twa brothers—the bonnie Earl of Gowrie, and noble Alexander Ruthventhat are baith now with God.'

As he spoke, the doctor's voice faltered, for nature had put into his huge, ill-formed frame a gentle, womanly spirit; and though he had fled from his country, and never beheld it since the year when his beloved lord, the first Earl of Gowrie, and father of these youths, perished on the scaffold—still, amidst all the learning and honours gained in his adopted home, David Calderwood carried in his bosom the same true Scottish heart; and perhaps it yearned more over the boy Patrick, in that he was, like his long-dead father, a quiet retiring student, given to all abstruse philosophy; whereas William the elder was a youth of bold spirit, who chafed under his forced retirement, and longed to tread in the footsteps of his ancestors, even though they led to the same bloody end.

Well, good master,' he said, 'when you have wept enough with Patrick, hear my news.'

6

Is it from your mother, the puir hunted dove, auld and worn, flying hither and thither about the ruins of her nest?'

Lord Gowrie's-let us give him the title for three months borne, then attainted, but which yet fondly lingered on the lips of two faithful friends, David Calderwood, and Lettice his daughter-Lord Gowrie's brow reddened, and instinctively he put his hand to where his sword should have hung. Then he muttered angrily, 'Ah, I forget I am no earl, no Scottish knight, but only a poor Cambridge student. But,' he added, his face kindling, though the lightning has fallen on the parent trunk, and its two brave branches, and though the rest are trodden under foot of men, still there is life, bold, fresh life in the old tree. It shall grow up and shelter her yet-my noble, long-enduring mother-the first, the best, the No; she shall not be the last Lady Gowrie.'

While speaking, a flush deeper even than that of youth's enthusiasm burned on the young earl's cheek, and he looked up to the window where Lettice sat sweet Lettice Calderwood, sweeter even than she was fair! She at a distance dimly saw the look; she met it with a frank smilethe smile a single-hearted, happy girl would cast willingly on all the world.

'The news--the news!' murmured old David. 'My bairns, ye talk and ye rave, but ye dinna tell the news.'

6

My mother writes that the cloud seems passing from our house; for the Queen Anne-she favours us still, despite her lord-the Queen Anne has secretly sent for our sister Beatrice to court.'

Beatrice, whom brother Alexander loved more than all the rest,' said Patrick simply. But the elder brother frowned, and rather harshly bade him hold his peace.

'Patrick is a child, and knows nothing,' said the young earl; 'but I know all. What care I for this weak queen's folly or remembered sin, if through her means I creep back into my father's honoured seat. Oh shame that I can only creep; that I must enter Scotland like a thief, and steal in at the court holding on to a woman's robe, when I would fain come with fire and sword, to crush among the ashes of his own palace the murderer of my race!'

He spoke with a resolute fierceness, strange in such a youth; his black

brows contracted, and his stature seemed to swell and grow. Simple Davie Calderwood looked and trembled.

'Ye're a Ruthven, true and bold; but ye're no like the Earl o' Gowrie. I see in your face your father's father-him that rose from his dying bed to be a shedder of blood-him that slew Rizzio in Holyrood!'

' And when I stand in Holyrood—whether I creep in there or force my way with my sword-I will kneel down on that bloody spot, and pray Heaven to make me too as faithful an avenger,' was the keen low answer. Then turning off his passionate emotion with a jest, as he often did, Lord Gowrie said gaily to his brother, 'Come, Patrick, look not so pale; tell our good master the rest of the news-that to-night, this very night, thou and I must start for bonnie Scotland!'

'Who is talking of bonnie Scotland?' said a girl's voice, young indeed, but yet touched with that inexplicable tone which never comes until life's first lessons have been learned-those lessons, whether of joy or grief, which leave in the child's careless bosom a woman's heart.

Lord Gowrie turned quickly and looked at Lettice, smilingly-rapturously, yet bashfully, as a youth looks at his first idol. Then he repeated his intention of departure, though in a tone less joyous than before. Lettice heard, without emotion as it seemed, only that her two thin handsshe was a little creature, pale and slight-were pressed tightly together. There are some faces which, by instinct or by force of will, can hide all emotion, and then it is the hands which tell the tale-the fluttering fingers, the tight clench, the palms rigidly crushed together. But these tokens of suffering no one sees: no one saw them in Lettice Calderwood.

'Do ye no grieve, my daughter, over these bairns that go from us? Wae's me! but there's danger in ilka step to baith the lads.'

