A DISCOVERY.

THE day after Blanche's ride was very stormy. The peaceful Glen seemed suddenly thrown into a wild tumult. Now and then a long low rattle of thunder sounded along the mountains, and the great fir-trees creaked and swung, making all manner of weird choruses among the aisles of pine. The rain had fallen in torrents during the night, and there seemed still an inexhaustible supply in the gray sheets of mist that hovered over the nearer hills. The little mountain rills hurried white and foaming to the river, which moaned and raged along the valley, carrying with it on its wild way to the sea more than one wooden bridge which had been wrenched from its frail moorings by the spate. It was a true Highland storm, the first Blanche had ever seen, and she stood watching it with mingled feelings of interest and disappointment. She knew well what she meant to do with this holiday, if only the sun had kept its golden promises of last night. But this storm had upset all her plans, and she was filled with remorse at the thought of the neglected tryst in the fir-wood, and felt out of sorts with herself and all the world. Her last hope of any fun that afternoon departed as she stood in the old hall, and watched her father and his guests get into their waterproofs and prepare to start on an expedition to see the swollen river. She would gladly have accepted an invitation, laughingly given by the old Major, that she should join the party, but Miss Prosser had been quite shocked by the suggestion. "It was improper at any time for a young lady to go out in rain, and in a deluge like the present, quite out of the question," she replied, from the side of the school-room fire, where she sat shivering. Nothing was to be seen from the window, except the rain, which came plash, plash on the soaking turf in a dreary monotone of dulness, and Blanche contrived to make her escape while Miss Prosser had fallen into brief, though sound slumbers. She took refuge in Ellis's society, whom she found sewing busily in her room. But here things did not go to her mind any more than in the school-room, for Ellis had taken the opportunity of warning her little mistress that if she were ever found 'addressin' of that tramp' again, she would feel in duty bound to inform Miss Prosser, nor could any coaxing of Blanche's persuade her to promise silence.

"No, missie; I'll not hold my tongue for nobody. My very heart came to my mouth when I saw you talkin' to that creature, just as friendly and unsuspectin' as if she'd been your very sister, and all alone in that dismal wood, too. Depend upon't there's a whole gang o' them lurkin' yonder. Have you never heard of them as kidnaps children, missie? Why, they'd take you for the sake of your pretty curls, if for nothing else. A nice endin' that would be for you, Miss Clifford!" and Ellis stitched away in high indignation, as she dwelt on the alarming picture that she had conjured up, while Blanche called to mind some of the stories which she had read of gypsies who had run off with children. It seemed to her, however, that any excitement would be preferable to a time of dulness like the present; and she came to the conclusion that the kidnapped children must have, on the whole, rather a nice time of it in the greenwood, and feel sorry when they are recaptured by their anxious relatives, and sent back to their school-rooms.

Ellis went on stitching in dumb silence, feeling displeased that her warnings seemed to be treated so lightly, and Blanche, finding these circumstances far from lively, glided away. After roaming through the winding passages and turret stairs, in the hope of finding some variety, she lighted at last on a quaint, little room, which had evidently been unmolested by charwoman or housemaid for many a day. Its dusty desolation, however, quite suited Blanche's present disconsolate frame of mind. She managed to undo the rusty fastenings of the narrow window, and coiling herself into the deep stone embrasure, she looked dreamily out on the moorland. The storm seemed at last to have almost spent itself. Blanche could catch glimpses of the river, which still lashed itself into wild white foam as it hurried along; but the sunlight was shimmering upon it now. The wind had fallen, the great pine-trees creaked and swung no longer, and the gray sheets of mist, which seemed so stagnant a few hours before, were now slowly creeping from the hills, and making way for the clear shining after rain.

Blanche sat watching the changing landscape from her dusty nook, with the pale sunlight glinting in upon her; and as she gazed, all the discontented, restless thoughts seemed to vanish from her heart, disappearing like the gloomy mists which had been shrouding the pleasant hillsides. At last, after she had sat perched in her watch-tower for several hours, she fancied she heard her father's voice in the court-yard below, and she ran to meet him. Mr. Clifford was standing with all his wet wrappings when she reached the hall. "O papa! how very funny you do look! You are just as wet as Chance when he comes out of the water."

