"for ye've spoilt a' that I proposed for your advancement and weel-doing; and now I ha' nane to care for! Ye ken, Maister Kinloch, I have na lad of my ain, and hae been mair than a son to me- -But it's foolish to tauk to ye!-When Andrew Donaldson is dead and gone, ye'll ken what he felt for ye!" ye Kinloch started up, and, while tears of contrition dimmed his eyes, exclaimed, "Forgive me, sir-I am captious, I know, and self-willed-but I never have been, never can be, ungrateful for the kindness you have uniformly shown me!" "I dinna ken, Lawrie, what I can contrive for your guid," observed the old man, drawing his hand across his eyes, to hide the kindred tear which Kinloch's warm emotion had drawn forth; "but, if ye'll gang hame, I'll be wi ye in twa or three days, and then we'll tauk the matter ower." "Oh, do not concern yourself, my dear sir," replied Kinloch, in a cheerful tone, "I doubt not that I shall find something to employ me-and, as my favourite poet says, Though we hae little gear, "And again 'The honest heart, that's free frae a' 'However fortune kick the ba', Has aye some cause to smile.'" "Ah, them beuks, I fear, winna do thee mickle guid!" replied Mr. Donaldson, shaking his head; "but, no matter, we winna tauk o' these things now." "No, sir," returned Kinloch, "for it is getting late, and I would not wish to put my father and mother to inconvenience, by reaching home at an unseasonable hour." "Eh, but ye wadna gang hame noo!" exclaimed the kind-hearted Mr. Donaldson. Kinloch replied in the affirmative, and was so firm in his determination, that the steward yielded the point; and Kinloch, having made up a small parcel of necessaries and a few books, slung it over his shoulder, and shaking the sorrowful Mr. Donaldson's hand, with the cordial grasp of gratitude and esteem, departed. It was late in the day, when Kinloch took the road which led to the cottage where he had passed the peaceful and happy days of childhood; yet he involuntarily lingered in the well-known path, to reflect on the probable consequences of this sudden reverse of his prospects. It was the first time, since his departure from his humble home, that he had ever trodden this path with reluctance; but he felt that he was about to inflict a sad blow on the parental affection and pride, which had so often rejoiced in what they considered his promotion; and looked forward with exultation to his future advancement, which they imagined certain, to the office which his patron now held, (that of steward to the Laird ;) a point of exultation beyond which "Their humble wishes never learnt to stray." Yet, he thought, his father's upright integrity could not blame him, for thus adhering to the maxims he had so often enforced-that of shunning the first temptation to vice; and never, however humble his situation, to forget the respect that was due to himself. Still, though he felt himself exonerated from blame,—and, had it been to do again, would have acted in the same manner, it was an unpleasant task to be the herald of his own dismissal, and carry disappointment and grief, where joy alone had hitherto attended his footsteps. Deeply impressed with these melancholy feelings, Kinloch observed not that the shades of night were fast gathering round him; and it was not until he was within a few paces of the spot where he had once witnessed a sight, the remembrance of which still "Froze his young blood, And made each particular hair to stand on end, "Like quills upon the fretful porcupine-" that he began to wish himself at home, and regret the forgetfulness which had caused him thus to linger on his way. "Psha!" exclaimed Kinloch, as he hastily ascended the steep path, which led to the dreaded spot. "Psha! am I then still so weak, as to believe that I really -Oh, no saw- Mine eyes were made the fools of the other senses!' And yet I could have sworn it was her-but, oh, how altered! how changed from what she was!" He had now reached the top of the promontory, and, as he made this reflection, he involuntarily paused, and cast a scrutinising glance towards the inaccessible crags beneath, where he had seen, or fancied he saw, the appalling object which still dwelt on his imagination with such force, and created such shuddering feelings. Again he looked - He approached to the edge of the precipice-his heart beat quick, his respiration became impeded-He drew his hand across his eyes, as if to be convinced that he was awake-for scarcely could he trust the evidence of his senses, that there, indeed, stood, with clasped hands and eyes, which seemed to gaze on vacancy, the same form which had once before thrilled his soul with horror! It was almost dark---yet he could not be mistaken;for, as he bent with breathless eagerness over the edge of the precipice, the pale ghastly features- the blɔodless arms, crossed, as if in an attitude of resignation, on the bosom-and the shadowy form, which appeared, even as he gazed, to fade upon his sight-All proclaimed it to be indeed the being which,-whether "of heaven or of earth" he knew not,- he had once before beheld on the same spot. Yet she was differently attired for the dark robe, that wrapt her, did not now betray the blood stains which had chilled his very soul, on the night he had first beheld her. Her long dark brown tresses, too, sweeping almost to the ground, then hung in wild disorder over her shoulders, while the fillet that bound her temples was disfigured with the same heart-appalling appearance of savage violence, which had sullied the whiteness of the garment which she then wore. Now, her head was covered with a cap, similar to the one which had concealed the beautiful hair of the female stranger, whose |