was the voice of the village shrew, the bandy-legged drummer's wife.

"And are you the stranger," she exclaimed, drawing her skinny arms from the suds in which they were immersed, and placing them akimbo; "Are you the stranger, who baited at our village years agone, when our husbands and our sons were marching to the wars in the Canadas?"

"I am the same."

"Well, my old eyes have not failed me yet, in spite of all my sorrow. That was a woful day to many of us, and many a woful day did it bring after it." I inquired after the fate of her husband. "Good man," she continued, "he has gone to a more peaceful world than this. He was a hard-working man, and well to do, and never wronged another of the value of that suds, and that is more than some can say that ride in their gilt coaches. But he has now gone where honesty will turn to better account, than all the gold and dross of this world. If he were but back again, I should not be slaving here like a galley slave as I am, to find bread for his poor dear orphan boy. Gilbert !" she cried in a shrill tone, and continued: "but I will train him up in the right path, and he will not depart from it. Gilbert!" she again cried with increased energy. "He is the comfort of my age, the joy of my widowed heart. Gilbert, you Gilbert," she shrieked, "which way can the brat have gone ?" She espied the luckless little ragged urchin hard by, laughing aloud and wrestling with a water dog, dripping wet from the river. "I'll change your note, you undutiful hound, take that," she exclaimed, at the same time suiting the action to the word. The boy made a hasty retreat, crying, and the dog ran after him, barking, and

rubbing his wet skin on the green sward, in the fulness of joy, which can hardly be attributable to the lad's misfortune.

I inquired of the virago how her husband, the drummer, died.

"Like a soldier on the frontiers. He was shot with a musket ball, and fell by the side of Hugh Cameron, who, heaven bless him, was at the same time maimed, and made a cripple for life. See, yon he goes, leaning on the arm of Lucy Gray. Poor souls, their only joy is to be together, but that joy will not last long. I have lived a goodly time, and have seen many, but never a pair like them. Their troth was plighted before the wars; he loved Lucy more than life from the time he was a boy, and used to break the hush of the mountains with the sound of his flute at midnight, with him who now rests under the big cypress tree. Yet when he found himself a cripple, and unable to support his Lucy by the labour of his hands, he sent a letter from the hospital where he was lying, many a long mile from this, releasing Lucy from her vows, and making her quite free to marry another if she fancied him."

"It was nobly done on his part: what answer return ed Lucy?"

"She wrote to him, that as Hugh Cameron was no longer able to work for Lucy Gray, she was able and willing to work for Hugh Cameron. He no sooner received the letter than he left the hospital, and travelled homewards, for he was impatient to see her that he now loved more than ever. He travelled far and fast, night and day, which brought on a fever, and when he arrived at last, he looked like the shadow of what he was. He lay on his sick bed for weeks; the fever was cured, but it left behind a disease which no medicine can cure.

The

Lucy and the invalid had by this time entered the village; I felt a curiosity to see more of them, and taking an abrupt leave of the loquacious widow, I rode up to the inn, and was cordially welcomed by my quondam host. I lost no time in directing my steps towards the widow Gray's cottage. As I approached, the unceasing hum of the widow's wheel denoted that she was at her station. I entered, and on making myself known as an early acquaintance of her husband, she recognised me, though her features had escaped my memory. room was uncommonly neat. The fragrance of the wild flowers, culled by Lucy, was perceptible. They were placed in water upon a bureau, in front of a looking glass, in a well polished mahogany frame. Lucy and the young soldier were in the garden. We passed into it through the back door of the cottage, shaded by an arbour, over which the vines were already gradually stealing. The lovely girl was at the extremity of the little garden, bending over a flower that required her attention.

"Every evening it is thus," said the widow, "whenever she can spare an hour from her labour, she devotes it to the garden, and really the care she takes, adds much to the appearance of our dwelling."

"Truly," I observed, " her labour has not been idly spent."

"A blessing," continued the widow, "appears to attend all she does."

The invalid appeared intent upon what Lucy was doing, but the praise which escaped the widow's lips, did not escape him. He turned towards us and said—

"True, mother, even the drooping narcissus revives at her touch, your aged heart grows glad in her presence, and the weight of years is forgotten; nay, even I dream

of coming happiness when I see her smile, but the narcissus will bloom only for a few days longer, then wither and sink to the earth."

"But the flower will revive again in spring," said Lucy, "more beautiful than at the time it faded."

"All things look glad in spring," he continued, "the notes of the various birds are more melodious, the buds burst forth, the mountain trees put on their rich attire, the flowers of the valley dispense their hidden fragrance, the ice-bound brook is freed from its fetters, and every breeze is fresh with fragrance; but I, amid this general revival, must fade and die alone. I would the autumn were already arrived, and the leaves were falling, for then to die would be natural, and I should leave the world with less regret."

We returned to the cottage, and the widow resumed her station at the wheel, while Lucy prepared the teatable, which was covered with fine bleached linen, which the widow mentioned with an air of pride, was the product of her hands. The humble meal was soon ready, and was eaten with thankfulness and delight by the cottagers, a joy unknown to those who have not by their own labour, first produced the sustenance of life.

The meal being over, the widow returned to her wheel, and recounted the occurrences of former days, until the sadness of the present was forgotten in the remembrance of the past. The brow of the invalid became more cheerful, and Lucy's spirits resumed their natural buoyancy from the transient gleam of sunshine that lit up the face of her lover. She sang. Her voice was sweet, and there was a heart-thrilling wildness in it, seldom to be found in those more refined and cultivated. It was powerful and spirit-stirring. Hugh Cameron dwelt upon each note with intense interest. His fea

tures became animated, and he mingled his voice with her's. The widow stopped her incessant wheel and lifted her head to listen. The invalid suddenly raised his voice, and cried, "that note again, Lucy, that note again."

She repeated it with so full a tone, and so clearly that the glasses in the window, and on the cupboard, vibrated with the sound.

"Hush; that is the note, I know it well. Now listen." He attempted to imitate the note, but he failed, for his voice was too feeble. He then added, “ Not yet, Lucy, not yet; my time is not come yet." The cheerfulness of the poor girl was suddenly changed to sadness; she ceased to sing; the widow's countenance fell, and she resumed her labour in silence.

The evening was now considerably advanced, and I arose to take my departure. The invalid accompanied me towards the inn. I expressed my curiosity to know what he meant by his observation, when he failed to imitate the note.

"That," said he, " was the note to which the heavenly spheres were attuned, when concord prevailed throughout creation; when the mighty plan was first set in motion, and God pronounced all good."

I looked at him with astonishment. He continued, "I have heard that note at midnight, proceed from the voice of my dog, as he howled beneath my chamber window at the moon. It was ominous. I have heard it in the voice of the screech-owl, while perched on the large cypress tree in the church-yard. I have heard it in the echoes of the mountains when I have shouted; in the howling of the tempest, in the murmuring of the waters, and the rustling of the trees; for every thing, both animate and inanimate, retains that sound, to which univer