall handsome woman of middle age advanced to meet the visitor. She wore a matron mutch, high and white; a tartan scarf, bound across her full wide chest, was fastened with an antique silver brooch thin with age, and scored with many initial traditions of the past. Her petticoat was of dark blue wool, and her stockings of brown moss dye. In appearance she was the very beau ideal of a Highland wife. Her face was rather dark-complexioned, and the narrow band of hair visible was a deep-coloured red; her eyes were a clear, cool, hazel, and her nose and mouth were finely formed, but the lips were almost too blood-red. Her hands were small and white, and she had a peculiar way of wringing them as she spoke, drawling her words in that singing tone the Highlanders use in speaking the English tongue.

"Esmé, ma guil,* you'll take a drink;" and she poured milk from a tin flagon into a glass: then, taking down a canister, she poured some whisky from a flask, and added a spoonful of crushed sugar: "Drink to Normal and me."

"To you, darling Florh."

"Weel ah weel! let that be; it 'll na hinder fate."

"You are not to be always making mine, Florh; I won't have it," cried Esmé, throwing back her head with quick scorn, and her eyes darkening dangerously: "I love eagles better than hawks." Then, she asked quietly, "Will you read me a dream?"

"Aye, tell it. Was it dreamed last night ?-Last night has a date to it."

* My love.

"Yes, my dearest mother," Esmé replied with a sigh. “Florh, listen :—I was awakened from a deep sleep by the wildest hooting of the owls; they seemed all in flight towards the Roua Pass. I sat up in my bed; the blessed moon was resting in splendour on a dark cloud high above the hill, and shedding quivering silver on my pillow. As I gazed on her, I spoke your word, dear Florh-Roi-Orduchadh,*—and, ere I list, the cloud burst into fragments, and I counted seven fantastic shadows as they floated across the Mother of Visions.' I lay down again, and the rushing of the river soon soothed me to sleep. Florh, I dreamt that my sister Norah and I were lying in our own little boat, which was moored to the trunk of the old cherry-tree at the garden bank. She was sleeping. A dreamy feeling pervaded the very air; the sun was scarcely shining, but it cast a tremulous light on the silver river, lightening and deepening the shades of the melancholy birches: there was a hush like sleep. A strange mysterious feeling stole over me not peace, but excitable unrest; not indolence, but abandonment. The silence gradually broke; faint, faint sounds of melody arose; the waters trembled as if the harmony breathed on them. I rose up, and then suddenly I saw shadows-those visionary moon-shadows-come hurrying past! The soft light vanished, and the old mountains looked resplendent in gold and purple glory. Oh, Florh! darkness came on, as the hand of an invisible arm darted through the air and struck the cherrytree to the earth. The river waves rose in fury; the boat rocked and sunk. My sister and I struggled desperately in the cold and stormy water. She grasped a long honeysuckle tendril that was drooping above us; I saw she was saved, and shrieked farewell' to her, as the current swept me on past her-past home-past life and hope-into the gloomy waters of a mist-covered ocean. Then Florh, I awoke!

When Esmé ceased, her foster-mother stooped, and, raking the hearth-ashes with her finger, picked out a charred bit of pine wood. She crossed her bosom thrice with it, and put it into Esmé's left hand.

"Mathal voch!† picture the shapes of the seven clouds to me."

"I cannot do that; but I remember the fourth was a long twisted flake, like that-" And Esmé drew a mark on the

hearth-stone with the charcoal.

* Destiny and fate.

My poor darling.

"Yes, bairn, it was this; and, with an exultant laugh, her foster-mother turned the hieroglyphic into the Saxon letter f. “Now tell me more shapes.'

"Well, the first clouds went whirling past in round shapesso; and I remember the cloud that followed that ƒ was serpentine-like this; and the last shadow of all was tailed, like a comet."