'Are both going?' asked Lettice; and her eye wandered towards the younger brother, who had moved a little apart, and stood by the little river, plucking leaves, and throwing them down the stream. 'It is a long,

severe journey, and Master Patrick has been so ill, and is not yet strong,' added the girl, speaking with that grave dignity which, as mistress of the household, she sometimes assumed, and which made her seem far older than her years.

'Patrick is a weakly fellow, to be sure,' answered Lord Gowrie, inwardly smiling over his own youthful strength and beauty; 'but I will take care of him—he will go with his brother.'

'Yes,' said Patrick, overhearing all, as it seemed. But he said no more: he was a youth of few words. Very soon Calderwood and the young lord began to talk over the projected journey. But Patrick sat down by the river-bank, and began idly plucking and examining the meadow-flowers, just as if his favourite herbal and botanical science were the only interests of life.

'Patrick!' whispered Lettice's kind, sisterly voice. She sometimes forgot the difference of rank and blood in her tender compassion for the young proscribed fugitives who had been sent, in such utter destitution and misery, to her father's care-Patrick !'

'Yes, Mistress Lettice.'

"The evening closes cold; take this!' She had brought a cloak to wrap round him.

'You are very kind, very thoughtful-like a sister.' Saying this, he turned quick, and looked at her. Lettice smiled. Whether gladsome or sorry, she could always bend her lips to that pale, grave smile.

'Well, then, listen to me, as you always do; I being such a staid, wise old woman'

Though a year younger than I.' 'Still, listen to me. My Lord Gowrie, you must be prudent for the sake of both. cease dreaming, and use your wisdom. and wisdom of a man; it will be needed. peril; take care of him and of yourself.'

your brother, is rash and bold;
When you go from us, Patrick,
You have indeed the strength
Let not William bring you into

Here the lips that spoke so womanly, grave, and calm, began to tremble; and Lettice, hearing her name called, went away.

Patrick seemed mechanically to repeat to himself her last words, whether in pleasure, pain, or indifference, it was impossible to tell. Then his features relapsed into their usual expression-thoughtful, quiet, and passionless. An old-young face it was—a mingling of the child with the man of eld, but with no trace of youth between-a face such as we see sometimes, and fancy that we read therein the coming history as plainly written as in a book. So while, as the evening passed, Lord Gowrie's fiery spirit busied itself about plots and schemes, the fate of kingdoms and of kings; and David Calderwood, stirred from his learned equipoise, troubled his simple mind with anxiety concerning his two beloved pupils -Lettice hid all her thoughts in her heart, brooding tremblingly over them there. But the young herbalist sat patiently pulling his flowers to pieces, and ruminating meanwhile; his eyes fixed on the little rippling stream. He seemed born to be one of those meek philosophers who through life sit still, and let the world roll by with all its tumults, passions, and cares. They are above it; or, as some would deem, below it. But in either case it touches not them.

It was the dawn of a September day, gloomy and cold. All things seemed buried in a dull sleep, except the Cam that went murmuring over its pebbles hour after hour, from night till morn. Lettice heard it under her window, as she stood in the pale light, fastening her head-tire with trembling hands. They were just starting-the two young Scottish cavaliers. Both had cast off the dress of the student, and appeared as befitted their birth. Bold, noble, and handsome looked the young Earl William in his gay doublet, with his sword by his side. As he walked with Lettice to the garden (he had half-intreated, half-commanded to have a rose given by her hand), his manner seemed less boyish-more courtly and tender withal. His last words, too, as he rode away, were a gay compliment, and an outburst of youthful hope; alluding to the time when he should come back endowed with the forfeited honours of his race, and choose, not out of Scottish but of English maidens, a 'Lady Gowrie.'

Patrick, stealing after, a little paler-a little more silent than usual— affectionately bade his master adieu; and to the hearty blessing and goodspeed only whispered 'Amen.' Then he took Lettice's hand; he did not kiss it, as his brother had gracefully and courteously done; but he clasped it with a light cold clasp, saying gently, 'Farewell! Lettice, my kind sister.'

She moved a little, as if pained; and then calmly echoed the farewell. But when the sound of the horses' feet died away, she went slowly up to her little chamber, shut the door, sat down, and wept. Once only looking at her little hand-holding it as if there still lingered on it a vanished touch-the deep colour rose in her cheek, and over her face there passed a quick, sharp pang.

'His sister-always his sister!' She said no more. After a while she dried her tears, wrapped round her heart that veil of ordinary outer life which a woman must always wear, and went down to her father.

'Lettice, what are those torn papers that thou art fastening together with thy needle? Are they writings or problems of mine?'

'Not this time, father,' said Lettice meekly; 'they are fragments left by your two pupils.'

