enough

returned to her, and she rose up- Ay sure drowned-drowned-drowned-but where have you laid her? Let me see our Lucy, Michael, for in my sleep I have already seen her laid out for burial.' The crowd quietly dispersed, and horse and foot began to scour the country. Some took the high-roads, others all the by-paths, and many the trackless hills. Now that they were in some measure relieved from the horrible belief that the child was dead, the worst other calamity seemed nothing, for Hope brought her back to their arms. Agnes had been able to walk to Bracken-Braes, and Michael and Isobel sat by her bed side. Lucy's empty little crib was just as the child had left it the morning before, neatly made up with her own hands, and her small red Bible was lying on her pillow.

"Oh my husband-this is being indeed kind to your Agnes, for much it must have cost you to stay here; but had you left me, my silly heart must have ceased to beat altogether, for it will not lie still even now that I am well nigh resigned to the will of God." Michael put his hand on his wife's bosom, and felt her heart beating as if it were a knell. Then ever and anon the tears came gushing, for all her strength was gone, and she lay at the mercy of the rustle of a leaf or a shadow across the window. And thus hour after hour passed on till it was again twilight.

"I hear footsteps coming up the brae,' said

U

All

Agnes, who had for some time appeared to be slumbering; and in a few moments the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard at the outer door. It was no time for ceremony, and he advanced into the room where the family had been during all that trying and endless day. Jacob wore a solemn expression of countenance, and he seemed, from his looks, to bring them no comfort. Michael stood up between him and his wife, and looked into his heart. Something there seemed to be in his face that was not miserable. If he has heard nothing of my child, thought Michael, this man must care but little for his own fireside. 'O speak, speak,' said Agnes, 'yet why need you speak? this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is in heaven.''Something like a trace of her has been discovered-a woman with a child that did not look like a child of hers, was last night at Clovenford, and left it by the daw’ing.' Do you hear that, my beloved Agnes?' said Isobel, 'she'll have tramped away with Lucy up into Ettrick or Yarrow, but hundreds of eyes will have been upon her, for these are quiet, but not solitary glens, and the hunt will be over long before she has crossed down upon Hawick. I knew that country in my young days. What say ye, Mr Mayne? there's the light o' hope on your face.' There's nae réason to doubt, Ma'am, that it was Lucy. Every body is sure o't. If it was my ain Rachel, I

should ha'e nae fear o' seeing her this blessed nicht.

Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with even a smile upon his countenance. $I may tell you noo, that Watty Oliver kens it was your bairn, for he saw her limping after the limmer at Galla-Brigg, but ha'eing nae suspicion, he didna tak' a second leuk o' her, but ae leuk is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy Forrester.' Aunt Isobel, by this time, had bread and cheese, and a bottle of her own elder-flower wine on the table. You have had a long and hard journey, wherever you have been, Mr Mayne-tak' some refreshment,' and Michael asked a blessing. Jacob saw that he might now venture to reveal the whole truth. No-no-Mrs Irvine, I'm ower happy to eat or to drink.—You are a prepared for the blessing that awaits you— your bairn is no far off and I mysel❜for it was I mysel' that faund her,will bring her by the han' and restore her to her parents.' Agnes had raised herself up in her bed at these words, but she sunk gently back on her pillow. Aunt Isobel was rooted to her chair, and Michael, as he rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking under his feet.

There was a dead silence all around the house for a short space, and then the sound of many joyful voices, which again, by degrees, subsided. The eyes of all then looked, and yet feared to look towards the door. Ja

cob Mayne was not so good as his word, for he did not bring Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents; but dressed again in her own bonnet, and her gown, and her own plaid, in rushed their child, by herself, with tears and sobs of joy, and her father laid her withi her mother's bosom.

MADELINE.

OH! Could I only call thee mine,
My loved-my lovely Madeline
All other hopes I might forego,
And even earth with all its woe,
Would seem to me divine.

I care not to what lands we roam,
With thee-the desert-wild's a home!
And all my breathing hours of bliss,
Like this one pure, important kiss,
I'd draw from thee alone.

Then-then, let love light up thy brow,
To look and feel as thou dost now;
For while thy fate is bound to mine,
I'll struggle on nor e'er repine-
Nought shall my spirit bow.

Ir must be sweet, in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown-to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round and called him out
To revel in its light, he turned away,

And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night-he summoned his accustomed friends,
And in this wise, bestowed his last bequest:

"Mother-I'm dying now!

There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
And on my brow

I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother, your hand—

Here, lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother, say when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?

Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay
You taught to me.

Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet:
You'll miss me there."

"Father, I'm going home!

To the good home you spoke of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and

Storms do not come.