Notices to Correspondents.

Erika. We have two private letters awaiting you respecting drawing societies which will be forwarded when you send your present address.

Miss P., Ventnor. Your printed paper cannot be inserted, but if you write us a short letter on the subject in which you are interested, we will insert it. Declined with thanks, "The Mountain Gifts."

BY AUSTIN CLARE, AUTHOR OF THE CARVED CARTOON."

CHAPTER IV.

DAME ESTHER.

"The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel hained kebbuck fell,
And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it guid:

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell."
BURNS-Cotter's Saturday Night.

"MISS Helen, please wull ye be sae kind as to gang doun the day, to the Cleugh Holme, (that's the farm where my mither lives, ye ken,) an' look in on my auntie? she was yer ain mither's nurse, ye ken, an' she'd be blithe to see ye, she says, if it wadna be gi'en ye too much trouble."

Certainly, Jessie," answered Helen, "I wish you had told me before, that she wished to see me, I'm afraid I've been long in going." This was before dinner on the day after our heroine had visited Sir Kenneth's Carrock, and by a quarter past three, she was on her way to the Cleugh Holme farm, which lay in a green hollow between the stream and the Castle woods, about a quarter of a mile higher up the glen: it was a large old farmhouse, built of stone, grey and weatherbeaten, and surrounded with substantial farm-buildings, sheltered from the west wind, which was that most felt in Carrockcleugh Glen, by a row of fine old Scotch firs, that grew at the back of the house, and formed a thick screen to the sunny garden, which in summer was always

gay with flowers, and alive with bees. Helen opened the little green wicket and knocked at the door.

"Come yer ways in," answered a cheerful voice from within, and Helen entered a large, low kitchen, with shelves slung from the beams, supporting a goodly supply of hams and bacon. A large bed-closet, let into the wall, occupied one side of the fireplace, before which, a shaggy gray shepherd's dog was lying. The stone floor was clean and thickly sprinkled with white sand, and a Dutch clock ticked loudly in one corner. Over the peat fire hung a girdle, on which a cake was baking, and sitting by the fireplace watching the cake, and busily knitting the while, was an old white-haired dame, with the cleanest of white frilled caps round her rosy withered face, the softest of gray knitted shawls with a scarlet border, crossed over her shoulders, and the freshest of lilac cotton gowns coming down to the gray-stockinged feet. The dog raised its head and sniffed at Helen, as she approached the old woman, and then uttered a low, suspicious growl.

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Haud yer whist, Lassie! lie down, will ye?" said the dame.

The dog slowly obeyed, but kept her bright eyes fixed upon Helen, who held out her hand to the old woman, saying,

"How d'ye do to-day, nurse? I am afraid you have thought me long in coming to see you."

"I canna pleen (complain) miss, thank ye kindly, an' how's yersel'? I did think ye wad hae been in to hae a bit crack (chat) wi' yer mither's auld nurse, afore ye'd been i' the glen sae lang. But niver heed, hinny, young folks canna be aye thinkin' on the auld uns. Come here, and let's see the face o' ye!"

Helen placed herself as the old woman wished, on a low stool beside her, and Dame Esther, as she was called in the glen, looked at her attentively for some time, through her silver-rimmed spectacles, and then said half to herself,

'Na, na, she's no sae bonnie as her mither, my ain bonnie bairn, bonnie Helen Scott, as they aye ca'd her, but she has her e'en; yes, an' her bonnie hair, that I was always sae prood o'. Ay, my bairn, mony's the time I hae curled yer mither's lang saft locks, that glinted like gowd when the sun shone on them. Your hair's a wee bittie darker, but it's just as saft," and she passed her hand caressingly over Helen's head, "An' so she's gane hame? my ain lamb! An' yer auld nurse'll never see ye again. Ay, ay, the LORD's will be done! I suld hae liked weel to look on her ance more, but He kens best what's

guid for us a'. An' so, hinny, ye've comed to live at Burnstanes? I was wae for ye, when I heer'd ye were to bide wi' auld Madam, eh, but she's a dowr leddy! She brak yer mither's heart wi' her cauld, statily ways; puir bairn, puir bairn! I hope she'll be a bit doucer wi' ye, an' the young Laird, bless his heart! ye mun tell him to come an' see me, hinny ?"

“Indeed, nurse, he'll be delighted to come, but he's at school nearly all day, and hasn't had time yet."

