ship rocked in the bay,
Impatient to be gone,
And William took his seaward way
Across our dewy lawn,
To pluck my _whole_ to give her love,
Rose Mary with the dawn.

_Rose-mary._

JAMIE'S FAITH.

Margaret Grey was a widow, who, with three young children, lived in a
small cottage on the estate of Lord Dundale, in Scotland. When her
husband died, Margaret had been compelled to give up the land he had
farmed, with the exception of a little garden, and a patch of pasturage
on which she supported a cow and a shaggy Highland pony, called Rab.

This last was a very important member of the family, as without him the
widow could not have conveyed to market the butter and eggs, on the
proceeds of which the frugal little household subsisted. For his part,
Rab seemed fully conscious of his own important and responsible
position in the widow's family, gave up all frisking and frolicking
ways, and conducted himself in a staid and sober manner on his way to
and from the market-town, and assumed towards the children in their
little rides a sort of protecting, patronizing, paternal character,
which was really edifying to behold.

Lord Dundale was a young man, very handsome and stately, but gentle and
gracious, and much beloved by his family and tenants. The children on
his estate looked up to him with loving reverence, as to a superior
being, from whom nothing but good and happiness were to be expected by
the deserving. For them his youth, beauty, and elegance had especial
poetic charms; their sweet, simple affection, their timid, grateful
devotion, were laid at his feet,--so that when moving among them he
trod on unseen flowers. They loved to hear and to tell of the grand
and beautiful things at that fairy palace, the Castle,--a noble old
edifice, with massive towers, a moat, a lofty gateway, and an ancient
drawbridge and portcullis, which stood high in the midst of great
forest-trees.

Lord Dundale, being in delicate health, was able to spend but a few
months of each year in Scotland, the climate being too severe for him;
but he loved the place of his birth, and was never so happy as when,
like Rob Roy, he could say, "My foot is on my native heath."

To his tenants his yearly visit to his Scottish estate was always a
season of festivity: they hailed the signal of his return, the running
up of a flag on the highest tower of the Castle, with shouts of hearty
rejoicing.

The cottage of the Grey w