sive pride.

"There, brother," he said, throwing down some plough irons which he
carried, "send _wee Davoc_ with these to the smithy, and bid him tell
Rankin I won't be there to-night. The moon is rising, Mr. Lindsay--shall
we not have a stroll together through the coppice?"

"That of all things," I replied; and, parting from Gilbert, we struck
into the wood.

The evening, considering the lateness of the season, for winter had set
in, was mild and pleasant. The moon at full was rising over the Cumnock
hills, and casting its faint light on the trees that rose around us, in
their winding-sheets of brown and yellow, like so many spectres, or
that, in the more exposed glares and openings of the wood, stretched
their long naked arms to the sky. A light breeze went rustling through
the withered grass; and I could see the faint twinkling of the falling
leaves, as they came showering down on every side of us.

"We meet in the midst of death and desolation," said my companion--"we
parted when all around us was fresh and beautiful. My father was with me
then, and--and Mary Campbell--and now"----

"Mary! your Mary!" I exclaimed--"the young--the beautiful--alas! is she
also gone?"

"She has left me," he said--"left me. Mary is in her grave!"

I felt my heart swell, as the image of that loveliest of creatures came
rising to my view in all her beauty, as I had seen her by the river
side; and I knew not what to reply.

"Yes," continued my friend, "she's in her grave;--we parted for a few
days, to re-unite, as we hoped, for ever; and, ere these few days had
passed, she was in her grave. But I was unworthy of her--unworthy even
then; and now---- But she is in her grave!"

I grasped his hand. "It is difficult," I said, "to _bid_ the heart
submit to these dispensations, and, oh, how utterly impossible to bring
it to _listen_! But life--_your_ life, my friend--must not be passed in
useless sorrow. I am convinced, and often have I thought of it since our
last meeting, that yours is no vulgar destiny--though I know not to what
it tends."

"Downwards!" he exclaimed--"it tends downwards;--I see, I feel it;--the
anchor of my affection is gone, and I drift shoreward on the rocks."

"'Twere ruin," I exclaimed, "to think so!"

"Not half an hour ere my father died," he continued, "he expressed a
wish to rise and sit once more in his chair; and we indulged him. But,
alas! the same feeling of uneasiness which had prompted the wish,
rem