as she saw the stern face of Marchmoram before her: he had turned on the other side of the Pass. Auber bit his lip; but, quick as thought, he again took Esmé's hand and pressed it, as if parting from her; glancing at Marchmoram with a peculiar look as they passed each other on the narrow path. In the descent to Glenbenrough, Esmé again was last: she lingered, and walked slowly. Ishbel ran on before, skipping like a playful kid over the rocks; and Marchmoram walked silently by Norah. Esmé felt that Marchmoram's quick eye was not to be deceived, and that he had seen what had passed between her and Auber: she felt mingled sensations of shame and pride, guiltiness and annoyance; but then she thought Marchmoram would forget it. What did it matter to him?

At the foot of the Roua Pass all three were startled by the dreadful shriek which Ishbel gave as she rushed past the tree where Glenbenrough stood in his sheet; but the groan he attempted broke down in his hearty laugh, and exclamations of "Papa, papa," from his daughters, showed that he was detected.

Esmé sat in a low chair before the fire in her room, brushing her hair, which hung in a golden shower about her: it curled naturally, and at night she merely braided it back in one thick roll. Esmé and Ishbel's rooms, which were small, though on the drawing-room floor, opened into each other, and they were furnished much alike: a low tent bedstead with muslin curtains stood opposite the window, which looked upon the Roua Pass and the strange peak of the Craigchrisht hill beyond. The furniture was old and simple: all the chairs in the room were of different shapes; the toilet table was built into the recess of the window, and an antique fan-shaped looking-glass stood on it; presses beneath serving for chests of drawers, and a low table, covered with a bright-coloured plaid, supported their books and desks. The carpets of the rooms were curious and comfortable, being the gift of Florh, who had spun them herself: they were very thick tartan, of the Mackenzie pattern, and soft to the foot as a Turkey rug. Esmé had many pictures, principally in water-colours, painted by her mother, hung upon the walls of her room; and above the frame of each was a bouquet of heather and deer's-grass, which retain their colour for months at a time. Ishbel also had her walls ornamented with deer's-grass, and the post of her tent bedstead was crowned by a sweet bunch of bog myrtle. Norah's room, of which she was sole occupant, was on the higher

flight; next hers was the apartment her mother had died in, and which Glenbenrough had quitted since that sad event, preferring a room near his study. Norah's room was large and airy, and furnished so as to suit all her tastes. It contained a book-case, and a stand with greenhouse plants stood in one of the windows; prints and paintings, with a crayon likeness of her mother, adorned the walls; and an old oak cabinet held a stock of comforts and necessaries for the poor. The curtains of her bedstead were curious, being made of silk patchwork, sewn into tapestry devices; the work of the fair hands of old and young ancestors, long, long since crumbled into dust. A screen of beautiful antique workmanship half encompassed the fireplace; and seated within its shadow Norah now sat, buried in reverie. She arose at last, and, taking her candle, went downstairs to Esmé's room. It was late, but a light still streamed beneath Marchmoram's door, which was opposite. Norah sat down by Esmé, and taking the brush from her hand, continued the dressing of her hair for her, while both sisters talked together.

"We shall miss Mr. Marchmoram much when he leaves, Esmé. I did not expect, that first day at Dreumah, that so short a time after we should have become thus intimate."

"No, indeed! What pleasure we have had since then. I only feel that were life to go always on in such a round, it would satisfy us too much with the present, Norah. We never held converse with men like these before: young Seatoune, and Comhfern, and Breesah, are all men of family and position, handsome, agreeable, and educated; and yet we would make unfavourable comparisons now."

"These men, I suppose, have the highest polish that society can give, Esmé; and in thus knowing them, we must feel it to be but a rare and passing pleasure: nowhere else in Scotland could we know men like them; and even in England, depend on it, these men rank high. In the Lowlands, or in an Edinburgh ball-room, how proud we should feel of our handsome chiefs and cousins, and how, in our eyes, they would tower above the everyday people there; but here, we find their free-born spirits do not bear comparison with the tutored ease of these men, with whom we feel under no restraint, and have more easy enjoyment in their society than in that of men whom we know much better. Did you not feel to-night as if you could have walked on to Dreumah with them, as with brothers ?"

Norah could not see the smile that passed over the face of Esmé (who thought of Auber), as she replied,

"Yes, when all together, and at Dreumah, one thoroughly felt this, Norah; but I think Mr. Marchmoram's pervading influence creates much of this feeling: he seems always as if we were under his care, and we feel safe in the guardianship of his strength."

"He has plenty of strength, social and intellectual: he is a man of decision in all he does or says. I notice it in everything."

The figures of the two girls would have made a pretty picture as they sat with their eyes fixed on the glowing embers; Norah's regular features were pale in their composure as she shaded her soft dark eyes with her hand; Esmé in her loose white robe and golden hair, like a visitant from spirit-land; but her face was not sufficiently peaceful: bright pink burnt in the cheek, and her eyes glowed with a lurid brightness. She spoke first, after a short silence.