"Well, I'm wet enough, to be sure. But you should see what a wonderful little specimen of the aborigines I've fished up, Blanchie. Come along, and I'll tell you the tale while I warm myself."

Blanche followed into the library with some curiosity. She had rather hazy ideas of what the "aborigines" might mean, but she concluded that it must be some sort of trout taken from the river during the storm.

The Major had returned home some time ago, and was comfortably seated in his arm-chair by the library fire, so Blanche had to wait, with as much patience as she could muster, till Mr. Clifford explained what had detained him. The other gentlemen had gone on to see the Linn, he said, but as he wanted to have some fishing next day, he thought it would be well to see the keeper, and arrange the matter before returning home.

"I had been to the kennels once before," continued Mr. Clifford, "and knew that the keeper lived not far from them. But I had no end of bother in finding the place, though there it was suspended above me all the while. I set out to go down the hill again, giving up the search in despair, when I noticed that smoke came from a wretched shell of a hut, perched on the corner of a crag. And this turned out to be Dingwall's abode. I really wonder his Grace doesn't house his tenants better."

"But what about the creature you fished up, papa?" asked Blanche, fearing that the conversation was going take too abstract a turn. "You promised to tell me, you know."

"Ah! Blanche, I see you're all eyes and ears. Well, I'm just coming to that now. I knocked at the door of this miserable erection, but no answer came; and, as it was pouring rain, I did not feel inclined to wait long, so I lifted the latch and looked in. Dingwall evidently was not at home. Indeed, I should say he was quite as comfortable among the heather as at his own fireside, in the circumstances. The rain was dropping in from the roof in all directions, and it was evidently its habit to do so, for it seemed to have excavated reservoirs for itself along the earthen floor. The only soul in the hut was a wretched atom of a girl, who, nothing daunted by this damp state of matters, was splashing contentedly through the wet floor with her little bare feet, trying to spoon away the water in the pools. Such a funny little thing it was. You should have seen her, Blanchie, as she stood looking at me, with her great eyes that peeped out from a tangled mass of black locks. But I daresay I looked rather an alarming apparition in my waterproof and umbrella, which I had the prudence to keep over my head. She looked terrified for a moment, but she did not forget to make her rags touch the soaking floor in a low curtsey, and offered in the sweetest voice to run for her father, who was 'watchin' the spate,' she said. You should have seen her, Blanchie; it would have quite suited your love for the sensational."

The portrait was photographic; Blanche's heart began to beat, for she felt certain that she had seen her.

"O papa! do tell me, did she really go away to the river to look for her father? Do tell me, please," said Blanche, in eager tones. "Well, seeing that she didn't seem to mind the weather, and wasn't likely to catch cold, I thought I might as well bring her here for a little, since her father was not at home, and put her under old Worthy's care, to be warmed and fed and generally comforted. I couldn't get her to open her mouth again, but she followed me down the hill on my invitation."

"O papa! you don't mean to say that she is with Mrs. Worthy now?" and without waiting for a reply, off Blanche bounded in search of the housekeeper's room. And there, in front of a bright fire, seated in a comfortable arm-chair, looking serenely happy in the midst of such unwonted comforts, sat Morag.

"It is really you! Of course I knew it was," exclaimed Blanche, rather incoherently, as she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

Morag rose with an eager bewildered look on her face, but she did not speak, while the impulsive little Blanche threw her arms round the tangled locks, and kissed the brown cheek.

"O Morag! I'm so very glad to see you again. I've been so sorry all day that I did not go to meet you in the pine forest yesterday. So, you are the keeper's daughter," and a shadow of vexation stole across Blanche's sunny face, for the remembrance of the dark, sinister-looking man whom she had disliked rose before her, and she felt a pang of regret that he should be connected with Morag.

"I'm so glad papa brought you here, Morag. What a horrid house you must have to live in! Papa says that it's a great shame of somebody—I forget who. I do wish that the sun might always shine, and then you could sit among those delicious pine-trees, instead of in-doors," and Blanche went on in a silvery torrent of words, while Morag gazed at her, eagerly listening in glad silence.

