you envy me," said Duncan; "you are both going to a strange inn; while I shall be welcomed by a dear family, who love me more than I deserve, I do believe. Some of them will run out to meet me, I suppose, and I shall be thought so much of, and so anticipated in all my wishes, that if I am my real humble self again, for some time, I only know I shall wonder."-The young companions separated. "Well," exclaimed Duncan, 66 they can't know I am come, yet James spoke to me as he opened the gate; no one rushes out however, Where can Florella and Jeanie be? and that idle little Marion ?-How does every one do?" said he, laughing, as he entered the house. He flew into the room and kissed them all: "You see I am quite well, my dear mother; and I have so much to tell you. Highland air and hard study agree so well with me; I've found time to see every thing, to ramble about, not with guides, but quite by myself, often in the most unfrequented spots. I have been half wild, Florella, when I allowed my mind to relax in the delights of poetry in such poetical scenery. I expected to find wonderful beauties in the Highlands; and I, who have eyes for every depth of mist, who distinguish the thinnest blue which softens the distant landscape, equally with the deepest melting veil which hangs on the mountain's summit, I have been positively in raptures. You need not be surprised that I allow no time for your answers, for I shall never get to the end of all that I have to say. One recollection wakes a thousand others. I suppose you would like to see my sketches, though, and my fanciful rhymes." Duncan untied the writing case which was always his constant companion. "There, mother, is a Highland cottage, just the cottage which I admire, for you to look at its small fields appeared like an island among the dark heath, or rather like an Oasis in the Arabian Deserts: not that I think the wild heaths deserts; to me they outshine all rich scenery hills of every shape rising around, with heather bells in full bloom as far as the eye can gaze, little silvery lakes gleaming in the hollows, are much finer than soft green fields. Then, in winter, such scenery is just as beautiful; it depends not on summer warmth, or spring verdure; and the very clouds which winter darkens it with, add sublimity and grandeur.-Those birch trees are not half elegant enough. That rivulet! I could not paint that rivulet, with the beds of emerald grass and sparkling sand it flows over, with half its coy windings, its silent dimpling depths, and babbling shallows. That blue patch is meant for a part of the rock literally hidden by a tuft of harebells: now I think of it, here are some lines on the harebell, my favourite flower. Florella, will you read them aloud? No, give them to me, I will read them myself. With drooping bells of clearest blue, The azure butterflies that flew Where on the heath thy blossoms grew, Where feathery fern and golden broom 'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, 'Mid ruins crumbling to decay, Thy flowers their heavenly hues display, Still freshly springing, Where pride and pomp have past away, On mossy tomb, and turret gray, Like friendship clinging. When glow-worm lamps illume the scene, And silvery daisies dot the green, Thy flowers revealing, Perchance to soothe the fairy queen, But most I love thine azure braid, And thou appearest, Stealing beneath the hedge-row shade, Whose last are dearest. Thou art the flower of memory; The pensive soul recals in thee The year's past pleasures; And, led by kindred thought, will flee, "Till, back to careless infancy, The path she measures. Beneath autumnal breezes bleak, Pale as the pale blue veins, that streak Thou shalt be sorrow's love and mine; With spring are banish'd. In summer's beam the roses shine, But I of thee my wreath will twine, "How do you like these fanciful verses? fanciful enough! are they not?"-" They are very pretty, my dear Duncan," replied Mrs. F. and she tried to check the sigh that was, however, audible. " I don't know what is the matter with you all," said Duncan, looking round at them; "you are ill, dear mother; I am sure you are, for you look very pale; you are ill," he continued in the tenderest voice," and here have I been teasing you with my follies." "I am not quite well," she answered, as he affectionately kissed her, and then sat down sadly, and quietly, holding his mother's hand; his eyes seemed fixed on the ground, but he saw nothing, for they were dimmed by tears. "How is my father, my dear father?" he asked, starting up quickly: "I did not forget him, but I hardly have had time to miss him; I suppose he is not come home from the counting house yet"-Florella whispered to Jeanie:" I can't bear to tell him to night, when he is so gay and hap |