"Have you talked much with Mr. Auber, Norah."

a

"No less than with Mr. Marchmoram and Mr. Harold; but I have occasionally heard part of your strange conversations with him. Esmé, dear child, Mr. Auber is a very fascinating man;" and as she paused hesitatingly, Esmé quickly interposed,

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Well, I have not spoken much to Mr. Harold, but I think him charming."

A slight blush coloured Norah's face, as, in her turn, she interrupted Esmé by saying, " We will talk of him afterwards: I want first to give you my idea of Mr. Auber. He is a fascinating man of cultivated mind and manners, and he has imagination; but, unless I am deceived, there is very little heart in him. I have seen a smile sweet as sunshine pass and leave an expression cold as lead, and one of his impassioned glances succeeded by a look as worn out as that of the most blasé man of the world."

Esmé looked up startled. These were new ideas to her. What answer could she give? At this moment the owls on the old trees in front of the house began shrieking, and the clock struck twelve. Norah arose, saying she feared her fire was out, and went into Ishbel's room; she kissed her sleeping sister, and sighed. On her returning to go upstairs, Esmé said, with a smile-" Norah, I think Mr. Harold admires you. Marion and Julia thought it also."

"How could you think so?"

"Why, in one way it would be unnatural if he did not. You know you are pretty; and he evidently likes your society: he seeks it."

"Oh! he knows I am the eldest sister of the family."

"And he is the youngest of the Dreumah party! No, that is not it: it is because he finds that you suit him. With his own truthfulness, and well regulated mind, he can estimate yours. I think one has only to look at Mr. Harold while you and he talk together, to see that his character is one formed on principle. I have noticed that, though he has a keen sense of the ludicrous, and is observant of motive and action, yet he is utterly free from cynicism: his fine-tempered smile and thoughtful brow show that he looks honestly and kindly on the world, and that he has a naturally good disposition."

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'Well, I would have imagined you had been the most in his society; you speak so fully of him!" Norah said, smiling. "But everything you say, I feel is borne out. There is a truthful simplicity about Mr. Harold that he who runs may He is a man of principle-religious principle-I am sure; and, after all, that is the great point, dear Esmé."

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"Yes," said Esmé, thoughtfully: "I admire this abstract truth and goodness, Norah; but I have not the inclination to approach it. I close my eyes, and with bowed head steal silently, reverently past the pure light of religious principle; I love it, but I am too feverish to approach that light. My nature, dear Norah, is so different from yours."

Esmé ceased, and an indescribably mournful smile was on her face. Norah's eyes filled with tears as she turned and gazed on her sister.

"The time is coming, I trust, dear Esmé, when strength will be given. You are yet young and impulsive; but years will bring the strength which then will carry you on higher and higher towards that light before which all lesser lights are dimmed."

"Yes, Norah," said Esmé, with sudden earnest tone; "I know it. Without religion, intellect but flies blindfold."

"Esmé, you remember the French saying, 'Il y a des gens dégoûtants avec du mérite, et d'autres qui plaisent avec des défauts!' I find it useful for myself, from my being apt to disregard it; but though safe with me, it does not do for you to act on its truth too much."

"Ah!" replied Esmé, smiling; "I am afraid I have generally dwelt on the last fact too much."

The sisters exchanged good-night; but long after Norah had fallen asleep, a small, restless footfall might be heard in Esmé's room, and a low voice occasionally murmuring incoherent sentences such as,

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Norah, why don't we speak thus oftener?"- "Darkness, darkness! Godfrey Marchmoram ! "—" Oh, Normal! we have dwelt so long on the same page! what is to be firstwhat last?"

I'm but a puir hand at beseeching,

And words hae nae mony to spare.-GILFILLAN.

ON one of the Dreumah hills, within sight of the Lodge, lived a shepherd named Donald Cameron, in a cottage with his only daughter Jeanie and his old father Ian Mohr. The latter was one of the few remaining grandsires who could tell of former times, which he fondly recalled, when in the Highlands bird and beast roamed free, and unclaimed save by those who could match the stag in swiftness of foot; when lairds knew not of shooting-rents, dreamt not of emigration, and dealt not with strangers; and when clansmen were still clansmen to each other. Old Ian Mohr, when a lad, had swam across Loch Nightach in icy winter neck and neck beside the grand uncle of Glenbenrough, carrying lighted pine torches to fire the house of a recusant tenant. It was he who saved the life of his present laird's mother when a girl from the fury of a maddened Highland bull, by leaping across the chasm of Corloo Craig, with her in his arms; and when the country people spoke of the death of the Edinburgh writer, who was shot at the front door of Arduashien as he stood there with a writ against Normal's great grandfather, old Ian always muttered, "Our bullet was sure! our bullet was sure!" Ian Mohr, still, at the age of eighty-three, could shoot a deer and spear a salmon with the surest aim. It was wondrous