alluded to some lines of an old, and then not very common song, which had been an early favourite of both, she evidently started at the quotation, and looked at him with a sad and earnest gaze. No suspicion of his real character, however, seemed to be excited; but when she left the table, Gordon was little able to take his part in the conversation that followed, and found as small a charm in the bottle, circulating as it did with great rapidity, under the direction of the laird and his friend. David Johnston observed his abstraction, and inquired with some sympathy if he was well enough. Glad of any excuse, and hoping that it might afford one interview with Mary, he pleaded a severe headache in answer to the inquiry. 66 Weel, colonel, I would just advise you to take my remedy, and that's a cup o' guid green tea. Gang you up stairs to the parlour, and my dochter will mak it for you in less than nae time. It's the first door on your richt hand at the stair head, and dinna be lang, and we'll get that business o' yours gane ower the nicht. The sound of a voice, every note of which brought a volume of recollections into the mind of Gordon, was a better indication to him of the locality of the parlour than the direction of the laird. Mary was engaged in singing the very song he had quoted in the course of the dinner-table conversation, and as the full clear tones thrilled into melody, he stood still, afraid by a breath to dissolve the charm. The memories of boyhood, the bright hills and the bonnie burnsides in the deep noon, flashed upon his mind with the feeling of lightning. Well and beautifully has Mrs Hemans said, on a strain of music Oh! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds, ye swell and float A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is poured on every note: And yet my full o'erburdened heart grows troubled by your power, And ye seem to press the long-past years into one little hour. If I have looked on lovely scenes that now I view no more A summer sea with glittering ships along a mountain shore A ruin girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evening's sky, Ye bring me back those images as swift ye wander by. The music ceased, and Gordon, half ashamed of the situation of a listener, now entered the apartment. Mary was bending over a scrap of old paper, but, at the sound of his entrance, she pushed it below the papers in the music portfolio; not, however, before Gordon had time to remark, that it was the very copy of the verses he had written out and given her in their early acquaintance. The sight did not at all tend to remove the confusion of Ꮓ ideas excited by the song itself; but before he knew very well what he was about, he had crossed the room, and requested Mary to oblige him by repeating the piece. "It is an old song, colonel, which I am not much in the practice of singing, and it was only your quotation that brought it into my recollection; but, to confer this very great obligation on you, I will attempt it again." In proceeding with the music, one of those light tresses that Gordon had so often admired, fell from its band of pearls, and floated over the brow and eye of the singer. She hastily raised her hand from the instrument to remove it, and in doing so, unconsciously entangled her finger in a ribbon, from which something depended into her bosom. The action brought it completely into the light. The dazzled eye of Gordon fell upon a broken sixpence! In a moment the astonished girl was in the arms of her lover. 66 Mary-my own, own Mary!" "Colonel Gordon-this insult!" "Call me not Gordon, dearest Mary-I am Maxwell-your own Charles Maxwell!" * * * "Ay, Mrs Stewart, so this has been a fine stir up by," said the grocer, next day, as he entered the public for his usual potation. "Think of Charlie Maxwell comin' into the room wi' his drawn sword, and erying he wad cut aff Mr Monteath's head-and Miss Mary faintin—and the auld laird creepin' below the sofa-and "Hout tout, James, what's this o't? Charlie Maxwell gaed into the room in a quiet peaceable manner, and tell't them a' wha he was. He was down at me the day, telling me no to send the carriage that was ordered for Mr Monteath's waddin' till the week after the next, and then they're to gang for his ain." "That may be your way o' tellin' the story -but mines is the best, and the hail town has't—sae, I'll just tell't that way yet." THE TWO FOUNTAINS. I saw from yonder silent cave, But who could bear that gloomy blank, JOHN MEWAN. I LODGED in the house of a poor shoemaker, by name John M'Ewan. He had no family but his wife, who, like himself, was considerably beyond the meridian of life. The couple were very poor, as their house, and every thing about their style of living, showed; but a worthier couple, I should have no difficulty in saying, were not to be found in the whole city. When I was sitting in my own little cell, busy with my books, late at night, I used to listen with reverence and delight to the psalm which the two old bodies sung, or rather, I should say, croon❜d together, before they went to bed. Tune there was almost none; but the low, articulate, quiet chaunt, had something so impressive and solemnizing about it, that I missed not melody. John himself was a hardworking man, and, like most of his trade, had acquired a stooping attitude, and a dark saffron hue of complexion. His close-cut greasy hair suited admirably a set of strong, massive, iron features. His brow was seamed with firm broad-drawn wrinkles, and his large gray eyes seemed to gleam, when he deigned to uplift them, with the cold haughty independence of virtuous poverty. John was a rigid Cameronian, indeed; and every thing about his manners spoke the world-despising pride of his sect, |