THE LOST CHILD.

LUCY was only six years old, but bold as a fairy; she had gone by herself a thousand times about the Braes, and often upon errands What

to houses two or three milles distant. had her parents to fear? The footpaths were all firm, and led through no places of danger, nor are infants of themselves incautious, when alone in their pastimes. Lucy went singing into the coppice-woods, and singing she re-appeared on the open hill-side. With her small white hand on the rail, she glided along the wooden bridge, or lightly as the owzel tripped from stone to stone across the shallow streamlet. The creature would be away for hours, and no fears be felt on her account by any one at home whether she had gone with her basket under her arm to borrow some articles of household use from a neighbour, or merely for her own solitary delight, wandered off to the braes to play among the flowers, coming back laden with wreaths and garlands. With a bonnet of her own sewing, to shade her pretty face from the sun, and across her shoulders a plaid in which she could sit dry during an hour of the heaviest rain beneath the smallest beild; Lucy passed many long hours in the day light, and thus knew, without thinking of it, all the topography of that pastoral solitude,

and even something of the changeful appearances in the air and sky.

The happy child had been invited to pass a whole day, from morning to night, at Ladyside, (a farm house about two miles off,) with her playmates, the Maynes; and she left home about an hour after sunrise. She was dressed for a holiday, and father and mother, and Aunt Isobel, all three kissed her sparkling face before she set off by herself, and stood listening to her singing, till her small voice was lost in the murmur of the rivulet. During her absence, the house was silent, but happy; and the evening being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home every minute, and Michael, Agnes, and Isobel went to meet her on the way. They walked on and on, wondering a little, but in no degree alarmed, till they reached Ladyside; and heard the cheerful din of the imps within, still rioting at the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne came to the door-but on their kindly asking why Lucy had not been sent home before daylight was over, he looked painfully surprised, and said that she had not been at Ladyside.

Agnes suddenly sat down, without speaking one word, on the stone seat beside the door, and Michael, supporting her, said,-Jacob, our child left us this morning at six o'clock, and it is now near ten at night. God is merciful, but, perhaps, Lucy is dead.' Jacob Mayne was an ordinary, common-place, and

rather ignorant man, but his heart leapt within him at these words, and by this time his own children were standing about the door. Yes, Mr Forrester-God is merciful-and your daughter, let us trust, is not dead. Let us trust that she yet liveth-and without delay let us go to seek the child.' Michael trembled from head to foot, and his voice was gone; he lifted up his eyes to heaven, but it seemed not as if he saw either the moon or the stars. 'Run over to Raeshorn, some of you,' said Jacob, and tell what has happened. Do you, Isaac, my good boy, cross over to a' the towns on the Inverlethen-side, and-Oh! Mr Forrester Mr Forrester, dinna let this trial overcome you sae sairly' for Michael was leaning against the wall of the house, and the strong man was helpless as a child. Keep up your heart, my dearest son,' said Isobel, with a voice all unlike her usual, Keep up your heart, for the blessed bairn is beyond doubt somewhere in the keeping of the great God, yea, without a hair of her head being hurt. A hundred things may have happened her, and death not among the number.-Oh! no-no-surely not death-that would indeed be too dreadful a judgment.' And Aunt Isobel, oppressed by the power of that word, now needed the very comfort that she had in vain. tried to bestow.

Within two hours a hundred people were traversing the hills in all directions, even to

à distance which it seemed most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. The shepherds and their dogs all night through searched every nook-every stony and rocky place-every little shaw-every piece of taller heather-every crevice that could conceal any thing alive or dead, but no Lucy was there. Her mother, who for a while seemed inspired with supernatural strength, had joined in the search, and with a quaking heart looked into every brake, or stopped and listened to every shout and hallo reverberating among the hills, if she could seize on some tone of recognition or discovery. But the moon sank, and then all the stars, whose increased brightness had for a short time supplied her place, all faded away, and then came the gray dawn of morning, and then the clear brightness of day, and still Michael and Agnes were childless. She has sunk into some mossy or miry place,' said Michael to a man near him, into whose face he never looked. 'A cruel, cruel death for one like her! The earth on which my child walked has closed over her, and we shall never see her more!'

At last a man, who had left the search and gone in a direction towards the high road, came running with something in his arms, towards the place where Michael and others were standing beside Agnes, who lay apparently exhausted almost to dying on the sward. He approached hesitatingly; and Michael saw

that he carried Lucy's bonnet, clothes, and plaid. It was impossible not to see some spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn

round her neck. Murdered-murderedwas the one word whispered or ejaculated all around; but Agnes heard it not, for worn out by that long night of hope and despair, she had fallen asleep, and was perhaps seeking her lost Lucy in her dreams.

Isobel took the clothes, and narrowly inspecting them with eye and hand, said with a fervent voice, that was heard even in Michael's despair, No-Lucy is yet among the living. There are no marks of violence on the garments of the innocent-no murderer's hand has been here. These blood-spots have been put there to deceive. Besides, would not the murderer have carried off these things? For what else would he have murdered her? But oh! foolish despair! What speak I of?: For wicked as this world is-ay, desperately wicked-there is not, on all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that would murder our child! Is it not plain as the sun in heaven, that Lucy has been stolen by some wretched gipsy-beg gar, and that, before that sun has set, she will be saying her prayers in her father's house, with all of us upon our knees beside her, or with our faces prostrate upon the floor?"

Agnes opened her eyes, and beheld Lucy's bonnet and plaid lying close beside her, and then a silent crowd. Her senses all at once