  Another spring had come. Calmly and gently as on the heart-sick watchers fell the last rays of the setting sun on Ally’s weary brow as she sat by the window of her boudoir listlessly gazing into the street. Gay dresses were strewed around her—jewels flashed from their velvet cushions upon the dressing-table beside her, and ornaments of rich and varied style lay beside them—yet Ally’s thoughts seemed far away. Her sweet face was paler and thinner, and on her dimpled mouth lay that peculiar expression of suffering which the lips only can show forth—her dark-blue eyes seemed larger, and a wild look had taken the place of the soft dove-like glances which had won Dugald’s heart. Oh! Ally was fearfully changed. Suddenly, as though an ice-bolt had stricken her, the young girl started from her dreamy posture. The color faded from her parted lips and she clung to the window sill as she gazed at some object below. A few moments afterward, her slight form might have been seen gliding down the wide staircase and entering a small library adjoining the drawing-room, with which a glass door communicated—softly the curtain was lifted, while with clasped hands and a frame shivering with the intensity of her agitation she saw and heard all that passed within. Dugald, her own wronged Dugald was there—she had not been deceived then in that hasty glimpse of his figure from the window. A chill crept over Ally’s heart as she saw his pale face and sorrowful look—but this was as nothing to the agony that thrilled through her ere long. Dugald sat in one of the richly embroidered chairs, with the graceful ease so natural to him in any society, while directly opposite, in a large arm-chair with a cushion beneath her feet, sat the countess. An air of haughty indifference was meant, perhaps, to check the young man’s hopes, for well did the proud lady know the object of his long journey, and sorely did she tremble lest her plans should yet be defeated. Leaning carelessly on a massive table close by, with an air that affected to be contemptuously easy, while the working of his fine features betrayed an inward conflict, stood Sir Frederic. “I assure you, sir, Lady Adela is too much indisposed to see any one this evening,” were the first words that the trembling girl heard. “Oh, if she is ill, lady, do not refuse to let me see her. Surely, surely, news from home would do her good—oh, never was she too ill yet to see Dugald! “Only let me see her for a moment—let me hear from her own lips that she has forgotten us.” And the young man grew eloquent as he pictured in the simple language of exquisite pathos, the more touching as it came every word from a full heart, the distress of those who loved and watched for their absent one till their hearts grew faint within them. He told of their bitter disappointments—their home now over-shadowed because the sunbeam that once lighted it was gone. He spoke not of his own feelings for they were too sacred to be displayed before the cold natures that listened unmoved even now—and Dugald ceased with a sinking heart as he watched their haughty brows grow darker with suppressed anger. The countess rose and with a frigid salutation left the room, and her son, with an expression of withering scorn, demanded how he dared to expect that his cousin remembered or wished to know aught of such low associations—then followed his mother, leaving Dugald stunned and motionless. In those few brief moments the evil spirit had departed from Ally’s misguided soul and the good regained its influence over her. With the last echoing sound of the departing footsteps, she opened the door against which she had been leaning, with that temporary strength excitement ever gives—she beckoned to the startled youth, who, half-dreaming, obeyed the signal, and found himself face to face with her whom he had just deemed lost to him forever. “Ally, dear Ally, what have they done to change you thus,” he exclaimed as he stretched out his arms toward her. She threw herself weeping upon his bosom, clinging to him as if fearful of being again torn away. “Take me home, Dugald, take me home. Thank God I am not quite heartless yet.” Tenderly as a mother soothes her restless child, did Dugald caress and whisper sweet words of comfort to the trembling one he folded to his heart—and at last she looked up through her tears with her old familiar smile, so that she seemed almost herself again. By a side-door Dugald reached the street, unobserved by those who deemed him long since gone—a light was in his eye, his step was free and elastic, and his whole face beamed with the inward delight that caused his heart to throb wildly as he