young lady to address an old father thus."

you

"He!" said she,

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"who minds him? He's a dotard, an old whining, complaining, superannuated being, worse than a child," " But consider his years," said Duncan ; "and besides, he may have met with crosses and losses sufficient to sour the temper of a younger man.- -You should at all events pity and reverence, but never despise your father." The old lady now joined them. "You have yet heard nothing, young man," said the old laird, "if you saw how my heart is sometimes wrung.-Yes, I have had losses indeed." "You losses!" said his spouse ;—“ No ;' have never had any losses that did not in the end turn out a vast profit."-" Do you then account the loss of a loving wife and a son nothing?" said he-" But have you not got a loving wife and a daughter in their room?" returned she; "the one will not waste your fortune as a prodigal son would have done, and the other will take care of both you and that, when you can no longer do either-the loss of your son indeed! it was the greatest blessing you could have received!" "Unfeeling woman," said he; " but Heaven may yet restore that son to protect the gray hairs of his old father, and lay his head in an honoured grave." The old man's 'spirits were quite gone he cried like a child-his lady mimicked himand at this, his daughter and the servants raised a laugh, "Inhuman wretches," said Duncan, starting up, and pushing them aside, "thus to mock the feelings of an old man, even although he were not the lord and master of you all: but take notice the individual among you all that dares to offer such another insult to him, I'll roast on that fire." The old man clung to him, and looked him ruefully in the face. "You impudent, beggarly vagabond!" said the lady," do you know to whom you speak ?--servants turn that wretch out of the house, and hunt him with all the dogs in the kennel.” “ Softly, softly, good lady," said Duncan, "take care that I do not turn you out of the house."-" Alas! good youth," said the

old laird, " you little know what you are about; for mercy's sake forbear; you are brewing vengeance both for yourself "Fear not," said Duncan, " I will protect you Pray, may I ask you what is your name?”

and me. with my

life." 66

said the old man, still looking earnestly at him" That you may,” replied Duncan, no man has so good a right to ask any thing of me as you have-I am Duncan Campbell, your own son." "M-m-m-my son !" exclaimed the old man, and sunk back on a seat with a convulsive moan. Duncan held him in his arms-he soon recovered, and asked many incoherent questions-looked at the two moles on his right leg--kissed him, and then wept on his bosom for joy. "O God of heaven,” said he, "it is long since I could thank thee heartily for any thing; now I do thank thee indeed, for I have found my son ! my dear and only son!”

Contrary to what might have been expected, Duncan's pretty only sister Alexia rejoiced most of all in his discovery. She was almost wild with joy at finding such a brother.--The old lady, her mother, was said to have wept bitterly in private, but knowing that Duncan would be her master, she behaved to him with civility and respect. Every thing was committed to his management, and he soon discovered, that besides a good clear estate, his father had personal funds to a great amount. The halls and cottages of Glenellich were filled with feasting, joy, and gladness.

Misfortunes seldom overcome the shock

It was not so at my father's house. come singly. Scarcely had our feelings which they received by the loss of our beloved Duncan, when a more terrible misfortune overtook us. My father, by the monstrous ingratitude of a friend whom he trusted, lost at once the greater part of his hard-earned fortune. The blow came unexpectedly, and distracted his personal affairs to such a degree, that an arrangement seemed almost totally impracticable. He struggled on with securities for several months;

but perceiving that he was drawing his real friends into danger, by their signing of bonds which he might never be able to redeem, he lost heart entirely, and yielded to the torrent. Mary's mind seemed to gain fresh energy every day. The activity and diligence which she evinced in managing the affairs of the farm, and even in giving advice with regard to other matters, is quite incredible;-often have I thought what a treasure that inestimable girl would have been to an industrious man whom she loved. All our efforts availed nothing; my father received letters of horning on bills to a large amount, and we expected every day that he would be taken from us and dragged to a prison.

