seem to care how hurt she may feel at your seeming indifference when you count the weeks to your departure or wonder what you will be about after next month. I saw her look quite pained when you told her yesterday you really did not care how that affair of M'Dougal's was settled, for that it would matter little to you when you were away what old men did or did not live "at the back o' beyont" on the property. And sometimes she sighs so sadly, Norman, while she sits embroidering your initials on those pocket-handkerchiefs. She has only you now left to her, you know. And when you leave I think her life will be a very lonely one."

Norman did not look mischievous now. He turned his eyes away and seemed buried in thought; then, holding out his hand

"You are a good little soul, Edith, and I am a selfish brute. I am ashamed to think how impatient I have sometimes felt of all these tokens of affection; perhaps some day I may sigh for them in vain.”

"I hope not, Norman. I am sure you can make it all up to your mother, even now, by giving her a little more of your time while you are at home."

"Yes; and I'll persuade her to go about a little more; she has taken very little exercise since she hurt her foot, and perhaps it would please her if I offered to drive her out sometimes."

That evening, when all had left the drawing-room but Mrs. Leslie, Norman, who had remained apparently absorbed in his book, looked up and said,

“Well, mother, I almost begin to regret your remain

A a

ing here when I go to Oxford. When the Leycesters leave, I'm afraid you will find it painfully dull."

Mrs. Leslie wondered a little at his sudden consideration.

"Not dull exactly, Norman, dear; but solitary I shall often feel, no doubt. If there were not duties to attend to here, which I may help your interests by looking after in your absence, I should be glad to shut the place up and go abroad; but as it is, I feel as if God had intended me to be here," she sighed.

Norman looked at his mother earnestly. She was still in the prime of life; her sorrows had softened, not impaired her beauty; the masses of her dark hair were untinged with grey, and the soft outline of her cheek was as smooth and delicate in colouring as it had been twenty years ago, when she first came a bride to her Highland home.

Norman's heart smote him as he thought how many women, left as she had been, would have sought distraction in society, where the charms of her person and her accomplishments would have found her many admirers and caused her easily to resume her old place of distinction; and I think he realized at that moment a higher feeling of tender and chivalrous respect for her character than he had ever known before. He rose and approached her.

"Mother," he said gently, "you have made many sacrifices for me that I am scarcely worth, I fear; I wish I could make your life happier, or at least, in leaving you, feel that you would not be left so desolate."

"You can hardly make me happier than you do, my dear boy, in continuing to be what you have hitherto been, honourable, affectionate, and manly-in short, a Christian gentleman, like your dear father."

"Yes, mother; but if you only had a daughter now, or companion-some one to sympathize with and cheer you-how different it would be!"

"Yes, if I could persuade Helen Leycester to spare me Edith, I really think I could console myself for your absence, Norman," with a smile. "But she never would consent; it would be useless to ask it." Then, rising from her seat, "No, I'm afraid I must wait for my daughter till you bring her home to me, Norman; and then what a paragon she must be to content me!"

Norman laughed. "Never fear, mother, I shall never marry any one that you won't heartily love and welcome. I think I may promise you that."

T

excitement. All was ready: the granary looked really very presentable, the rough wooden walls being nearly hidden by evergreens and lit round with candles in tin sconces. The piper's seat at one end was covered with the union-jack, a side-table bore refreshments, and a few benches were placed for the elders to look on at their ease; the rest of the space was left clear for the dancers. At the farm the laundry was similarly transformed into a dining-hall: here a hot supper was provided by Mrs. Leycester. Freeman supplied the cake, and the children made some favours.

About an hour or so after dark the sound of the approaching procession was heard. As with other mountaineers, there was a good accompaniment of gunfiring, singing, and shouting as the bridegroom and his friends came up the approach. They all sat down to their meal, while the family in the house entertained the

party from the manse, Mr. Randall and the two young men, who were to proceed afterwards to their other and grander entertainment eight miles off.

The children, resolved to pay every compliment, had donned their best attire. Agnes was in a dress of soft French-grey material, which set off her dazzling fairness and the brightness of her sunny hair coiled round her head in rich plaits. The little Leycesters had black silk dresses, looped up over scarlet petticoats, and the long brown silken locks that fell upon their shoulders were ornamented by small half-wreaths of variegated holly, with white and scarlet berries.

So attractive did the programme seem to Norman and his friend that they would fain have stayed at the glen and left their other entertainers in the lurch. Perhaps Mrs. Leslie guessed as much when she induced Mr. Randall to rouse himself from his beloved studies to accompany them. Norman was in the highest spirits, looking remarkably well in his Highland dress.

The dinner had been quite a success; it partook of the nature of a picnic, lunch, and a stand-up supper, as they all waited on their elders and each other; and afterwards the young people and mademoiselle withdrew, while the gentlemen chatted over their toddy, and Mrs. Cameron helped Mrs. Leycester to make the final arrangements.

"I say," said Norman, "it's an awful bore that we can't stop. What do you say, Massey?"

"I always vote for remaining in good quarters. Do you know, young ladies, we might manage a capital