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shouting, and nane helping me at a', and I expecting every moment that the great heathen o'a beast would tak me in his wicked trunk and poke me down his hideous throat.

“Ye may believe that I cried, and shrieked, and tauld them a' they were na men, but waur than brute bastes, to see a lassie in such a straight, and na to help her. The brutes only laughed the mair. Weel, I canna tell how lang I was in this unco great peril, for in danger one canna measure time; when to my great joy I found the creature's trunk was in search na o mysel but o' my reticule, which the cunning creature had seen me fill wi' buns, which I had intended for the bears.

“ Weel, I was wild wi' joy at the moment to think it was the bag he wanted and na me. Sae he took it and swallowed it wi' a' its contents, and then he walked out o' the water, and I mair dead than alive was lifted off his bock, and getting awa’ fra a' the laughing brutes, to whom I gave a gude lecture, and one I think they wunna forget, I ran bock to

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the gate, and got safe into my cob again : but oh! wi' what sorrow did I remember me, when my first joy was over, in my puir bog was not only the cakes, my handkerchief, and an empty poorse, but alas! the fatal pictur o' Donald o' the brae, which Grizzy begged me to keep for her, and which, like a thoughtless lassie as I am, I put in my bag at the opera, and never thought of mair: if she should ask for it again, I ken na what I shall do.

“I must noo conclude, hoping we may meet again, either in London or Edinbro', for I dinna like the country; for I must say I think we're as weel fitted to be great friends as ony twa lassies can be, having the same tastes and pursuits, and a' that. I have not tauld Grizzy o' my accidents wi' the carriage, the wax figure, or the beasts. So, when you write, make na allusion to them. Remember me to a' your family, and particularly to the French count and Mr. Grunter, whose attentions 1 beg you to say are not forgotten, for the Douglases ha’ long memories. I now

remain, hoping our acquaintance may continue through life, ever, my dear Ellen,

“ Your affectionate friend,

“ BABIE DOUGLAS.” The contents of this letter diverted Ellen's mind, and ere long she was in “the bright land of dreams."

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CHAPTER XXXI.

“Say who is fated not to be

A watcher on that bridge of gloom,
Which sways a hair above a sea
Of doubt, despair, and doom ?”

E. L. B.

The most eloquent and powerful of our living writers has remarked (clothing an universally experienced truth in a poetical and striking metaphor), that “ It is in the morning that the churchyard of memory gives up its dead.”

Poor Ellen experienced the force of this observation, for scarcely was she thoroughly awake, before all her fancies and fears of the preceding evening, all her anxieties and all her sorrows, came forth, like giants refreshed

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by slumber, to attack and to subdue her. Unable to rest, she rose at an unusually early hour. She had completed her toilet before the maid, who attended her sister and herself, “ Ruth,” the pretty rosy daughter of the parish-clerk and sexton of Moss Grove, came in to call her.

Ruth looked very important, and, as Ellen did not question her, she began to converse herself by observing, “ Ill news travels apace, miss, as the proverb says."

“What ill news, Ruth ?” asked Ellen, the remark striking on the overstrung chords of her fancy.

“Why, poor Mr. Grunter's accident, miss."

“ His accident !” said Ellen, much alarmed, for she felt for all who lived.

“Oh, yes, miss, a sad accident! I knew it last night, miss, but I wouldn't tell it, for fear of spoiling your night's rest, particularly as I saw you looked ill, miss — but it's a dreadful accident."

“ What ? ” faltered Ellen, pale, but nerved to hear the worst-" tell me at once, Ruth.”

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