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death, for which she sought earnestly to prepare herself, and on the third day she was no more.
"A grave was dug for her beside her mother, on the spot where I have planted the white rose-trees in memory of my beloved friend. Early in the morning, my brother and I followed her without noise to the grave. Just at the moment when I had caused the coffin to be opened for the last time, William, who had known nothing of her illness, and had hoped to see her again at matíns, came unexpectedly to us from the church. With fixed eye, and looks of unutterable horror, he threw himself on his knees beside the corpse: not a tear dropped from his eye, not a word from his lips; he only kissed her clasped hands, and we had some difficulty to remove him. Every morning at sunrise he continued to visit the grave, and there he tarried till the moment when the sexton was about to lock the gate of the church-yard. He never spoke to any one, but would look wildly up to Heaven, and then fix his eyes for hours together immoveably on the grave. His father imagined that a change of scene might mitigate his sorrow, and had him conveyed, but not without the most obstinate resistance, to an eminent physician at Warsaw. The resources of art, however, failed; the increasing derangement of his mind proved incurable. His father's remorse now comes too late-poor William! he is confined in a madhouse!"
THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.
It was on a fierce and howling winter day that I was
sations of the sharp drift allowed my eyes to look onwards
and around, I saw here and there up the little opening valleys, cottages just visible beneath the black stems of their snow covered clumps of trees, or beside some small spot of green pasture kept open for the sheep. These intimations of life and happiness came delightfully to me in the midst of the desolation; and the barking of a dog, attending some shepherd in his quest on the hill, put fresh vigour into my limbs, telling me that, lonely as I seemed to be, I was surrounded by cheerful though unseen company, and that I was not the only wanderer over
As I walked along, my mind was insensibly filled with a crowd of pleasant images of rural winter-life that I helped me gladly onwards over many miles of moor. thought of the severe but cheerful labours of the barnthe mending of farm-gear by the fireside the wheel turned by the foot of old age, less for gain than as a thrifty pastime--the skilful mother, making "auld claes look amaist as weel's the new"-the ballad unconsciously listened to by the family all busy at their own tasks round the singing maiden-the old traditionary tale told by some wayfarer hospitably housed till the storm should blow by-the unexpected visit of neighbours on need or friendship-or the footstep of lover undeterred by snowdrifts that have buried up his flocks ;-but above all, I thought of those hours of religious worship that have not yet escaped from the domestic life of the peasantry of Scotland-of the sound of psalms that the depth of snow
cannot deaden to the ear of him to whom they are chanted -and of that sublime sabbath-keeping which, on days too tempestuous for the kirk, changes the cottage of the shepherd into the Temple of God.
With such glad and peaceful images in my heart, I travelled along that dreary moor, with the cutting wind in my face, and my feet sinking in the snow, or sliding on the hard blue ice beneath it-as cheerfully as I ever walked, in the dewy warmth of a summer morning, through fields of fragrance and of flowers. And now I could discern, within half an hour's walk, before me, the spire of the church, close to which stood the manse of my aged friend and benefactor. My heart burned within me as a sudden gleam of stormy sunlight tipt it with fire and I felt, at that moment, an inexpressible sense of the sublimity of the character of that grey-headed shepherd who had, for fifty years, abode in the wilderness, keeping together his own happy little flock.
As I was ascending a knoll, I saw before me on horseback an old man, with his long white hairs beaten against his face, who nevertheless advanced with a calm countenance against the hurricane. It was no other than my father, of whom I had been thinking-for my father had I called him for twenty years-and for twenty years my father had he truly been. My surprise at meeting him on such a moor-on such a day, was but momentary, for I knew that he was a shepherd who cared not for the winter's wrath. As he stopped to take my hand kindly
into his, and to give his blessing to his long expected visitor, the wind fell calm-the whole face of the sky was softened, and brightness, like a smile, went over the blushing and crimsoned snow. The very elements seemed then to respect the hoary head of fourscore-and after our first greeting was over, when I looked around, in my affection, I felt how beautiful was winter.
I am going," said he, "to visit a man at the point of death-a man whom you cannot have forgottenwhose head will be missed in the kirk next sabbath by all my congregation-a devout man, who feared God all his days, and whom, on this awful trial, God will assuredly remember. I was going, my son, to the Hazel-glen."
I knew well in childhood that lonely farm-house, so far off among the beautiful wild green hills and it was not likely that I had forgotten the name of its possessor. For six years' sabbaths I had seen the elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit-and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his stedfast countenance during sermon, psalm, and prayer. On returning to the scenes of my infancy, I now met the pastor going to pray by his death-bed-and with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and the beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, resignation, and death.
And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy of about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the pastor's face,