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action, and so exhausted did she become, that sometime after midnight she fell into a fitful slumber, whence, however, she started at the earliest after their chief; but the old man, who had brought Granville's portmanteau across the hills, detained them until he had loosened his shield dawn of day.

And, oh! what a lovely morning it was. The sun rose brightly and clearly, and the glittering clouds added their purple tints to his golden rays; never did Nature and all her attributes look more beautiful-one heart alone remained insensible to her delightful influence.

Poor Alice," rallying all her energies," resolved to leave the cottage, and seek the place of combat. She fulfilled her intentions, leaning on the arm of her faithful woman. And those who had seen the fair and beautiful creature of the previous night, her heart full of joy and affection, would not have recognised her, in the worn broken-down creature who, with her eyes fixed on Heaven, dragged her faint and wearied limbs to the spot which she desired to visit.

"Here, madam," said Peggie, when they had reached it, "here is the ground on which they fought-the grass is still wet." "With blood," muttered Alice, shuddering.

"I know," continued the woman, "that one was wounded, for I saw the other, when they parted, after their struggle, rush upon him and cut him down-that I dared not tell you last night."

"It was the shortest of the two that fell," said Peggie; "I could not, of course, see their faces, but I am certain it was Ronald M'Cleanit was all confused to my sight-but the memory of it will never fade."

The joy of hearing that her beloved Granville had escaped, did not hinder Alice from feeling sore and deep regret for the fate of M'Clean. He had been, as we knew, the constant companion of her youth-they had together explored the wildest mountain paths, together plucked the fragrant heather or culled the wildest fruits; and the thought that he should have fallen while he was in fact her guest, and almost before her door, only because he had dared to love her-struck deep into her generous heart. If strange events had not occurred-if fate had otherwise decided between James and George, she would, in all human probability, have been his wife. She had always esteemed him, admired the nobleness of his character, respected his principles and his virtues, and, if she had not loved, she at least preferred him to all others, until the fortune of war and a totally unforeseen event had brought her so strangely acquainted with Granville, and created a feeling of gratitude and devotion in her heart, which naturally, in such a heart, grew into an ardent love for her deliverer.

Alice left the blood-stained spot; she gazed around her in every direction in hopes to see her beloved; the feagle soared from its eyrie, beating the clear air with its wings; the patient fisherman pursued his daily toil in silence on the lake-but no Granville came. At one point of her path the roof of Malldaloch, caught her sight; a thousand thoughts flashed into her mind-a thousand associations connected with the days of childhood-a thousand regrets for the fate of M'Clean. "No," said she, "it is not so; M'Clean is wrong-my father did not fall by Granville's hand-he is free from that stain. But even if he did, it was in battle. Could I not forgive him? It was his duty; but

to marry him-to feel my hand grasped by that which killed my parent -misery, misery!"

Exhausted and broken-hearted, Alice retraced her steps to the cottage; her anxiety for news of Granville, "with all his sins upon his head," amounting to something like frenzy, when at the door she found the old Highlander, whose generous feeling towards the Southron has already been noticed.

"Lady of Malldaloch," said the old man, "he is dying in your house -in the house of the M'Cleods. To die so young is hard-and for a woman's love too-had it been in the good old cause-"

Holy Virgin!" said Alice, "support me at this moment! Do you mean to say that he wished to be taken to Malldaloch ?"

"Yes," said the old man; "he said it would be a blessing to him to die under the roof of your fathers, and entreated us to carry him to what was your room in other days.'

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"Oh! Ronald, Ronald!" sobbed Alice, "I have wronged you-I have ruined you, and all because you loved me!" and she hurried away to the old house.

The old Highlander did not at all understand or enter into Alice's feelings, nor did he exactly comprehend the meaning of the quarrel. He satisfied himself with thinking it exceedingly ridiculous for men to fight about "ladie love," and appeared almost angry with the Lady of Malldaloch for being at all affected by the circumstance.

Alice, weak as she was, hastened on her way, anxious to pour such balm as she could, into the wounds of her devoted Ronald, and almost dissatisfied that Granville had not had the manliness to return to her, to tell her what had occurred. She reached the gate-with almost supernatural strength, she ran up the staircase which led to her once familiar room, and throwing open the door beheld stretched upon an old wretched bedstead, which had escaped the ravages of time and rebellion, pale as death and deeply wounded on the chest-her adored Granville himself.

Her eyes were rivetted on the horrid sight; she panted for breathall she could mutter was, "And M'Clean has done this?"

The agitation of Granville at the sight of his beloved Alice, forced the blood to flow afresh from the wound, which had been left since the preceding night without surgical aid. He could not speak to her, but the expression of his ghastly countenance seemed to say, "Do not hate me, Alice !-do not abandon me !"

Alice fancied she saw her father's noble figure flit by her, and heard his voice sounding in her ears; the pulsation of her heart was audible-such was the silence of the apartment.

"If I forsake you," said Alice," may Heaven forsake me!" and taking his hand into hers, which trembled like a leaf, she kissed his cold lips, and the knot which confined her hair breaking, her long fair tresses fell over the neck of her wounded lover. But Alice rallied from her momentary tenderness-action was necessary to save her beloved she instantly despatched the old Highlander to the village for assistance; and in a very short time the surgeon arrived. After having examined the wound or wounds of Granville, he told the Lady of Malldaloch that the danger was imminent.

