nk you could sing us that song
to-night?"

Ogilvie looked at him.

"I don't know what you mean by the way you are talking, Macleod," said
he.

"Oh," said he, with a laugh that did not sound quite natural, "have you
forgotten it? Well, then, Janet will sing us another song--that is,
'Farewell, Manchester.' And we will go to bed soon to-night, for I have
not been having much sleep lately. But it is a good song--it is a song
you do not easily forget--that about 'Death's black wine.'"

CHAPTER XVI.

REBELLION.

And where was she now--that strange creature who had bewildered and
blinded his eyes and so sorely stricken his heart? It was, perhaps, not
the least part of his trouble that all his passionate yearning to see
her, and all his thinking about her and the scenes in which he had met
her, seemed unable to conjure up any satisfactory vision of her. The
longing of his heart went out from him to meet--a phantom. She appeared
before him in a hundred shapes, now one, now the other; but all
possessed with a terrible fascination from which it was in vain for him
to try to flee.

Which was she, then--the pale, and sensitive, and thoughtful-eyed girl
who listened with such intense interest to the gloomy tales of the
Northern seas; who was so fine, and perfect, and delicate; who walked so
gracefully and smiled so sweetly; the timid and gentle companion and
friend?

Or the wild coquette, with her arch, shy ways, and her serious laughing,
and her befooling of the poor stupid lover? He could hear her laugh now;
he could see her feed her canary from her own lips. Where was the old
mother whom that madcap girl teased and petted and delighted?

Or was not this she--the calm and gracious woman who received as a
matter of right the multitude of attentions that all men--and women
too--were glad to pay her? The air fine about her; the south winds
fanning her cheek; the day long, and balmy, and clear. The white-sailed
boats glide slowly through the water; there is a sound of music and of
gentle talk; a butterfly comes fluttering over the blue summer seas. And
then there is a murmuring refrain in the lapping of the waves: _Rose
Leaf! Rose Leaf! what faint wind will carry you away to the south?_

Or this audacious Duchess of Devonshire, with the flashing black eyes,
and a saucy smile on her lips? She knows that every one regards her; but
what of that? Away she goes through the brilliant throng with that young
Highland off