ow the pleasant hearth, surrounded by cheery faces.
Memories of the past, soothing through all their sorrow, flowed in upon
his mind, as he sat and gazed at her in tranquil ecstacy. Sir Archibald,
too, felt a return to his former self, in the tone of good breeding
her presence diffused, and evinced, by the attentive politeness of his
manner, how happy he was to recur once more to the observances which he
remembered with so much affection, associated, as they were, with the
brightest period of his life.

As for Mark, although less an actor than the others in the scene, the
effect upon him was not less striking. All his assumed apathy gave way
as he listened to her descriptions of foreign society, and the habits
of those she had lived amongst. The ringing melody of her voice,
the brilliant sparkle of her dark eyes, the graceful elegance of
gesture--the French woman's prerogative--threw over him their charm, a
fascination never experienced before; and although a dark dread would
now and then steal across his mind, How was a creature, beautiful and
gifted like this, to lead the life of dreariness and gloom their days
were passed in?--the tender feeling of affection she shewed his father,
the fondness with which she dwelt on every little incident of her
childhood--every little detail of the mountain scenery--showed a spirit
which well might harmonise with a home, even humble as theirs, and
pleasures as uncostly and as simple. "Oh! if she grow not weary of us!"
was the heart-uttered sentence each moment as he listened; and, in the
very anxiety of the doubt, the ecstacy of enjoyment was heightened. To
purchase this boon, there was nothing he would not dare. To think that
as he trod the glens, or followed the wild deer along some cragged and
broken mountain gorge, a home like this ever awaited him, was a picture
of happiness too bright and dazzling to look upon.

"Now, then, 'ma belle.'" said Sir Archibald, as he rose from his seat,
and, with an air of gallantry that might have done credit to Versailles
of old, threw the ribbon of her guitar over her neck--"now for your
promise--that little romance ye spoke of."

"Willingly, dear uncle," replied she, striking the chords as a kind of
prelude. "Shall I sing you one of our convent hymns?--or will you have
the romance?"

"It is no' fair to tempt-one in a choice," said M'Nab, slyly; "but sin'
ye say so, I must hear baith before I decide."

"Your own favourite, the first," said