where dislodged stones had formed numerous crevices in the wall. On attempting to ascend, he felt so stiff and sore, with cold and injuries, that he could scarcely move, but, by repeated efforts, at length scaled the side, and was safe on terra firma. Shortly after his arrival at Auchenvore, a letter was, anonymously, handed into him. On opening it, he read sir these inforim ye an youl again meddel Mysie Macgubb shell rive ta heid aff and stick tae Body to scare craw is shee to pe insultet by a curse low Sasenach Tinker taek notis then once forr all an iver amen that youl be found speakin or lookin to Her anywher or how youl get no mercce from DONALD STEWART. "Faith, there's little chance o' that," quoth Oliver, after perusing the above. "Least said 's soonest mended, Maister Stewart; so we'll keep oot o' the way o' the foxes o' Auchenvore henceforth." CHAPTER VII.-DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY" THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE," &c.— A RECONCILIATION-CONCLUSION. SHORTLY after the execution and punishment of some of those whom the government recognised as the chief agents in the Bonnymuir and other disturbances, the country began to assume a more tranquil aspect. A tacit understanding seemed to subsist betwixt the civil power and the discontented, that hostilities should be withdrawn on both sides; for, from that period, the people resigned all physical effort to obtain their object, and those who had been compelled to quit the country, in consequence of their immediate connection with the movement, now were permitted to return home, and peaceably resume their occupation. For a time, there existed considerable doubt and hesitation in men's minds, as to whether this was merely a ruse on the part of the government, or if it had, in reality, changed its system of operation, and begun to practise the often acknowledged, though too seldom acted upon, policy-that mercy is the better part of justice. These fears, however, wore off, as no disposition was ever exhibited from which any contrary opinion could be inferred; and a temporary tranquillity once more exercised its genial influence over society. Our friend, Oliver, was amongst those who felt first disposed to take advantage of the change. He had been in communication with acquaintances, who informed him of it; and, as a fitting opportunity soon presented itself, he once more resumed his shop and business. Trade, which, for a considerable time previous, had been in a fluctuating condition, now received a new impulse; and Oliver, by a few of those happy turns in the mysterious wheel of fortune, which seldom occur in any man's life, found himself the unexpected possessor of more wealth than, by several years of otherwise indefatigable labour, would probably have fallen to his lot. Yet, amid his increasing prosperity, there was a thorn in the flesh, that galled and disturbed him. quently do we find it occur, that though man may be successful in almost every undertaking, there is always a something to mar and impair his happiness-something to keep him mindful of his parent earth. The old Dutch proverb, that "there is a skeleton in every house "—a sorrow in every heart-has been realized, we believe, in the lot of all Fre Adam's race. Every gleam of prosperity is presaged or succeeded by some gloomy cloud. Oliver, though rapidly rising in the world, had still one wish unsatisfied. Lillie Graham, he expected, would at once willingly resume an old acquaintanceship, after having given such indubitable proofs that the flame, kindled in earlier days, still slumbered in her heart; but no, instead of appearing willing, Lillie drew back at every advance on his part. She purposely avoided him, and, when thrown by accident into his company, acknowledged him coldly and formally, and never allowed any allusion of the past to escape her. She appeared to anticipate Oliver's wish to gain an explanation of her conduct, by studiously avoiding opportunities when presented. Although her course of proceeding was inexplicable, and painful to him in the extreme, for his affection, instead of cooling at the many pointed rebuffs he met, daily increased, and with it increased hopelessness; yet, to a narrow observer of human nature, there was nothing at all strange in it. Lillie's first feelings, after the excitement consequent upon her attempt to rescue Oliver had subsided, were those of shame. She felt she had compromised her dignity as a woman-that she had gone