traversed the streets toward his temporary residence. A few hours passed and he came forth again—when he returned he was no longer alone. Like her gentle mother, Adela Moreton fled from wealth and rank to share the lowlier lot of him who had won her heart. But unlike that mother our sweet mountain flower fled from the evil to the stern yet blessed path of duty, and the blessing of Heaven followed upon her steps. Great was the amazement of the countess and her too sanguine heir when on the following morning they discovered that their dove had escaped from the net laid for her. Bitter were the curses that descended on Dugald’s now unconscious head, but the affectionate little note left on the table of the vacant boudoir, showed too plainly by its gentle but decided tenor that further hope was vain. The sunshine came back into Donald’s cottage—laughter and mirth were no longer strangers there, for Ally, their “lost and found,” had returned to them, paler and thinner it is true, and with a deeper shadow on her fair brow, but with her loving heart and gentle voice unchanged. Ally well knew the sacrifice she made, but it was made willingly. Her wealth was all in the power of her aunt, and she hoped for no concession from the disappointed schemers—but Dugald had not been idle during the years of his probation, and he was no longer a poor man. One bright summer’s day when all nature seemed rejoicing and human hearts were filled with thankfulness, in her own simple cottage-dress, and under her old name of Alice McLane which she had again adopted, Ally, now blooming and happy, stood before the altar in their own dear kirk, and promised to be the wife of him who had loved her so long and so faithfully. Joy beamed from every countenance, as they now felt that no power on earth might rend these ties, and Ally, their own beautiful Ally, was theirs till death should part them. Only once did the proud countess seek to recall her flown bird to her glittering but uneasy nest, and the day on which she arrived with Sir Frederic, Sweet Ally McLane! would that more angels like thee in the likeness of sinful flesh might dwell among us—raising our hearts to higher, holier purposes, and fitting us while here for a better home above, where envy, malice, pride, or sorrow never may be known or felt. ——— BY MARY L. LAWSON. ——— My father, by the simple stone That marks thy grave I stand alone; The birds with joyous love-notes sing A welcome to the early spring; The cloudless skies, the balmy air, And soft young flowers, proclaim it fair; But now their gladness can impart No sense of beauty to thy heart. Yet first I learnt from thee to trace Each varying hue on Nature’s face, Its teachings bade thy spirit move My heart to deeper truth and love; For varied lore, arranged, defined, Was graven in thine active mind, And every path thy footstep trod Seemed written with the name of God. And well remembrance wakes for me My ne’er forgotten walks with thee; How oft we paused with thoughtful eye To mark the changes of the sky, Or idly lingered, to inhale The breathings of the summer gale, On bird and tree and flower to look— As pages in Creation’s book. Then questions of thy boyhood’s day Would lead thy musing soul away, And borne along by memory’s tide Came visions of thy native Clyde, The ripple of the mountain rills, The heather scent from breezy hills, Until thy glance would brightly beam With interest in thy chosen theme. I listened then with eager ear The tales of other days to hear, For oft thy voice would lead me back, From life’s insipid daily track, To wild romance and warfare rude, That mingle in old Scotland’s mood, For thou didst know and paint them well, And wandering fancy warmed the spell. My father, how the tear-drop swells As o’er the past my vision dwells, When I have stood beside thy chair And smoothed and kissed thy silvery hair, Whose silken threads are dearer now Than hope’s gay dream or lover’s vow, For life can hold no joy for me More cherished than my thoughts of thee. And thou hast left a name behind That Art must prize and Science find; Thy talents to the world are known, But dearer memories are my own. Though all approve the stainless worth That sleeps beneath this spot of earth, The kindness that awakens love Thy children’s hearts alone can prove. No gorgeous tomb in words proclaim Thine honest truth and well earned fame, Nor sculptured urn, nor heartless praise, The stranger’s studied care betrays; But thou wert fondly laid to rest Where tender tears thy grave has blest, Embalmed in feelings pure and high That soar from earth beyond the sky.
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