THE WRAITH.

FOUR maidens on a summer Saturday

Went up the hill against whose pleasant green
The grey roofs of the village street reclined.
The air was sweet that met them, yet it lacked
The wonted hilly freshness, and the girls

Sauntered and sat, and plucked with idle hands
Late roses here, a single raspberry there,

Where straggling brushwood clothed a ledge of

rock;

And, loitering thus, marked not that one dull hue Had grown o'er all the heavens, until they heard The muttering thunder close them round, and felt Large drops fall ominous on hand and brow.

How dreary were the uplands now, that late

Seemed so familiar! and how far away

The village, hidden by the winding gorge,

When peal and bolt were in the homeward path!
But near at hand a covert lay, well known:

Two rocks, together leaning, made a cave,
Where oft, by storm surprised, the sportsman sat,
Or herdsman harboured thro' a day of rain.
Thither the maidens sped, and nestled down
A fluttering covey, while the tempest broke;
The light'ning from its rolling darkness slid,
The thunders leapt from its continuous roar;
A roar of struggling winds and clouds above,-
Of rushing rains upon the further peaks,-
Of waters maddened at their secret source,
And of what other powers, unknown to man,
Nature in these her inmost haunts may work
When the hour of strength is on her.

But awhile

And the great tumult dwindled: weak and few

The flashes fell, the tempest lifted up

His skirts from off the shoulders of the hills,

And muttering hied him westward-rain he left, And tattered clouds, but bore his terrors far.

And now the tongues were loosed again, and made A swift and merry music thro' the cave.

Light thoughts flew downward to the valley-home,
And led up many a theme for careless talk
Of work and play, of little joys and cares,
Of coming christ'nings, marriages, or wakes.
At last blithe Agnes spake, the frankest she,
And, though the eldest, gayest of the group.
"Come, we are here, four maidens and fast friends,

With none at hand to catch our secrets up

Except the straggling sheep or lonely crow;

So let us each to each confess the name

We hold the dearest and would make our own."
There was a silence; Agnes urged again:

Then little Barbara lifted up her face —

A blushing face, as child-like as 'twas sweet,

And whispered, "Nay then, Agnes, 'tis for thee

To speak the first." And Agnes laughed anew, And full on Barbara fixed her merry eyes.

"And whose then should I choose? need ye to ask? Search all the village through, whom will ye find To match young Duncan, bonnie Duncan Roy? Whom should I choose but Duncan ?" Barbara's

word

Shot like a swallow's wing athwart her speech "He does not love thee."-"Does he not, in sooth? And wherefore no? How was it that I wore

Those dappled pinks last week? and who was that

But yester-evening hanging on our gate?'

"O, Agnes, this is cruel!" Barbara cried,

With tears in eye and voice, "you that can tell

So

many wooers! there's not one, I know, But would be blithe to win you if he might,

And now you steal my only one, my own,
Go your ways,

He that has sworn he loves me.

Can you not go your ways, and leave me him?

Then Agnes laughed more gaily than before,

But Lois, whose grey eyes were calm and clear As the early summer morning, and her voice As mellow as a church-bell touch'd by chance, Turned round the pleading face to meet her own. "Nay, sister mine," she said, "and would you

keep

A heart that cannot hold its faith except

Another choose to let it be? Nay fie!

This Duncan woes whoever lists to hear:

Me once he told, if I were only kind,

There's not a face in all the valley round

That he would care to look on." Barbara's eyes Grew large with wonder, Agnes still laughed on: "Well, be it so, he is a town-bred youth,

And we must judge him tenderly, he learnt
These fashions ere he came among our hills."
But Lois said, "Nor town, nor country, breed,
Perforce, a cold heart and a double tongue;
This man has both; I saw it in his eyes

When first I met them."