too far without reflection. Then it occurred painfully to her, after he was beyond reach of danger, that he would look upon her disinterested effort in his behalf as proceeding from a selfish motive. She could not brook such an idea; and yet, every new light in which she viewed her conduct, this self-loathing feeling pressed itself home, with terrible force, upon her. The poor girl felt unhappy-herself the heart-burning cause. Only one way to retrieve her imprudence appeared obvious; it was a painful one. She must resign Oliver, or, at most, maintain a distant acquaintanceship. This accounted for her new and unexpected course of procedure towards him; and thus were two individuals rendered unnecessarily unhappy. Man often believes he perceives a long array of happiness or sorrow chalked out before him; yet how often are his fears dissipated, or his hopes blasted? How seldom, on taking a retrospective glance at the path we leave, does it wear the same bright hues as it did on entering it? Yet hope that heaven-born gift-serves again to adorn the future, making man forget the chequered past, by inspiring many a day-dream of unmarred prosperity, in the mysterious cycles of the unexplored. Oliver was walking moodily along, one fine evening, after having closed his shop, pondering upon the unexpected freak of fortune which had led Lillie to reject him, after exhibiting such indubitable evidence of the strength of her early love as he had witnessed. He had left the town behind, and stood in the open country. Involuntarily he lifted up his eyes, and looked around. A noble view met his gaze. Before him stretched a broad expanse of undulating ground, clothed with long waving corn, already tinged with the gold of autumn. Further on, the setting sunbeams rested on a long tract of wood, whose manycoloured foliage was surpassingly beautiful by contrast; and behind it rose a ridge of blue hills, above which the towering peak of Ben Lomond was dimly discernible. The feathered songsters were pouring forth their evening hymn, and a sweet incense arose from the flowers at his feet, as if they strove to repay to heaven the fragrance they received from it. Oliver stood gazing around, wrapt in contemplation of the scene, forgetful, for a time, of all else, when his reverie was suddenly disturbed by the sound of wheels coming rapidly along the road. He looked around. A hundred yards in advance of him, was a gig, containing a young lady and a boy. The horse had evidently run off, as the bridle was hanging loosely at his side, and he was tearing along at a pace that threatened imminent danger to the occupants of the vehicle, both of whom were holding on by its sides, and the girl screaming for aid. Oliver saw at a glance that not a moment was to be lost. The horse was approaching a sharp angle in the road, where a steep bank declined down to a ditch; destruction was inevitable if it passed this. Rushing forward, he seized the bridle, and endeavoured to check its progress. It reared a minute or two; the boy was pitched out on the road, and, simultaneously, the young lady sprung out after him. Oliver let go the reins, and, allowing the animal to pursue its headlong race, turned to pick up the female, who was lying, apparently insensible, on the ground. On lifting her up, the first glance he took at her countenance caused him to start back in surprise and bewilderment; his heart throbbed wildly-it was Lillie Graham. Hastily conveying her to a cottage, a little way off, he got some restoratives applied, which had the desired effect, and, in the course of half an hour, she declared her ability to walk home. Oliver accompanied her, having seen the boy first attended to, who, though severely, was not dangerously injured. For a time, they walked in silence, each dreading yet desiring to speak. At length Lillie broke it by saying, "Oliver, I'm indebted to you to-night far beyond what it is in the power of my poor tongue to express, or sufficiently thank you for. Had you not nobly ventured your own life, I should, ere this, have been past all care." "Nay, you owe me nae thanks, Lillie; I but repaid a debt. I did what every man, in the same circumstances, would be constrained to ha'e dune-naething mair than my duty. But hoo came it, an I may speir the question, that ye entrusted yoursel' in charge o' a boy?" "I had been at a freen's, and the laddie was sent home with me; he said the horse was canny enough, and so it was, till something scaured it on the road, and ye