Mrs. Worthy, who was seated opposite in her arm-chair, reading the newspaper, viewed this scene through her spectacles with unfeigned astonishment.

"Bless my soul, Miss Clifford, you seem quite intimate like already! The like of you for 'aving a warm 'art to all critters, I never did see," said that worthy personage rubbing her spectacles, as if her old eyes had deceived her. She was a kindly woman, and had been delighted to show all hospitality to the poor little drenched vagrant; but to see Miss Clifford on terms of seemingly old and intimate friendship was more than she could comprehend.

"Oh! it's all right, Mrs. Worthy. I know Morag quite well; we met in the pine forest. But where is Ellis? has she been here?" And Blanche bounded off in triumph to tell her maid that the dangerous little gypsy of the greenwood was seated in the housekeeper's own private sanctum, having tea and buttered toast, by her papa's special invitation too. Ellis did not seem so much impressed by this wonderful piece of news as Blanche expected, and loudly disapproved of the proposal which followed, namely, that one of Blanche's dresses should be given to the little damsel to replace the tattered tartan.

"'Deed, missie, I'll not listen to such a thing for nobody. Your frocks are all much too good for the likes of her, what I've brought here. If you'd told me you were agoin' to clothe all the poor of the parish, I might have brought something from your boxes of old clothes at home."

"I'm sure you might find something, if you only wanted," pleaded Blanche.

At that moment Miss Prosser's voice was heard calling Ellis, and Blanche overheard her governess say to the maid presently, "Oh, by the by, Ellis, the master wants you to find a frock of Miss Clifford's for a little urchin who has been picked up in the Glen somewhere, and appears to be in a very destitute condition, from all accounts. You had better select something suitable. I believe she is in the housekeeper's room now; so you can go and see what she looks like. Have you anything that will suit the creature, I wonder?"

"Yes, ma'am. There's the crimson dress, that will do. Missie will never wear it again."

"Well, I dare say not, though certainly it does seem much too good for a child of the description. Where is Miss Clifford? Have you seen her? I've been looking for her for the last half hour, but I can't find her anywhere."

"She's just going to get dressed for the evening, ma'am," replied Ellis, evasively, not indicating that she was within call, nor hinting at her little mistress' previous knowledge of Mr. Clifford's protegÉe; and finally Miss Prosser retreated to perform her own toilette. Blanche was hovering about in a great glee, having heard the result of the conversation.

"Oh! you dear good Ellis! So you are going to find a dress for Morag after all? I knew you would. Do let me take it to her."

The crimson garment was at length forthcoming, in the midst of many grumblings on Ellis's part; and Blanche, accompanied by her maid, set out in procession towards the housekeeper's room. They found Morag alone; she had risen from her seat in the big arm-chair, and was now standing at a small table on which the housekeeper's books lay. An illustrated edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress" was lying open, and when Blanche walked in, Morag was looking intently at one of the pictures. She started and closed the book with an almost guilty look, and when she caught a glimpse of Ellis, her little brown cheek flushed all over, for she had not forgotten her loud-spoken suspicions regarding her. Gliding up to Blanche, she said softly—

"I'll need to be goin' hame, noo, leddy. Father will be back, and his supper maun be ready; and there's a heap to do forby."

"But you don't really mean to say, Morag, that you get supper ready, and do everything? Why! where's your mother, or the servant?"

Morag's eyes twinkled, and she laughed her rare merry laugh at Blanche's look of astonishment.

"We havena got no servant. I'm thinkin' they're no but for gentry. My mother deid lang syne. I never min' upo' seein' her. There's no jist terrible muckle work, except whiles, when the weet comes in, like the nicht."

"I should like so to go and see you, Morag. Do you think I may some time?" asked Blanche, filled with admiration at the thought of the usefulness of a little girl smaller than herself.

"The floor is some weet the nicht, I'm thinkin'," replied Morag, glancing doubtfully at Ellis.

"Oh! but I didn't mean to-night. Perhaps one day soon, when the sun shines, and your father is at the moors with papa," added Blanche, for she had not forgotten the dark-looking keeper; and she did not think that she should like to find him at home.

