for conspiracy against the life of Elizabeth. Sentence of death was passed upon her. She protested her innocence. You know the rest, -the last tragedy of all, in the Castle of Fotheringhay.

"Bothwell died an exile and a madman, some nine years after his marriage with Mary.

"It is said that it was found, after her execution, that her real hair, under her wig, was as white as that of a woman of seventy. I cannot wonder.

It was

"She had one little friend who remained true to the last. her little dog. He followed her to the block, and cowered, frightened, under her dress, at the fatal moment, and lay down beside her headless body when the last tragedy was over. It could not be driven away from its mistress; and when the body was removed it began to droop, as though understanding its loss, and in two days it died."

"I have spoken at school a poem by, Bulwer Lytton, founded on the incident," said Wyllys.

"Can you now repeat it?" asked Master Lewis.

"I will try."

THE DEAD QUEEN.

The world is full of life and love; the world methinks might spare,
From millions, one to watch above the dust of monarchs there.
And not one human eye! yet, lo! what stirs the funeral pall?
What sound it is not human woe wails moaning through the hall.
Close by the form mankind desert one thing a vigil keeps ;
More near and near to that still heart it wistful, wondering, creeps.
It gazes on those glazèd eyes, it hearkens for a breath;

It does not know that kindness dies, and love departs from death.
It fawns as fondly as before upon that icy hand,

And hears from lips that speak no more the voice that can command.

To that poor fool, alone on earth, no matter what had been
The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, the dead was still a Queen.
With eyes that horror could not scare, it watched the senseless clay,
Crouched on the breast of death, and there moaned its fond life away.
And when the bolts discordant clashed, and human steps drew nigh,

The human pity shrank abashed before that faithful eye;

It seemed to gaze with such rebuke on those who could forsake,
Then turned to watch once more the look, and strive the sleep to wake.
They raised the pall, they touched the dead: a cry, and both were stilled,
Alike the soul that hate had sped, the life that love had killed.

Semir'amis of England,' hail! thy crime secures thy sway;

But when thine eyes shall scan the tale those hireling scribes convey,
When thou shalt read, with late remorse, how one poor slave was found
Beside thy butchered rival's corse, the headless and discrowned,
Shall not thy soul foretell thine own unloved, expiring hour,
When those who kneel around the throne shall fly the falling tower?
When thy great heart shall silent break; when thy sad eyes shall strain
Through vacant space, one thing to seek, one thing that loved-in vain?
Though round thy parting pangs of pride shall priest and noble crowd,
More worth the grief that mourned beside thy victim's gory shroud!

Master Lewis continued the general subject of the meeting.
"What, Frank, has been the most interesting object you have

seen?"

there

The Cannongate. I read its history in the guide-book, and I spent an hour in the place. One could seem in fancy to live hundreds of years."

said

"King James rode through this street on his way to Flodden," Master Lewis. "Montrose was dragged here upon a hurdle. It was in a church here that Jenny Geddes bespoke the sentiment of the people by hurling her stool at the head of the Dean, who attempted to enforce the Episcopal service.

"I will read the Collect,' said the Dean.

"Colic, said ye? The De'il colic the warne of ye!'

"Here came John Knox, after his interview with Queen Mary, cold and grim, and unmoved by her tears. Here rode the Pretender. Here dwelt the great Dukes of Scotland and the Earls of Moray and Mar."

"I wished I were a poet, a painter, or an historian, when I was there," said Frank. "It is said Sir Walter Scott used to ride there

1 Elizabeth.

slowly, and that almost every gable recalled to him some scene of triumph or of bloodshed."

"I cannot begin to tell you stories of Cannongate," said Master Lewis. "Such stories would fill volumes, and give a view of the whole of Scottish history. What, Ernest, has impressed you most?"

"The view of Edinburgh at night is the most beautiful sight I have seen. But the charm that Scott's poetry has given to Melrose Abbey, haunts me still, notwithstanding my disappointment at the ruin. This was the tomb of the Douglases and of the heart of Bruce.

"I will tell you a story of one of the Douglases, whose castle still stands, not far from Melrose," said Master Lewis; "a story which I think is one of the most pleasing of the Border Wars. I will call the story

THE BLACK DOUGLAS.

"King Edward I. of England nearly conquered Scotland. They did not have photographs in those days, but had expressive and descriptive names for people of rank, which answered just as well. So Edward was known as 'Longshanks.' It was from no lack of spirit or energy' that he did not quite complete the stubborn work; but he died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his body should be boiled in a caldron, and that his bones should be wrapped up in a bull's hide, and carried at the head of the army in future campaigns against the Scots. After these and some other queer requests, death relieved him of the hard politics of this world, and so he went away. Then his son, Edward II., tucked away the belligerent old King's bones among the bones of other old kings in Westminster Abbey, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.

"Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but he had a very long head, as you