'That is, by Patrick; William did not love to study, except that fantastic learning which all the Ruthvens loved-the occult sciences. papers are these?'

6

Master Patrick's; he may want them when he returns.'

Whose

When! Ah, the dear bairn, his puir father's ain son; will I ever see his face again?'

There was no answer save that of silence and paleness. Lettice's fingers worked on. But a dull, cold shadow seemed to spread itself over the room-over everywhere she turned her eyes; duller than the gloomy evening-colder than the cold March rain which beat against the narrow college-windows-that shadow crept over her heart. She looked like one who for many days and weeks had borne on her spirit-not a heavy load, that is easier to bear, but a restless struggle-sometimes pain, sometimes joy, doubt, fear, expectation, faith, wild longing, followed by blank endurance. It was now a long time since she had learned the whole bitter meaning of those words, 'The hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.' 'My dear lassie,' said the old doctor, rousing himself from a mathematical calculation which had degenerated into a mere every-day reverie, 'where hae ye keepit the puir young earl's letter, that said he and Patrick were baith coming back to Cambridge in a week? Can ye no tell how lang it is sin syne?'

Lettice could have answered at once-could have told the weeks, days, hours each passing slow like years—but she did not. She paused as though to reckon, and then said, 'It is nigh two months, if I count right.' 'Twa months! Alas, alas!'

'Do you think, father,' she said slowly, striving to speak for the first time what had been so long pent up that its utterance shook her whole frame with tremblings-' do you think that any harm has come to the poor young gentlemen?'

'I pray God no! Lettice, do you mind what our puir Willie—I canna say "the earl"-tauld us of their great good fortune through the queen; how that he would soon be living in Edinburgh as a grand lord, and his brother should end his studies at St Andrews; only Patrick said he loved better to come back to Cambridge, and to his auld master. The dear bairn! Do ye mind all this, Lettice?'

'Yes, father.' Ah, truly poor Lettice did!

'Then, my child, we needna fear for them. They are twa young gentlemen o' rank, and maybe they lead a merry life, and that whiles gars them forget auld friends; but they'll aye come back safe in time.'

So saying, the old doctor settled himself in his high-backed chair, and contentedly went to sleep. His daughter continued her work until the papers were all arranged and it grew too dark to see, then she closed her eyes and pondered.

Her thoughts were not what may be called love-thoughts, such as you, young modern maidens, indulge in when you dream of some lover kneeling at your feet, or walking by your side, know yourself adored, and exult in the adoration. No such light emotion ruled Lettice's fancy. Her love-if it were love, and she scarce knew it as such-had crept in unwittingly, under the guise of pity, reverence, affection; it had struck its roots deep in her nature; and though it bore no flowers, its life was one with the life of her heart. She never paused to think, 'Do I love?' or 'Am I loved?' but her whole being flowed into that thought, wave after wave, like a stream that insensibly glides into one dry channel, leaving all the rest.

Lettice sat and thought mournfully over the many weeks of wearying expectation for him who never came. How at first the hours flew winged with restless joy, how she lay down in hope and rose in hope, and said to herself, calmly smiling, "To-morrow-to-morrow!' How afterwards she strove to make those words into a daily balm to still fear and pain that would not sleep; how at last she breathed them wildly, hour by hour of each blank day, less believing in them than lifting them up like a cry of despair which must be answered. But it never was answered; and the silence now had grown so black and dull around her, that it pressed down all struggles-left her not even strength for fears.

She had feared very much at first. The young Earl William, so sanguine, so bold, might have been deceived. The king's seeming lenity might be but assumed, until he could crush the poor remnant of the Ruthven blood. She pondered continually over the awful tale of the Gowrie plot; often at night in her dreams she saw the ensanguined axe, the two heads, so beautiful and young, mouldering away on the Tolbooth. Sometimes beside them she saw another- Horror! she knew it well-the pale, boyish cheek— the thoughtful brow. Then she would wake in shudderings and cries; and falling on her knees, pray that wherever he was—whether or no he might gladden her eyes again-Heaven would keep him safe, and have pity upon her.

Again she thought of him in prosperity, living honoured and secure under the glory of the Ruthven line-forgetting old friends, as her father had said. Well, and what right had she to murmur? She did not-save that at times, even against her will, the selfish cry of weak human tenderness would rise up- Alas, thou hast all things, and I-I perish for want!' But her conscience ever answered, 'He neither knows nor sees, so with him there is no wrong.'

Night, heavy night, fell down once more. Lettice had learned to long for the dull stupor it brought a little peace, a little oblivion mercifully closing each blank day. 'Is it not time for rest, father?' she often asked long ere the usual hour; and she was so glad to creep to her little bower