Meanwhile, Ellis had been standing with the dress in her hand, listening to the conversation. Her closer inspection of Morag rather softened her towards the little native, with regard to whom she had been harboring such dark suspicions. She began to make sundry signs, to the effect that her little mistress should now proceed to present the dress. But somehow, at this juncture Blanche seemed suddenly seized with a fit of shyness. Morag certainly appeared to stand greatly in need of a new garment, but still Blanche felt in doubt whether she would care to receive one. She was so unlike any poor person she had ever seen—so useful, so brave, so complete in herself. At last Ellis got tired of waiting for Blanche, and unfolding the dress, she held it up with a flourish and a toss of her head, saying—

"Now, little girl, Miss Clifford is kind enough to give you this beautiful frock. See you say 'Thank you' for it, and take good care of it too. I declare it looks as good as the day it was bought!" added Ellis, casting regretful glances on the garment, as she laid it on the table beside Morag. The little girl stood looking at the gift with extreme astonishment for several minutes, and then, glancing at Blanche, she went slowly up to her, and said in a low tone—

"Thank you kindly, leddy. But I would jist be spoilin' a braw goon like that. It's no for the like o' me."

"Oh! but indeed, Morag, dear, you must wear it. I don't think it a bit too good for you to wear on week-days; but if you like you can keep it for Sunday, you know. It used to be my church-frock, wasn't it, Ellis?"

"Ay, maybe. But it's no for the like o' me. I dinna never gang to the kirk forby,' added Morag, in a low, melancholy tone, as Ellis left the room to discuss with Mrs. Worthy the strange little native who did not seem to care for the grand frock, although she was in such rags.

"I would like richt weel to ken what this bit bonnie picter is," said Morag, as she turned towards the little table, on which the open "Pilgrim's Progress" was still lying, and pointed to one of the illustrations towards the end of the first part. Blanche had not read the "Pilgrim's Progress," and she did not know what the picture meant at the first glance. There was an expanse of dark rippling water, and struggling through it were two men. One of them looked on the point of sinking, while the other seemed to be trying to hold him up, and pointed to a shining city, which was lying far away in the sun. Seeing how eager Morag was to know what it all meant, Blanche began to feel interested; after turning some pages, she said—"Oh! I see now. That town in the light, far off, is heaven, and those men must be trying to get there, I suppose. But I'll ask Mrs. Worthy to lend me this book, and shall try and find out all about it before I come to the pine-forest next time, Morag."

"Ye'll be able to read a' books, I'm thinkin', leddy," said Morag, looking wistfully at Blanche, as she glanced at the pages. "Oh, yes, of course, I can read any book that I care to read. But, indeed, Morag, I'm not very fond of reading," added Blanche, in a confidential whisper, as if the fact were a very shocking revelation. "To be sure, I do like a few story-books very much, indeed; but then Miss Prosser does not allow me to read many. I've got some delicious story-books at home, in London. I wish I had them here, and I should lend them to you, if you are fond of reading. I don't think I have anything except those lesson-books here. The 'History of England' is rather interesting sometimes, by the by. Perhaps you might like it. There are lots of nice stories here and there. Miss Prosser says I like to read them because they are stories, and not for the sake of the facts and the dates, and I suppose that is very wrong," sighed Blanche, penitently.

Morag stood listening in silent wonder. The conversation had gone far beyond her depth, poor little woman! and she was about to explain that it was so, when Blanche continued—

"What books do you like best, Morag? I like fairy-stories much best—something about dragons, and giants, and all that kind of thing, you know." Morag's cheek flushed crimson as she replied—

"A' books look richt bonnie to me, leddy, but I'm no fit to read none o' them."

Blanche felt considerable astonishment at this disclosure. But, noticing her companion's embarrassment, she tried to receive it unmoved, and said, rather patronizingly—

"Ah! well, Morag, but you can do so many useful things besides."

Morag smiled. Her quick perceptions detected Blanche's kindly attempt to cover her embarrassment with a compliment. For now that the critical eyes of the smart maid were withdrawn, she began to feel more at ease, and at last ventured to ask a question, to which she had been very anxious to get an answer since that morning when she stood listening to Blanche's warblings among the pines.