"Aye, aye: so and so;" said Florh, and she scrawled the letters g and r and y. "Was the cloud between the two last like this?" and she added an e;-Esmé nodded. "Then "striking the stick against the crook over the fire, it broke in two; Florh snatched at the pieces, and muttering, "Two syllables, and the first of Heaven," drew in legible Saxon characters the name "GODFREY.'

When Esmé had entered the cottage, Marchmoram seated himself on a heather clump within sight, and gave himself up to the luxury of day-dreams, carelessly pulling up the heather and nipping off its deep purple bells with his teeth. He was roused by the neigh of a pony, and, looking up, saw his Highland naiad mounted, at the cottage door. The basket of water lilies was poised on her head (as the steadiest way of carrying them), and secured by a strap beneath the chin. This coronal gave a wild grace to her slight figure; the pale flowers, with their cool green and transparent tendrils, softly shadowing her long golden tresses. Her hat was slung to the crupper, and her foster-mother was wrapping the plaid from her shoulder to her knee. Esmé threw her arms around Florh's neck, and, stooping, kissed both her sun-burnt cheeks; then, touching the bridle, she cantered rapidly down the track, past Marchmoram. She saw him not; her eyes were fixed on the glare of the setting sun, above the hill of her dream-the famed Roua Pass.

It was about nine o'clock, and the three English sportsmen were seated round the mahogany table in the lodge of Dreumah, with a luxurious dessert spread before them, of green and purple grapes from English hothouses, golden yellow pineapples, Chantilly biscuits and spiced compôtes. The dessert service was of rich red Bohemian glass, varied by bottles and glasses of divers shapes and colours; bright champagne sparkled in crystal amber, and cool claret glowed in glasses of emerald green-an inviting display. The room was lit by a German chandelier of white and brown hart's horns, pendant from the low ceiling; and candlesticks of similar material were

ranged on the shelf for bedroom use. A curtain of thick red frieze, drawn along the end of the room, concealed the windows and excluded the keen air of a Highland autumnal night. "Well, Auber, tell us of your stalk!"

"That

"Do not speak to me, Marchmoram! The equanimity of a lifetime lost its balance to-day," and Auber laughed. confounded gillie, Sandy Mac Tavish! he sacrificed a royal head! You thought I started sluggishly, but my blood warmed, and I had such a stalk! There is a gash on my knee which must cripple me for a week. It is well, with the sequel I have to tell, that with me-ce n'est pas la victoire mais le combat qui fait mon bonheur! At four o'clock, Ian Mac Gillivray lay hanging on the jut of the shoulder of Corricandhu, Sandy Mac Tavish in the pass of Stronichie, and myself enduring cramp amongst the high ferns at the Bogle's Spring. Ralph, who was crouched by my side, suddenly made my fingers tingle by the whisper-They are coming-they are coming. I saw the advancing antlers above Stronichie a minute ago! I hope Sandy will have the sense to hide himself and your rifle ere they reach the pass!' By Jove, ere the words were well out of his mouth I heard my own rifle crack, and there was Sandy tearing down towards us, brandishing the piece above his head, his kilt and hair flying back on the scent. He was shouting as he ran- Och hone! och hone! but I did na kill her!' I really felt blind for a moment. I did not let fly my rifle at the rascal as you might have done; but Ralph seized him, and nearly shook his ragged jacket off him, exclaiming, Kill what, you devil?'

"Hoch, och! the staig-the bonny staig!'

"Were you clean daft, Sandy? Why did you fire? You know fine you were only to hold the gun for Mr. Auber.'

"I declare the idiot began to blubber, and scratching his head, he whined—'Och, I was feared she wad hae stuck me when I seen her wallaching down on me!' I told him to lay down my traps and return to black cattle herding, for he was no longer a Dreumah gillie; but he cried so bitterly, and called me so many soft Gaelic dears' and 'loves' that I relented, and forgave him. I don't feel sure that his enthusiasm may not prove a very promising beginning."

"I have no doubt of it, Auber," said Marchmoram, laughing. "You have won a devoted slave. The fellow was no more afraid of the stag sticking him than you were; he fired because he supposed you only wanted the venison, and thought