spirits; his eyes were raised to heaven, he seemed engaged in mental prayer, but at the slightest movement they were turned again towards the door, with an expression of anxious hope.

"It's naething, my son, naething, that ye hear," said his father, "but the wind soughing amang the branches o' the auld elm-tree; she canna be here just yet. O William, try to sleep-shut your eyes, and try to sleep for a wee gliff, and it will put off the time, and may be, do ye good."

The invalid looked wistfully towards his father, and closed his heavy eyes, and for some moments lay motionless and still.

The old man anxiously bent over him, fearful that he should no longer hear his breathing, and terrified for that very stillness he had but the moment before so anxiously desired. But William was not asleep; as footsteps approached he looked up.

"It is only Sandy, my son," said his father; it is only Sandy off to the Hill to let out the sheep."

He spoke to one who seemed no longer conscious of his meaning. A sudden change

had passed over the countenance of the invalid, and with one deep-drawn sigh, his eyes had closed again, his head had sunk upon his breast. At that moment the latch was softly lifted, and a light step entered the cottage. The old man heard it not. But light and noiseless as was that step, it struck upon the cold, dull ear of death.

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Mary," exclaimed the invalid, half starting from his bed.

The effort seemed supernatural, and was momentary; his head fell back upon his pillow; his countenance became convulsed.

"He is gone, he is gone!" exclaimed the wretched girl, and threw herself upon the bed.

"Haud back, haud back!" cried his stepmother; "gie him air, for the love o' heaven, gie him air; open that window; dinna ye hear to me? open that window, I say or the door-onything, onything for air;—this is no death-something has happened to him—I hae seen the like o' this in my experience; there now, let me get his head up-leave a' to me,-lean on me, William, and take heart -ye'll come about yet, man."

A violent fit of coughing had seized the invalid, and it soon became apparent to all that he had obtained relief from that* which had occasioned his previous alarming symptoms, and his present danger; that danger, after a short period of intense anxiety, seemed to be passing away.

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Mary, my own Mary," he murmured, in a scarcely audible voice, "I feel as if new life were put into me; and as if a mountain had been taken from my breast; it seems to me now as if the Lord will yet raise me up— but I have not strength to say all that is in my heart now-o' love and thankfulness. I am sair spent; yet it's no the feeling of death that is creeping ower me now; -it's sleep, blessed sleep. Come nearer to me, Mary-sit close beside me-put your hand in mine." He pressed it fervently; his eyes closed; in a few minutes he was asleep.

Oh who can paint the thankfulness of the father's heart, or the joy of that happy girl, as she listened to his low, quiet breathing, and looked upon the reviving colour of his

* The bursting of an abscess in the lungs.

cheek. But why should I prolong my story? A few weeks witnessed his returning health; a few months more, and she became his happy bride.

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CHAPTER XI.

MANY tears were shed during the perusal of this little history, and a long conversation succeeded between Mr. Maitland and Mr. Percy on the character of the Scottish peasantry, to which Mary and Florence listened with much interest. In reading and conversing with Mr. Maitland and their father, they derived incalculable advantages. In their figure and manners they still appeared youthful in the extreme, but their minds were rapidly expanding, and their remarks, though expressed in simple and unaffected language, often surprised and delighted their instructors.

Next day they proceeded on their journey. As they came in sight of the plains of Provence, they were at first much disappointed. Till within three or four miles of Aix, no