"Yon was a richt bonnie sang ye were singin' i' the fir-wood, leddy. Will the Lord that died on the hill be ane o' the chieftains that used to bide lang syne i' the castle?"

"I'm sure I quite forget what song I was singing, I know so many. But I don't think I do know one about a chieftain, though," said Blanche, shaking her curls in perplexity.

"It tellt aboot a good Lord that deed upo' a green hill, and suffered terrible, I'm thinkin'. I heard a' the words ye were singin' richt plain like among the firs."

"Oh! I know now! Why, that isn't a song, Morag—it's a hymn. It was Jesus Christ, of course, 'who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried,' the Creed says, you know."

This statement did not seem in any degree to diminish Morag's perplexity, and presently she said—

"Maybe ye would jist say ower the bonnie words til me?" Blanche repeated the hymn in her clear, silvery tones, and after she had finished, Morag gave a little sigh as she said—"It's richt bonnie. I like weel to hear ye tell't ower. Is't a real true story, leddy?"

"Of course it's true, Morag. Jesus Christ died on the cross, you know. But it's a very long time ago, in the Holy Land. You can find all about it in the Bible. Ah! but I quite forgot," said Blanche, flushing in her turn; and then, after a minute, she continued—

"Morag, I have thought of something. Would you like Miss Prosser to teach you to read? I think I'll ask her. But she is rather particular about some things," added Blanche, sighing despondently, as if she began to doubt the pleasantness of that arrangement; and presently she exclaimed eagerly—"O Morag! I wonder if I could teach you to read? It would be such fun! I would bring all my lesson-books to the pine forest, and we would spread them on the flat grey rock, and I would teach you everything that I know. Wouldn't it be nice?" and Blanche clapped her hands with delight at the thought.

Morag's face glowed with brightness as she listened to this proposal, and she was about to make some reply when Ellis entered the room. She came to say that Miss Prosser was already in the drawing-room, and that she wondered very much what had become of Miss Blanche, and Ellis insisted that she should come and get dressed without a moment's further delay. Mrs. Worthy entered at that moment with a trayful of good things for Morag; and Blanche, after giving strict injunctions to her little friend not to go home till she had seen her again, followed Ellis to get arrayed for the evening.

The storm had quite vanished now, and the evening was bright and calm. All the weird noises were silent, and a delicious breeze came stealing across the moorland balmy with the breath of pine and birch, and all manner of delightful, thymy fragrance.

Mr. Clifford and his guests were sauntering up and down the birch-walk near the castle, talking and smoking their cigars, when Blanche joined them.

"Well, pussy, so I hear you had already made the acquaintance of my protegÉe? Mrs. Worthy tells me that you gave her quite a gushing reception. How in the world did you foregather? Till this afternoon, I certainly was not well enough versed in Dingwall's family history to know that he had a daughter," said Mr. Clifford.

"Yes, Blanche, dear, where did you meet the creature?" chimed in Miss Prosser, coming, but not to the rescue. "It can only have been on that morning when I allowed you to go out alone. And you know you promised not to get into mischief of any kind. I wonder when you will gain the desirable self-respect which will save you from making friends of the most unsuitable persons, Blanche, dear!" added the governess, looking rather severely at the little girl, who stood pondering whether she should reveal the circumstances of her acquaintance with Morag, but she had a vague fear lest the window-scene might compromise the respectability of her little friend, in some minds, so she resolved to hold her peace. Her father noticed her distressed face, and stroking her curls, said, laughingly—

"Don't be ashamed of your new acquaintance, Blanchie. I assure you, Miss Prosser, she is a most exemplary little savage. You should have seen her at work in her hut to-day! I wonder if she is still in old worthy's keeping. You might run and see, Blanche, and bring her here if she is. I should like you to have a look of the odd little atom, Miss Prosser."

"Is that the urchin you found sticking in the mud-floor, Clifford?" asked one of the gentlemen, joining them. "She must be quite a natural curiosity—a sort of fungus, I should imagine. Do let's have a look at her."

