ined to stay and live at Stirling until her husband's return from
Jamaica. She told Dr. Johnson so now; and, moreover, as an earnest of
the friendship which she, accustomed to be loved by every one, expected
from him, she requested him to stand godfather to her little babe.

"She shall be christened after our English fashion, doctor, and her name
shall be Olive. What do you think of her now? Is she growing prettier?"

The doctor bowed a smiling assent, and walked to the window. Thither
Elspie followed him.

"Ye maun tell her the truth--I daurna. Ye will!" and she clutched his
arm with eager anxiety. "An' oh! for Gudesake, say it safyly, kindly."

He shook her off with an uneasy look. He had never felt in a more
disagreeable position.

Mrs. Rothesay called him back again. "I think, doctor, her features are
improving. She will certainly be a beauty. I should break my heart if
she were not. And what would Angus say? Come--what are you and Elspie
talking about so mysteriously?"

"My dear madam--hem!" began Dr. Johnson. "I do hope--indeed, I am
sure--your child will be a good child, and a great comfort to both her
parents;"----

"Certainly--but how grave you are about it."

"I have a painful duty--a very painful duty," he replied. But Elspie
pushed him aside.

"Ye're just a fule, man!--ye'll kill her. Say your say at ance!"

The young mother turned deadly pale. "Say _what_ Elspie? What is he
going to tell me? Angus"----

"No, no, my darlin' leddy! your husband's safe;" and Elspie flung
herself on her knees beside the chair. "But, the lassie--(dinna fear,
for it's the will o' God, and a' for gude, nae doubt)--your sweet wee
dochter is"----

"Is, I grieve to say it, deformed," added Dr. Johnson.

The poor mother gazed incredulously on him, on the nurse, and lastly on
the sleeping child. Then, without a word, she fell back, and fainted in
Espie's arms.

CHAPTER III.

It was many days before Mrs. Rothesay recovered from the shock
occasioned by the tidings--to her almost more fearful than her child's
death--that it was doomed for life to suffer the curse of hopeless
deformity. For a curse, a bitter curse, this seemed to the young and
beautiful creature, who had learned since her birth to consider beauty
as the greatest good. She was, so to speak, in love with loveliness; not
merely in herself, but in every human creature. This feeling sprang more
from enthusiasm than from personal vanity, the borders of w