rippling the black water of the tarn, which he soon reached; it moved also the long grass in the valley, bearing with it the freshness of the dew scattered on the leaves of the wayside flowers, or the perfume of the yellow broom or purple thyme on the rugged braes where the rose linnet and the gold spink sang merrily.

Once or twice Davie seemed tempted to lift a stone and have a shy at some wild bird, or it might be the raven croaking overhead, and he felt it difficult to repress the wish to send the smooth stone skimming over the surface of the water; but if he slackened his speed for that purpose, the calm face of his master's wife rose up before him and lent him fresh vigour. He remembered, too, her unwearied patient kindness to himself, and very sorrowful he was for the unexpected illness in the absence of her husband.

Fairshiels was a few miles distant, and when Davie reached it, he found that the smith had left it some time before for the neighbouring town; and as it would be impossible to overtake him, there was nothing left for the boy but to retrace his steps in the homeward direction.

The cottage of William Martin, the smith of Grey Craigs, was a pleasant and picturesque one. It stood at a triangular corner out of the direct way of the street. Its little strip of garden in front was filled

with the aromatic thyme, balm, and June roses, while behind in its kail-yard, besides homely vegetables, was the "bonnie brier bush" with its white blossoms, and the old apple tree yielding in autumn a good crop of golden fruit; at its foot were two hives of bees, the delight of the smith's heart, who tended them carefully.

Everything within the house was kept clean and neat by the good housewife: in the best room, though the brown rafters were bare and there was only one stone - mullioned window, there was always an air of comfort. The boarded floor was white, and the chest of drawers, eight-day clock in good mahogany case, with the round table of the same wood, betokened the owners to be well-to-do in the world.

It was a lovely evening when William Martin, the smith of Grey Craigs, bent his steps through the Den, wearied with his day's travel. A soft twilight followed close upon a gorgeous sundown,and up in the pale, clear sky, the crescent moon was floating dreamily with not a cloud to map its course, and nothing but the gentlest of summer breezes to send it gliding on its way.

In the west, however, golden and purple clouds were still crowded together and built up in glowing masses. The hum of life in the town was unheard amidst the solitude of the braes, where the wild-rose bushes were glistening with dewdrops.

As he drew near his cottage door, his mother, who had been watching for his coming, met him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said solemnly, "Stop a little, my son, afore ye gang in, and say, 'God's will be done.'

"What do ye mean, mother?" he exclaimed hurriedly, as if scarce hearing her. "Speak to me, mother," he stammered wildly; for he saw by the look of trouble in her face there was something far wrong in his household. "Is it Mary? Is it the bairn? Oh mother, my heart misgies me; it's either the ane or the other that's ill.”

Oh, my son! my son!" sobbed the woman, now fairly breaking down. "How can I tell you, Willie ; your bairn is weel, but your wife-Mary-is gane."

"Gane, Mary!" he repeated, as if in a dream. "Mother, say it's no true; I canna believe it;" and he grasped his mother's arm for support, repeating,

Gane! an' I hae nae feeling o't; my heart is like cauld iron or stane."

Ye maun bow before the stroke of the Almighty, Willie," said his mother. But the poor man heard not the words, felt not the grasp laid upon his arm, as if the mother's heart bled for him, and would fain keep him from that sight which she knew would pierce his soul in his desolate home. He could only mutter wildly, "Gane!" as he unconsciously drew near his dwelling.

Mourners were in the house, but he saw them not; and they stole quietly away, leaving the bereaved husband to his great sorrow. As the smith approached the bed on which lay the dead body of his wife, a parting ray from the setting sun, gleaming through the rose-covered casement, caused golden arrows to quiver and dance upon the sanded floor, and lighted up the wan, still face with an almost lifelike hue, while the breeze blowing through the opened window raised a stray lock of silken hair from the temples, and fluttered the muslin frill which encircled the head.

Awestruck he approached and lifted the hand crossed over the bosom, but it returned no answering pressure, and its icy chill struck like a palsy to his heart. He pressed his lips upon the death-cold brow, but the lid lay over the blue eye as still as if it were marble, and for the first time there was no gleam of welcome in it for him. No more again would she wake up to aught that was doing under the sun, for her warfare was ended, and he must now tread the rough paths of the world alone.

Long the bereaved one hung over the bed; so long, and in such agony, that his mother feared for reason giving way. His mind wandered back to the sweet young days of their early courtship; his first seeing her, a pretty, gentle girl whom he thought in his great humility far too good for him; his first

present to her; his delight and proud exultation when his affection was returned; how she had softened him the uncultivated, raw lad-led him to see things differently in this world, and, above all, led him to a Saviour. He recalled her daily round of duties, the foot that always hastened to meet him, the eye that ever shone bright at his coming-and the agony to feel that never again would these things be. And then he thought if she could have left him one message, one last word, but no; that luxury was denied him, for a sudden affection of the heart had silently and swiftly cut the thread of life, and he could scarcely realise that she who that morning he had left in health, sharing with him the toils of life, was now beyond the reach of trouble and toil.

How long Martin might have sat speechless beside the corpse of his wife, his mother knew not; but she at last resolved to try him with a sight of his child, and so, drawing near without a word, she placed the little infant on his knee. It was well judged, for the sight of its helplessness touched a chord in the father's heart, which found vent in a flood of tears, and clasping it to his breast, the strong man wept over it in silence.

The funeral was over, the last spadeful of earth had been thrown on the coffin, and the friendly ones that had helped to lay her in her grave had