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-'j.f ,i rf/iliT r [JT/iVf TrmwtD A TIDW rn A w/'p/iwinr, l BwLLJII JulfiiJiUm MliMuilMli ItrMilfiii 11 il. I pus, $2,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE. Original partrtj. for tlie SouthiTii Literary Gazette. the tear. . ,1,1. through ail thy phases t ack’d, VVi„ ;e o'er thy home may be ; spray, in dow’ret’s bell, I, maiden’s lovely e’e. i1; , n . .t ocean’s swelling surge, ,) ri the toi rent’s foam; „ ~ M ,i of most consummate grace, [. beauty’s radiant home. |,a e.-t light, ray’d through thy globe, Di-olves in tinted beams; , ) ,m die darkly gaih’ring cloud, IV arc prismatic gleams. I I,uiu. Reflection’s magic charm, Ami m ihy mirror gay, i ~ ,j uckly caught and backward flung, In fascinating play, All grace! 1 forms and lovely hues, That float around thy rphere, , ,„M by thy ever changeful glow, for aye to linger there. V■ ruction's gravitat tig law, In thee completely shows, v , I, yon far and mighty orb, Ad adiant y tout glows. ,| who that view- thy circlet clear, Would ever dream that Life, y I ~,, thv pu.e, transparent zone, \buii .amly is rite. ,i vet. ih<>u ait a mimic world, \ b ell t irotignig millions till ; i,i e-. perhaps, I ke us instinct, With pa rion, laneV, Will. may wo pau e in thoughtful mood, OY. a.I a diop reveals, Y.'iiiie fancy dreams of wonders more, It- lucid dome conceals. Thanks for the lessons thou ha t taught, Right glad are we to learn : Ha ttlnm no more—no dearer truth, \, tli.ng for which our spir.t’s yearn ? Yes, yes! thou art a beauteous type, f)| Spirit's mystic law, which, lo one Great Centre true, Ah souls forever di aw. A'many mil non atoms small Aie gather’d in this sphere, Tatu.m one peiteet, glorious whole, All brilliant, soft and dear. ’finis i ft from out some tiny scroll, l'lie leeling heart will hear Sunniest t uths for mind and soul, For such we give—a tear. ROSE DU SUD. Xorrmber , 1800. Stfltftrti Cuba. From “ Papers for the People.** liib LAST OF THE RUTHYENS. CHAPTER I. Davie Calderwood ! worthy tutor ami master ! —Davie Calderwood.” — The old man made no answer to the . whu h he scarce seemed even to hoar, lie sat not far from the shadow el his college walls, watching the little ■silvery ripples of the Cam. 11 is doc- ; I “id robes hid acommo.i homely, dress “f gray ; his large feet dangling over lie river bank, were clumsily shod, and his white close-cropped hair gave him a Puritanical look, when compared w ith tlm cava.ier air of the two youths who stood behind hitn. ” Davie t a.dei wood—wake up, man! News!—great news! From Scotland!” a led the elder lad in a cautious w his per. i pierced the torpor of the old man: hi started up with trembling eagerness. ” kh, my dear bairn !—1 mean my hud—my Lord Cowrie !” “Hush!” said the youth bitterly; “lit not t lie birds of the air carry that so nd. Was it not crushed out of the earth a year ago 1 Call me William hntliven, or else plain W illiam, till “i'dini) good sword I w in back my ti de mid in\ father’s name.” ” A iilit—W illie!” murmured the .'"on er brother in anxious warning. “di i- afraid—wee Patrick!” laugh (i Kuthven. ‘’lie thinks -tiut wads have ears, and rivers tongues, Ua,: that every idle woid 1 say will go j “All ‘'peed to the vain, withered old ‘ “ten Loudon, or to dafi King Jamie ‘-'linbiirgli! lie thinks he shall )et ’ omher \Viliie’s love-locks floating ,M, in the top of the lo booth beside d'"se 0 f winsome Aleck and noble John.” liie elder youth spoke in that bitter tone used to hide keenest suf ‘e hig ; hut the younger one, a slight de. irate boy of hi etecn. clung to Ins 1 ,; n is aim, and burst into tears. ” Alv ioid, ’ said .Master David Cat ierwond, “ye suid be mair tender o’ ■hi aid— \our ae brother — your mo 11 “ voungest bairn ! Ye speak too Dhh) o Hungs awfu’ to tell of- —aw- tu hi mind. Alaster Patrick,” he add 'd- i<i) iug his hand gently on the boy ’s bolide , “ye are thinking of ilk puir “A “ given to the tow Is of the air and die winds of heaven,at Sterling, Edin -1 -ii. and Dundee; but ye forget that H|i nun dishonours the poor .dust, mair (jod keeps the soul. There d'v mimi . e thus o’ your twa brothers “hie bonnie Earl of Gowrie, and no d” Alexander liuthven —that are baith with God.” he spoke the doctor’s voice tal for nature had put into his huge, ‘•-tinned fame a gentle, womanly Tn'it; and though he hail fled from his 1 “try, and never beheld it since the mar when his