d to see Mungo breathing. Save us! to think that a poor young
thing was to be taken away from life and the cheerful sun, thus suddenly,
and be laid in the cold damp mools, among the moudiewarts and the green
banes, "where there is no work or device." But what will ye say there?
it was the will of Him, who knows best what is for his creatures, and to
whom we should--and must submit. I was just in time to see the last row
of his glazing een, that then stood still for ever, as he lay, with his
face as pale as clay, on the pillow, his mother holding his hand, and sob-
sobbing with her face leant on the bed, as if her hope was departed, and
her heart would break. I went round about, and took hold of the other
one for a moment; but it was clammy, and growing cold with the coldness
of grim death. I could hear my heart beating; but Mungo's heart stood
still, like a watch that has run itself down. Maister Glen sat in the
easy chair, with his hand before his eyes, saying nothing, and shedding
not a tear; for he was a strong, little, blackaviced man, with a feeling
heart, but with nerves of steel. The rain rattled on the window, and the
smoke gave a swurl as the wind rummelled in the lum. The hour spoke to
the soul, and the silence was worth twenty sermons.

They who would wish to know the real value of what we are all over-apt to
prize in this world, should have been there too, and learnt a lesson not
soon to be forgotten. I put my hand in my coat-pocket for my napkin to
give my eyes a wipe, but found it was away, and feared much I had dropped
it on the road; though in this I was happily mistaken, having, before I
went to my bed, found that on my journey I had tied it over my neckcloth,
to keep away sore throats.

It was a sad heart to us all, to see the lifeless creature in his white
nightcap and eyes closed, lying with his yellow hair spread on the
pillow; and we went out, that the women-folk might cover up the looking-
glass and the face of the clock, ere they proceeded to dress the body in
its last clothes--clothes that would never need changing; but, when we
were half down the stair, and I felt glad with the thoughts of getting to
the fresh air, we were obliged to turn up again for a little, to let the
man past that was bringing in the dead deal.

But why weave a long story out of the materials of sorrow? or endeavour
to paint feelings that have no outward sign, lying shut up within the
sanctuary of the heart? The