"An' is he noo? dear heart, to think o' that? what a power o' larnin' he'll get! An' is he to be a sailor like the Laird ?"

'Yes, nurse, he's to go out in father's ship, next year."

"Mair's the pity, miss, I shouldna say it til ye, may be, but it wad hae been muckle better for Carrockcleugh, gin the Laird had stayed at hame, like his fathers, amang his ain people, instead o' sailin' awa' o'er the saut seas, an' lettin' the auld Cassel gang to wrack an' ruin, as it's doin'. Aweel then, I winna say nought mair anent the matter, gin it's to fash ye, hinny," she added, seeing the colour mount to Helen's cheeks, nae doubt the Laird's a varra brave mon, an' serves his country weel; but I only wish Maister Ronald had a been for stayin' amang us; but it isna for an auld body like me to be findin' faut wi' sich as the Laird. Nae doubt he kens weel how to guide hissel' an' his bairns."

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A rather awkward silence ensued, for Helen felt vexed at these disparaging comments on her father's conduct, and she was not used to the old woman's free-spoken manner, which was not always pleasing to strangers; though those who knew her, knew that it was well meant, and that no offence was intended. At length Helen felt the silence becoming so uncomfortable, that she looked about for something to say, and seeing from a little window, the very fell she had climbed the day before, she asked Dame Esther its name.

"The fell wi' Sir Kenneth's Carrock atop on't, d'ye mean, miss ? why that's what they ca' the Hallow Fell."

The Hallow Fell ?" repeated Helen, "why, that means the holy hill. I wonder how it got that name. Do you know, nurse ?"

"'Deed do I, hinny, it's a varra auld story, that, wad ye like to hear't? But maybe no, ye'll hae o'er mony braw tricks o' new fangled histories, to care for thae auld warld stories."

"Oh, no, nurse! Do tell me about it," exclaimed Helen, "I'm so fond of such old legends."

"Leggins, hinny? I dinna ken if this is what ye ca' a leggin, I niver hear'd tell o' that name afore, but I'll tell ye the story, an' then ye'll see.

“Once upon a time, lang, lang afore ony o' us was born, they say,(mind I canna just vouch for the truth on't, but sae it was tellt me,) there lived among the fells, up there, an awfu' big giant, wha comed doon in til the glen here, an' harried a' the sheep an' kine. An' he was that big an' strong, an' besides that, maist uncanny, so that none o' the folks could stand agin him. Sometimes he would carry aff wee bairns, an' those he took were niver see'd again. Noo there lived i' the glen a bonnie young lassie they ca'd Hilda, (not Whitby's S. Hilda, ye ken, but ane o' our ain, that varra few folks hae heard tell on.) She was that holy an' guid, that there wasna' a lassie like her in a' the country-side. Aweel, she said ane day, that an angel had appeared to her, an' had gi’en her a wee siller cross, tellin' her she was appointed to slay the giant, like King David in the auld time. Mony folk came an' wad hae hindered her; but no, gang she wad, sae she went in til the Kirk, an' prayed there durin' a hale nicht; an' in the mornin' she went up the fell towards that muckle stane they ca' the giant's seat, a' busked in white, wi' the wee siller cross in her hand. The folks a' stood watchin' her, an' they say the giant cam' out to meet her wi' an awfu' club in his hand, an' thought to kill her in a twinklin', but S. Hilda held up the cross before his eyes, an' straightway he fell a tremblin', an' withered, an' withered away, till only a wee heap of dust remained. But S. Hilda never came doon again; for her wark on 'arth was dune, an' the angels came down on their lang white wings, which cast broad shadows o'er the hale fell top, an' carried her awa’ wi' them to Heaven."

Helen remained silent for some time, thinking over this quaint old Saxon legend; the superstition pleased her, it seemed so well suited to the wild, solemn beauty of the Hallow Fell, and she liked the beautiful fancy of the shadow of the Angels' wings, still hovering over the place where the maiden saint had stood. Presently the door opened, and a tidy, fair-haired matron entered, accompanied by a young girl, whom Helen knew to be Jessie's sister. Both wore the picturesque dress of the Cumberland peasant women, which I am sorry to say is not so generally worn now, as formerly, a clean cotton bedgown, (or short jacket) and a short dark woollen petticoat, which left the blue worsted stockings and clogs exposed to view.