"Let what may happen," said Alice, in a whisper, "I will not leave him."

Granville's eye remained fixed on hers; he made great efforts to speak, but in vain; he saw a change as wonderful in her countenance since they parted the night before, as she saw in his; but although he believed that death had laid his iron hand upon her, he still saw in her eyes all the energy, all the feeling, all the devotion, of a woman full of love and courage.

The surgeon quitted them for a short time;-when he returned, his silence and the expression of his countenance, conveyed to the wretched Alice the dreadful intelligence, that all hope was gone. Not five minutes after this heart-rending announcement, footsteps were heard on the staircase the door was thrown open, and at the foot of the bed stood Ronald M'Clean.

Upon seeing Alice, he started back; she hid her the moment after her eye had glanced upon his figure. on the woeful scene before him with unfeigned regret. herself from her first surprise at the sight of him, firmly and steadily, and said

face in her hands M'Clean gazed Alice, recovering looked at him

"Are you come to see him die ?-Were you not sure you had killed your victim?"

"No, Alice," said M'Clean, " a very different feeling has brought me hither; and although the sight of you here may have rekindled my hatred, I pitied him and lamented his fate. I wounded him,—that is true, but honourably-in single combat, where we were hand to hand, and foot to foot; our swords were crossed before witnesses. I wounded him, I say, but the fate might have been mine, for the Southron is brave and dexterous. All I ask for myself is an appeal to himlet him speak, and hear what he relates of our fight."

The surgeon, who had just laid his hand upon Granville's heart, said, in a low whisper,

"Sir-he will never speak more."

M'Clean instantly stepped forward to save Alice, who seemed falling on the bed, but a loud and horrid laugh was the only reply to his advance, which she repulsed with horror.

"My love, my life!" screamed she to the mangled corpse, "rise, rise!-give me your hand-the altar is ready-the priest is here I am your betrothed, your beloved!—I am happy, happy!-See, see, how well I look in my wedding clothes!"

And she sank on the dead man's bloody breast.

At this sad sight, tears trickled down Ronald's cheeks, and, raising his eyes to Heaven, he exclaimed:

"Oh, holy Virgin, have pity on her!"

THE TRAGEDY WAS ENDED.

LINES

ON THE CHRISTENING OF MY BROTHER'S INFANT SON,

February 21, 1839.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

THERE is a sound of laughter, light and gay

And hurried welcomes, as of joyful greeting,
The stir and murmur of a holiday,

The grouping of glad friends each other meeting :
And in the midst art THOU-thou tiny flower,
Whose coming hath so cheer'd this wintry hour!

Helpless thou liest, young blossom of our love!

The sunshine of fond smiles around thee beaming,
Blessings call'd down on thee from Heaven above,
And every heart about thy future dreaming:-
Meek peace and utter innocence are now
The sole expression of thy baby brow.

Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face

Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances,

Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace,

Which fancy finds, and so thy worth enhances
Clothing with thought mature, and power of mind,
Those infant features, yet so faintly lined

And still thy youthful mother bendeth down
Her large, soft, loving eyes, brimful of gladness,
Her cheek almost as waxen as thine own,

Her heart as innocently free from sadness:
And still a brighter smile her red lip wears
As each her young son's loveliness declares.

And sometimes as we gaze a sigh is heard,

(Though from the happy group all grief seems banish'd), As thou recallest, little nestling bird,

Some long familiar face whose light hath vanish'd Some name, which yet hath power our hearts to thrill,

Some smile, whose buried beauty haunts us still!

Ah! most to Her, the early widowed, come

Thoughts of the blossoms that from earth have perish a; Lost to her lone and solitary home,

Though in her brooding memory fondly cherish'd :

Her little grandson's baby-smiles recall
Not one regretted hope of youth, but all!

Her Son's son lies upon her cradling knee,

And bids her heart return, with mournful dreaming,
To her own first-born's helpless infancy,

When hope-youth's guiding star, was brightly beaming;
And He, who died too soon, stood by and smiled,

And bless'd alike the mother and her child.

Since then, how many a year hath fleeted past!
What unforeseen events, what joys, what sorrows,
With sunshine or with clouds have overcast

The long succession of her lonely morrows;
E'er musing o'er this fair and new-born face,
A fresh link carried on her husband's Race!

Fair child, that race is not by man's award

Ennobled, but by God; no titles sounded
By herald's trump, or smooth and flattering bard,
Proclaim within what lines thy rank is bounded :—
Thy power hereditary, none confine,

The gift of Genius, boy, by right is thine!

Be humble, for it is an envied thing,

And men whose creeping hearts have long submitted
Around the column'd height to clasp and cling

Of Titled Pride-by man to man transmitted-
Will grudge the power they have less cause to dread,
Oppose thee living, and malign when dead.

One of thy lineage served his country well
(Though with her need, her gratitude departed);
What in her memory now is left to dwell?

The faults of him who died half broken-hearted :-
And those whose envious hands ne'er stretch'd to save,
Pluck down the laurels springing from his grave.

Yet, hush! it is a solemn hour; and far

Be human bitterness and vain upbraiding;
With hope, we watch thy rising, thou young star,
Hope not all earthly, or it were too fading;

For we are met to usher in thy life,

With prayer, which lifteth hearts, and quelleth strife. March.-VOL. LV. NO. CCXIX.

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