We were all sitting in our little room one day, consulting what was best to be done we could decide upon nothing, for our case was desperate-we were fallen into a kind of stupor, but the window being up, a sight appeared that quickly thrilled every heart with the keenest sensations of anguish. Two men came riding sharply up by the back of the old school house. "Yonder are the officers of justice now," said my mother, "what shall we do?" We hurried to the window, and all of us soon discerned that they were no other than some attorney, accompanied by a sheriff's officer. My mother entreated of my father to escape and hide himself until this first storm was over-blown, but he would in nowise consent, assuring us that he had done nothing of which he was ashamed, and that he was determined to meet every one face to face, and let them do their worst; so finding all our entreaties vain, we could do nothing but sit down and weep. At length we heard the noise of their horses at the door. "You had better take the men's horses, James," said my father, " as there is no other man at hand.” "We will stay till they rap, if you please," said I. The cautious officer did not however rap, but, afraid lest his debtor should make his escape, he jumped lightly from his horse,

6

and hasted into the house.

When we heard him open the

in

outer door, and his footsteps approaching along the entry, our hearts fainted within us-he opened the door and stepped into the room-it was Duncan! our own dearly beloved Duncan. The women uttered an involuntary scream of surprise, but my father ran and got hold of one hand, and I of the other—my mother too soon had him in her arms, but our embrace was short; for his eyes fixed on Mary, who stood trembling with joy and wonder in a corner of the room, changing her colour every moment he snatched her up his arms and kissed her lips, and ere ever she was aware, her arms had encircled his neck. "O my dear Mary," said he," my heart has been ill at ease since I left you, but I durst not then tell you a word of my mind, for I little knew how I was to find affairs in the place where I was going; but ah! you little elusive rogue, you owe me another for the one you cheated me out of then;" so saying, he pressed his lips again to her cheek, and then led her to a seat. Duncan then recounted all his adventures to us, with every circumstance of his good fortune-our hearts were uplifted almost past bearing all our cares and sorrows were now forgotten, and we were once more the happiest little group that ever perhaps sat together. Before the cloth was laid for dinner, Mary ran out to put on her white gown, and comb her yellow hair, but was surprised at meeting with a smart young gentleman in the kitchen, with a scarlet neck on his coat, and a gold-laced hat. Mary, having never seen so fine a gentleman, made him a low courtesy, and offered to conduct him to the room: but he smiled, and told her he was the squire's servant. We had all of us forgot to ask for the gentleman that came with Duncan.

Duncan and Mary walked for two hours in the garden that evening-we did not know what passed between them, but the next day he asked her in marriage of my parents,

and never will I forget the supreme happiness and gratitude that beamed in every face on that happy occasion. I need not tell my readers that my father's affairs were soon retrieved, or that I accompanied my dear Mary a bride to the Highlands, and had the satisfaction of saluting her as Mrs. Campbell, and Lady of Glenellich.

AN OLD SOLDIER'S TALE.

"YE didna use to be sae hard-hearted wi' me, goodwife," said Andrew Gemble to old Margaret, as he rested his mealpocks on the corner of the table: "If ye'll let me bide a' night I'll tell you a tale." Andrew well knew the way to Margaret's heart. "It's no to be the battle o' Culloden, then, Andrew, ye hae gart me greet owre often about that already." "Weel, weel, good-wife, it sanna be the battle o' Culloden, though I like whiles to crack about the feats o' my young days." "Ah, Andrew! I'll ne'er forgie you for stabbing the young Stuart o' Appin. I wish God may forgie you but if ye dinna repent o' that, ye'll hae a black account to render again ae day." Aye, but it will maybe be lang till that day; an' I'll just tell ye, goodwife, that I'll never repent o' that deed. I wad hae stickit a' the rebel crew, an' their papish prince, the same way, if I could hae laid my neeves on him; repent, quo' she!"

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"Andrew, ye may gae your ways down to Deephope, we hae nae bed to lay ye in ; ye're no gaun to bide here a' night, an' the morn the Sabbath day." "There's for ye now! there's for ye! that's the gratitude that an auld sodger's to expect frae the fock that he has sae often ventured his life for! weel, weel, I'll rather trodge away down to Deephope,