tholm Faa; and that he
was the happy husband of the fair dame who used afterwards to go about
the country in disguise, attending in gipsy garb at weddings, kirns, and
merry-meetings, and giving origin to the well-known reel--"Auld Glenae."

THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED.

"Now," said the traveller, as he wandered up one of those retired
Highland glens, which characterise and beautify the Grampian range, "I
shall once more visit my dear father and mother; and my sister, now
woman grown; and, what is more, my sweet Helen M'Donald, who used to
gather the mountain berries along with me, and pursue the little kids
and lambs. Ah, Helen was only about thirteen years old when I left; she
will now be eighteen; a full-grown beautiful woman, I have no doubt. I
wonder if old Andrew, her grandfather, be still living; he used to tell
me such tales of Prince Charlie, and Prestonpans, and Culloden, that my
hair yet almost stands erect at the recollection of them. And then there
was Euphemia M'Gregor, his son's wife, the mother of my dear Helen; and
Oscar and Fingal, my father's faithful attendants and servants: and we
had such fun during the long winter nights, when the sheep were in a
place of safety, and the door was barred, and the peat-fire was burning
clear, and the very cat and kitten enjoyed the cheery fireside--such
questions and commands, such guessing and forfeiting, and riding round
the fire on a besom, and holding one's mouth full of water to discharge
on the person's face who should first laugh at our grotesque gestures
and looks: but night is approaching whilst I linger by the way--my whole
heart heaves to behold once more the sweet home of my youth and
innocence."

Thus said, or thought aloud, a young man, seemingly about twenty-two
years of age, as he ascended Glen----and approached the thatched
shieling which stood on the margin of a small mountain stream, which
wended its mazes along the tortuous glen. He had been five years, come
the time, absent from his mountain home, and had, during that period,
endured and encountered a variety of fortune. He sung as he went along--

"A light heart and thin pair of breeches,
Goes through the world, brave boys!"

switching the bent and heather-bells with his cane, and treading with a
step as elastic as was his bosom. At last, just as the sun was tinging
with his departing ray the top of the highest mountain in the
neighbourhood, he turned the corner of a projecting rock, and ca