beloved lord, the first of Gowrie, and father of these • nhs. perished on the scaffold —still, ” ‘ hist a,l the learning and honours pined in his adopted home, David Jder wood carried in his bosom the ’ “• true Scottish heart; and perhaps filmed more over the boy Patrick, | M lllar lie was, like his long dead fa ll'n quiet retir ng student, given to nbitru-e philosophy ; whereas Wil die elder was a youth of bold s ; ‘A, who chafed under his forced re -1 “unent, and longed to tread in the of his ancestors, even though *’ > led ti the same bloody end. ” Well, good master,” he said “when a FiiM mm&k mmm m imimm. w arts mb mmm t mb m am ntmuanaL you have wept enough with Patrick, hear my news.” ‘•ls it torn my mother, the puir limited dove, auld and worn, flying hither and thither about the ruins of her nest?” Lord Gowrie’s—let ns give him the j title for three months borne, then at tainted, but which yet fondly lingered on the lips of two faithful friends, j David Calderwood, and Lettice his i daughter —Lord Gowrie’s brow redden- j ed, and instinctively he put his hand to where his sword should have hung. — j 1 lieu he muttered angrily, “ I forget I I am no ea 1, no Scottish knight, but only a poor Cambridge student. — j Hut,” he added, his face kindling, j “though the lightning has fallen on the ; parent trunk, and its two brave branch- j es, and though the rest are trodden un- j der foot of men, still there is life, blood, fresh in the old tree. It shall grow up and shelter her yet —my no- ! b!e, long-endui ing mother —the first, | the best, the No; she shall not be j the last Lady Gowrie.” VV bile speaking, a flush, deeper even j than that of youth’s enthusiasm, burn- \ ed on tin; young earl’s cheek, and he j looked up to the window where Let tice sat —sweet Lettice Calderwood, sweeter even than she was fair! She at a distance dimly saw the look ; she met it with a bank smile—the smile a single-hearted, happy girl would cast willingly on all the world. “ i he news—the news !” murmured old David. “My bairns, ye talk, and : ye rave, but ye dimia tell tlie news.” “ My mother writes that the cloud seems passing from our house ; for the Queen Anne—she favours us still, de spite her lord—the Queen Anne has secretly sent for our sister Beatrice to court.” “Beatrice, whom brother Alexander loved more than all the rest,” said Pa trick simply. But the elder brother ft owned, and rather harshly bade him hold his peace. “ Patriik is a child, and knows noth ing,” said the young earl; “ but 1 know all. \\ hat caie 1 for this weak queen’s folly or remembered sin, ifthiough her means 1 creep back into my father’s honoured seat] Oh, shame that 1 can only creep ; that 1 must enter Scotland like a thief, and steal in at the court holding on to a woman's robe, when 1 would lain come with fire and sword, to crush among the ashes of his own palace the murderer of my race!” lie spoke with a resolute fierceness, strange in such a youth; his black brows contracted, and his statue seem ed to swell and grow. Simple Davie Calderwood looked and trembled. “ Ye’re a Kuthven, true and bold; but ye’re no like the Earl o’ Gowrie. I see in your face your father’s father— him that rose from a dying bed tohea shedder of blood —him that slew Riz zio in Holy rood !” “And when 1 stand in Holyrood— whether 1 creep in there or force my way with my sword—l will kneel down on that bloody spot, and pray Heaven to make me too as faithful an avenger,” was the keen low answer.— Then, turning off his passionate emo tion w ith a jest, as he often did, Lord Gowrie said gaily to his brother, “Come, Patrick, look not so pale ; tell our good master the rest of the news—that to-night, this very night, thou and 1 must start for bourne Scotland !” “Who is talking of bonnie Soot land f” said a girl s voice, young in deed, but yet touched with that inex plicable tone which never comes until life's first lessons have been learned-- those lessons, whether of joy or grief, which leave in the child’s careless bo som a w oman’s heart. Lord Gowrie turned quickly and looked at Lettice, smilingly—raptu rously, yet bashfully, as a youth looks at his first idol. 1 hen he repeated his intention of departure, though in atone less joyous than before. Lettice,heard, without emotion as it seemed, only that her two thin hands —site was a lit tle creatuie, pale and slight—were pressed tightly together. There are some faces w hich, by instinct or by