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 I 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."

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

VOL. II.

E

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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First, miss, he's much better already, and almost sure, the doctor says, to be saved."

"Thank Heaven!" murmured Ellen, tears gushing from her eyes, and clasping her hands.

"But it was a narrow escape, miss," added Ruth, anxious not to resign the great delight of the lower orders-that of exciting surprise, and even horror.

"I beg you will tell me the particulars, Ruth."

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Why, then, miss, Mr. Grunter, from over-exertion of his brain-a-writing the biggest book as ever was, has broken a bloodvessel in his leg, and has well nigh bled to death !"

"Not in his leg, surely, Ruth-in his lungs, perhaps. Poor Mr. Grunter!"

"Oh, miss! I'm most positive it was in his leg, miss, for I've just seen Mr. Smith, Mr. Jobb's young assistant, a most genteel young man, miss, who has sat up all night with Mr. Grunter; and, on my asking how his patient was, miss, he told me the whole case, and said a blood-vessel bursted in the leg was more dan