So Blanche was dispatched, rather unwillingly, to fetch Morag. She was very glad to be allowed to go back to her again, but she could not help feeling that it was rather a doubtful mission on which she had been sent, and she wondered whether it was quite kind to bring the shy little mountain maiden into the presence of so many strangers.

Mr. Clifford and his party were standing together looking at a gorgeous rainbow which had suddenly spanned the Glen when the children appeared in sight. They came slowly along, through the feathery birk-trees, which were all flooded by the delicate rainbow tints. A pretty picture they made, Mr. Clifford thought, as he went forward to meet them among the white stems. The fair, high-born child in her white shimmering dress, with her graceful movements, her delicate, finely-cut features, her calm white brow, and deep dreamy, blue eyes, and at her side the little dark, keen Celt, with her black matted locks, her bright dark eyes, and her short firmly-knit limbs. Blanche's arm was thrown lovingly around Morag, and one of her long fair curls rested on the little brown neck of the mountain maiden, who timidly surveyed the formidable group in front. Blanche ran to her papa to whisper that Morag wanted to go home very much now, to make supper ready for her father, so that she must not be kept much longer, and might she ask her to come back to-morrow! Deprived of her bonnie wee leddy's protecting arm, Morag felt very forlorn. The whole party were now in view, and a very terrible array they seemed to the little mountaineer.

There stood Miss Prosser in gay flowing attire; and there were the gentlemen whom she had watched from afar on their way to the moors; but they seemed doubly formidable now in evening dress, as they stood talking and laughing together. Even the bonnie wee leddy, since she has glided to her papa's side, appeared again to have taken her place in an exalted fairy region, and poor Morag felt alone, without prop or stay. She seemed seized by a sudden panic, and, casting a bewildered glance round about her, she turned and darted away at full speed through the gleaming birch stems, and in a moment she was out of sight.

"Bless my soul, what a droll little monkey!" exclaimed the old Major, dropping his eyeglass. "I expect to see her climb a tree directly and take to cracking nuts—eh! Blanche?"

"Poor little Morag! she is so shy and frightened: that's just how she did before. I'll tell you all about it afterwards, papa," whispered Blanche, as she was about to dart off in vain pursuit of her scared friend.

"No, Blanchie, you must not follow her," said Mr. Clifford, calling her back. "She did look very frightened, poor little atom! It's best to let her go home. Take counsel from your sage nursery-rhyme, 'Leave her alone and she'll come back, and bring her tails behind her.' Little Bo-peep must have patience, you know. Besides, it's quite time for you to go indoors, child," he added, as Blanche shivered. "Good night, darling! Don't distress yourself about your little elfish friend; she will doubtless turn up to-morrow."

Morag did not halt in her sudden flight till she had got beyond the castle grounds, and found herself once more on her solitary familiar heath. Then she began to slacken her pace a little; and now that she had time to ponder the matter over, she thought that perhaps, after all, it was very foolish to run away as she had done. These grand ladies and gentlemen did not mean to do her any harm; and surely she might have trusted the bonnie leddy who had been so kind. Perhaps she might be angry now, and would never come to the fir-wood, as she had promised to do, thought Morag, ruefully. Still, she resolved that she would go every morning after her work at the hut was done, and watch by the lichen-spotted rock in the fir-wood, and perhaps one day she might see her coming through the trees again; and though it seemed too good to be true, perhaps she might be carrying some of those beautiful books, of which Morag had caught a glimpse through the school-room window of the old castle. Blanche's promise that she would teach her to read was the greatest event of that eventful day, and the thought of it had kept singing at Morag's heart; for a long time it had been the dearest wish of her heart that she might understand the hitherto mysterious contents of the musty old collection of books which lay buried in the depths of her mother's big kist, and now at last there seemed a chance of that hope being realized if she had not thrown it away by her foolish flight; and the little girl sighed as she thought of the sad possibility.

Morag had been sauntering on, lost in her own meditations, since she felt herself at a safe distance from the castle. She had climbed halfway up the steep hill which led to her home among the crags, when she turned to see if she could discover any trace of her father on his homeward way.