force of w ill, can hide all emotion, and then it is the hands which tell the tale the fluttering fingers, the tight clench, the palms rigidly cruslnd together. — But tokens of s tiering no one sees: no one saw them in Lettice Cal derwood. “Do ye no grieve, my daughter, over these bairns that go from us ! Y\ ae’s me! but there’s danger in ilka step to baitli the lads.” “Are both going ?” asked Lettice; and her eye wandered towards the younger b.other, who had moved a iit tfe apart, and stood by a little liver, plucking leaves, and throwing them down the stream. “ Its a long, severe journey, and master Patrick has been so ill, and is not \ et strong,” added the girl, speaking with that grave dignity which, as mistress of the household, site sometimes assumed, and which made her seem far older than her years. “ Patrick is a weakly fellow, to be sure,” answered Lord Gow rie, inward ly smilingly over his own youthful strength and beauty ; “but 1 will take care of him—he will go w ith his bro ther.” “ Yes,” said Patrick, overhearing all, as it scented. But he said no more : he was a youth of few words. Very soon Calderwood and the young lord began to talk over the projected jour ney. But Patrick sat down by the river-bank,and began idly plucking and examining the meadow-flowers, just as if his favourite herbal and botanical science w ere the only interests of life. “Patrii k !” whispered Lettice’s kind, sisterly voice. She sometimes forgot the difference of rank and blood in her tender compassion for the young pro scribed fugitives w ho had been sent, in such utter destitution and misery, to her father’s care —“Patrick !” “ Yes, Mistress Lettice. “The evening closes cold; take this !” She had brought a cloak to wrap round him. “ You are very kind, very thought ful-—like a sister .” Saying this, he turned quick, and looked at her. Let tice smiled. Whether gladsome or sorry, she could always bend her lips to that pale, grave smile. “ Well, then, listen to me, as you al ways do; 1 being such a staid, wise old woman” “Though a year younger than 1.” “ Still, listen to me. My Lord Gow rie, your brother, is rash and bold: you must be prudent for the sake of both. \\ hen you go from us, Patrick, cease dreaming, and use your wisdom. You have indeed the strength and wisdom of a man; it will he needed. Let not William bring you into peril; take care of him and of yourself.” Here the lips that spoke so woman ly, grave, and calm, began to tremble; and Lettice, hearing her name called, went away. Patrick seemed mechanically to re peat to himself her last words, w hether in pleasure, pain, or indifference, it was impossible to tell. Then his features relapsed into their usual expression— thoughtful, quiet, and passionless. An old-young face it was—a mingling of the child with the man of old, blit w it h no trace of youth between—a face such as we see sometimes, and fancy that we read therein the coming history as plainly written as in a book. So while, as the evening passed, Lord Gowrie’s fiery spirit busied itselfabout plots and schemes, the late of king doms and of kings; and Davie Calder wood, stirred from his learned equi poise, troubled bis simple mind with anxiety concerning his two beloved pu pils—Lettice hid all her thoughts in her heart, brooding tremblingly over them there. But the young herbalist sat patiently pulling his flowers to pieces, and ruminating meanwhile ; his eyes fixed on the little rippling stream. He seemed born to be one of those meek philosophers who through life sit still, and let the world roll by with all its tumults, passions, and cares. They are above it ; or, as some would deem, below it. But in either case it touches not them. It was the dawn of a September day, gloomy and cold. All things seem ed buried in a dull sleep, except the Cam that went murmuring over its pebbles hour after hour, from night till morn. Lettice heard it under her window, as she stood in the pale light, fastening her head-tire with trembling l ands. 1 hey were just starting—the two young Scottish cavaliers. Both had cast off the dress of the student, and appeared as befitted their birth.