down the sides of the mountains. The wives and
daughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who
alternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to
weep not, for their brother would soon return; while the tears stole
down her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother
wept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and poured
upon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one remained
silent. The daughter of Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs. Elliot's elbow at
table, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face
she held a handkerchief wet with tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively;
and, as occasionally her broken sighs burst from their prison-house, a
significant whisper passed among the younger part of the company.

Mrs. Elliot approached her, and taking her hand tenderly within both of
hers--"O hinny! hinny!" said she, "yer sighs gae through my heart like a
knife! An' what can I do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love,
let us hope for the best. Ye see before ye a sorrowin' mother!--a mother
that fondly hoped to see you an'--I canna say it!--an' am ill qualified
to gie comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace! But, oh! let us try
and remember the blessed portion, 'Whom the LORD loveth HE chasteneth,'
an' inwardly pray for strength to say, 'His will be done!'"

Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party
returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to
listen. "No, no, no!" cried the mother again and again, with increasing
anguish, "it's no the foot o' my ain bairn;" while her keen gaze still
remained riveted upon the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of
despair relinquished, till the individual entered, and, with a silent
and ominous shake of his head, betokened his fruitless efforts. The
clock had struck twelve; all were returned save the father. The wind
howled more wildly; the rain poured upon the windows in ceaseless
torrents; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of
deeper ghostliness to their sepulchral silence; for they sat, each wrapt
in forebodings, listening to the storm; and no sounds were heard, save
the groans of the mother, the weeping of her children, and the bitter
and broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her
father's bosom, refusing to be comforted.

At length the barking of the farm-dog announced foot