The sky was cold and grey in the direction of the hut where Morag's steps had been bent, but as she turned westward all was bright and glowing, and Morag wondered that she had not thought of looking before, for she loved cloud-land scenes, and had watched many a sunset and sunrise from her home among the crags. It was one of those intensely golden sunsets that come after storms. The clouds were clustering gorgeous in their coloring, and changeful in their hues, and at every moment they seemed to open vistas with brighter colors and intenser lights within. And as Morag sat and watched the sky, she remembered the picture which she had seen in the beautiful book at the castle. The bright expanse round which the gold and crimson clouds were clustering reminded her of the city lying in the light, in the picture. She thought of the dark rippling water, and the two men who were struggling through it, and looked as if they would be drowned. They must have been trying to reach the shining city surely, and Morag hoped they got there all safe, for the water looked dark and cold.

At last the amber clouds slowly closed on the inner sunset glories, like ponderous gates shutting out the dark night from a bright scene, Morag thought, as she rose from the bank, and began to take her solitary way to her rocky home. Presently she heard her father's whistle, and turning round, she saw him climbing the hill behind her. She ran back to meet him, and began eagerly to narrate her chronicle of this eventful afternoon.

The keeper had never heard his daughter so eloquent before, and he listened with his most well-pleased smile to all that she had to tell about her visit to the castle. How the gentleman had come to the hut, and had taken her away; and how he carried a beautiful umbrella, and held a bit of it over her head—the first time in her life she had been under a canopy of the kind. And then the beautiful room she sat in was duly described, and how the bonnie wee leddy had come to her, and been so kind. When she came to that part of her story, in which truth compelled her to tell that she had finished those delightful proceedings by running away when she was brought before the dazzling company, she was relieved to find that her father was not angry, as she feared he would be. He only smiled, and said, "Ye needna hae been sae feert, Morag, my lass. They wouldna be meanin' to tak' a bite o' ye; but maybe they'll no think the waur o' ye for the like o' that;" and glancing round, as they entered the dreary soaking dwelling, the keeper said, smiling grimly, "Ye didna speir if he would tak' a seat, I'm thinkin', lass? What said he aboot the hoose, Morag?" But Morag could not remember that Mr. Clifford had made any remark on that sore subject; and presently father and daughter relapsed into their usual state of dumb silence, as they went about their evening occupations.

At last Morag crept away to bed, and fell asleep, wondering whether she should really see the wee leddy coming to meet her next morning at the grey rock in the fir-wood, where she resolved she would daily keep her tryst. During the night she kept dreaming that she was with the bonnie wee leddy in dark, cold water somewhere, and that her arm was around her, and the beautiful curls were all drenched with wet. She looked for the golden city lying in the sun, but she could not see it anywhere, and she began to feel very frightened in the dark, rippling water, when she awoke to find the bright morning light streaming in at the little blindless window of the hut, lighting up everything, and sending its kind, warm rays on the damp earthen floor.

Morag sprang out of bed, and was soon at her morning's work with a will. She smoothed her tangled locks as well as the well-nigh toothless comb would make them, and after mending a few of the rents in her tattered garment, she looked anxiously down, in the hope that she did not look like a tramp any more. Her father had told her that she was a foolish lassie to have refused the "gran' goon" that had been offered to her; but Morag did not think so, and felt perfectly satisfied with her own garment, if only the critical eyes of the smart maid would not stare at her so minutely again.

The keeper had gone to the moors for the day, and Morag's morning duties being over, she began to think of starting to keep her tryst in the fir-wood, when she saw her father hurrying up the hill again.

"Eh, Morag, lass! but I hae a gran' bit o' news for ye. The maister wants ye to go outby wi' the wee leddy this afternoon; and whiles, to tak' her by canny roads when she's ridin' on her sheltie. I'm thinkin' you'll like that job, my lass. Ye may awa' til the castle as fast's ye can rin; he said 'The sooner the better; my daughter is an impatient little person.'" And, after this quotation from Mr. Clifford, Dingwall hurried down the hill again, surrounded by the scrambling pointers and setters, leaving Morag dumb with astonishment and delight.

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