ken the rest.” "Aye, an' happy am I that I do, though sorry for the accident. I wad maist regret to ha'e missed sic an opportunity o' repaying your never to be forgotten kindness. I can but feebly express the obligation still binding on me, and which the circumstances of this night can in small degree remove." "You talk strangely, Oliver. I risked nothing for you, you everything; which o' us, then, is debtor? I fear you must accept my thanks, as the only recompense I can make; would I could testify my gratitude as deeply as I feel it. I" "Say nae mair, Lillie; ye can testify it; there is a way to make me aye your debtor; to do more, to make me happy now and forever." Oliver felt her arm tremble in his as he spoke. He continued "I ha'e long wished such an opportunity as this-long sought itbut ne'er, till now, succeeded in obtaining it." He paused, doubting, yet desiring to proceed. Now or never it must be done, he thought, and resumed: "Lillie, you mind, at least I do-for I'll never forget it -the nicht that you saved me frae imprisonment; and maybe you mind recallin' scenes o' past days, when we were happy, happier I was then than e'er since syne. Gin I guess'd aricht, these times were dear to you also; such as few days ha'e since been. Now, what I ask is, would you wish the present to be like the past? Oh, Lillie! believe me, when I say and feel that I ha'e acted unkindly towards ye. Lang ha'e I mourned o'er 't, and lang wished your forgiveness. Do ye refuse it now?" "You have nothing to ask my forgiveness for, Oliver," replied Lillie; "the fault was a' my ain." "Never, Lillie. I ha'e been foolish and vain-led away by empty dreams, ne'er to be realized, and forgot that a leal heart ance throbbed in affection for me. I canna hope 'twill e'er do sae again." Hot tears were falling o'er Lillie's cheeks; she sobbed as she said— “You need not despair." "Say, then, Lillie, dearest, am I to be made happy? You tauld me you wished you had other to gi'e me than your thanks to-night; you have other to give. Oh! that I could ca' that haun', and the heart that guides it, mine! Dare I?" A gentle pressure of the hand in question was all the answer. * * * * * Not many months after this, there was seated in Tibby Lythe's the identical party from whom Lillie had made her abrupt exit on the night of Oliver's escape. There was the same pompous Mrs. Tibson, and the little lady with the black gown and white shawl, and widow Harness, besides the same blazing fire, the same tidy room, and, in fact, all and everything was the same, save and except Tibby herself, who was dressed out in a fine peach satin gown, and exhibited a remarkable development of roses and tulips in her head gear. "Really it's most surprisin' how things turn oot. Who would ha'e conjectured it," said Mrs. Tibson. "A little bit more sugar, if you please, mem; there, thank ye." "Aye, indeed, as ye say," quoth the little lady in black, "wha wad a thocht it. It's no abune sax months since she was sittin' here, little dreamin', I'm sure, aboot matrimony. I hope she'll be happy. Oliver, they say, was a gey queer cout." "Verra true, mistress; but, seestu, byeganes are byeganes. We were a' a wee wild ance, an' maun deal lenient wi' ither's fauts," responded another. "Half a cup jist, mem." "Pray, how did the bride look, Miss Lythe?" inquired an unmarried visitor. "Looked remarkable," replied Tibby; "never saw ony body look better. An' then, Oliver himsel', tho' a thocht sheepish at first, cam' roun' wonderfu"." So Oliver was married; he had found a turning in life's road that promised peace and happiness, provided vanity obtruded not its form to mar contentment. This much had he learned, and profited by the lesson-that when a man steps beyond his own sphere, inflated by conceit and vanity, he becomes rediculous to one part of the world, contemptible to another, and the butt of a third. SONG. THE PERSIAN MAID. On, come forth! thou flower of the Persian maids, When the nightingale sings With the dew on his wings; Yet she breathes him perfume, nor allows him to pine The bright god of day has gone down in the wave, Oh, come Folds his wing, in the bower Of our own olive grove. for the spirit of Love is divine, And he speaks in the heart of my own love and mine! When the flame was unquenched on the altars of old, Then come! 'tis the hour Which may never return, And his altar doth burn! Oh, come! let us pour out our sighs at his shrine, And mingle the soul of my own love with mine! GREENOCK. R. L. M. |