uld
the mother and Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear
her put all the tenderness of the low, sweet voice into "Wae's me for
Prince Charlie?"

There was one secret nook that more than any other he associated with
her presence; and thither he would go when this heart-sickness seemed
too grievous to be borne. It was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood; and
here the ordinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were
plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall
silver-birch or two; while down in the hollow there were clumps of
alders by the side of the brawling stream. And this dell that he sought
was hidden away from sight, with the sun but partially breaking through
the alders and rowans, and bespeckling the great gray boulders by the
side of the burn, many of which were covered by the softest of
olive-green moss. Here, too, the brook, that had been broken just above
by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly over a bed of smooth
rock; and in the golden-brown water the trout lay, and scarcely moved
until some motion of his hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning
speed. And then the wild flowers around--the purple ling and red
bell-heather growing on the silver-gray rocks; a foxglove or two
towering high above the golden-green breckans; the red star of a
crane's-bill among the velvet moss. Even if she were overawed by the
solitariness of the Atlantic and the gloom of the tall cliffs and their
yawning caves, surely here would be a haven of peace and rest, with
sunshine, and flowers, and the pleasant murmur of the stream. What did
it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence? When the fair
poetess from strange lands came among the Macleods, did she seek out
this still retreat, and listen, and listen, and listen until she caught
the music of this monotonous murmur, and sang it to her harp? And was it
not all a song about the passing away of life, and how that summer days
were for the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers? "Oh,
children!" it seemed to say, "why should you waste your lives in vain
endeavor, while the winter is coming quick, and the black snowstorms,
and a roaring of wind from the sea? Here I have flowers for you, and
beautiful sunlight, and the peace of summer days. Time passes--time
passes--time passes--and you are growing old. While as yet the heart is
warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, and a
silence