— Bold, noble, and handsome looked the young Earl William in his gay doublet, with his sword by his side. As he walked with Lettice to the garden, (he had half-intreated, half-commanded to have a rose given by her hand,) his manner seemed less boyish—more courtly and tender withal. Ilis last words, too, as he rode away, were a gay compliment, and an outburst of youthful hope; alluding to the time when he should come back endowed with the forfeited honours of his race, and choose, not out of Scottish but of English maidens, a “ Lady Gowrie.” Patrick, stealing after, a little paler —a little more silent than usual—affec tionately bade his master adieu ; and to the hearty blessing and good-speed only whispered “Amen.” Then he took Lettice’s hand ; he did not kiss it, as his brother had gracefully and cour teously done; but he clasped it with a light cold clasp, saying gently, “ Fare well ! Lettice, my kind sister .” IShe moved a little, as if pained ; and then calmly echoed the farewell. But when the sound of the horses’ feet died away, she went slow ly up to her little chamber, shut the door, sat down, and wept. Once only looking at her little hand —holding it as if there still lingered on it a vanished touch—the deep colour rose in her cheek, and over her face there passed a quick, sharp pang. “His sister—always his sister /” She said no more. After a w hile she dried her tears, wrapped round her heart that veil of ordinary outer life w hich a woman must always wear, and went down to her father. “ Lettice, what are those torn papers that thou art t’a-tening together with thy needle? Are they writings or problems of mine ’?” “Not this time, father,” said Lettice meekly ; “ they are fragments left by your two pupils.” “1 hat is, by Patrick! William did not love to study, except that fantastic learning which all the Kuthveus loved —the oocult sciences. Whose papers are these.” “ Master Patrick’s; he may want ; them when he returns.” “ When! Ah, the dear bairn, his I puir father’s ain son ! will 1 ever see his face again V There was no answer save that ofsi lence and paleness. Lettice's fingers worked on. But a dull, cold shadow seemed to spead itself over the room —over every w here she turned her ey es; duller than lhe gloomy evening—cold er than the cold March rain w hich beat against the narrow college-windows— that shadow that crept over her heart. She looked like one who for many days and weeks had borne on her spirit— not a heavy load, that is easier to bear, but a restless struggle —sometimes pain, sometimes joy, doubt, fear, expec tation, faith, wild longing, followed by blank endurance. It was now a long time since she had learned the whole hitter meaning of those words, “ The hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.” “ My dear lassie,” said the old doc tor, rousing himself from a mathemati cal calculation which had degenerated into a. mere every-day reverie, “w here hae ye keepit the puir young earl’s letter, that said he and Patrick were haith coming back to Cambridge in a week] Can ye no tell how lang it is sin syne ?” Lettice could have answered at once —could have told the weeks, days, hours—each passing slow like years— but she did not. She paused as though CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, NOV. 23. 1850. to reckon, and then said, “It is nigh two months, if 1 count right.” “ Twa months! Alas, alas!” “ Do you think, father,” she sa>d slowly, striving to speak for the first time w hat had been so long pent up that its utterance shook her whole frame with tremblings—“do you think that any harm has come to the poor young gentlemen ?” “ 1 pray God no ! Lettice, do you mind what our puir W illie—l canna say ‘the earl’—tauld us of their great good fortune through the queen ; how that he would soon be living in Edin burgh as a grand lord, and his brother should end his studies at St. Andrews; only Patrick said he loved better to come back to Cambridge, and to his auld master. The dear bairn ! Do ye mind all this, Lettice]” “ Yes, father.” Ah, truly poor Let tice did ! “ Then, my child, we needna fear for them. They arc twa young gentle men o’ rank, and maybe they lead a merry life, and that whiles gars them forget auld friends; but they’ll aye come hack safe in time.” So saying, the old doctor settled hi .- self in his high-backed chair, and con tentedly went to sleep. His daughter continued her work until the papers were all arranged and it grew too dark to see, then she closed her eyes and pondered. Her thoughts were not w hat may be called love-thoughts, such as you, young modern maidens, indulge in when you dream of some lover kneeling at your feet, or walking by your side, know y ourself adored, and exult in the ado ration. No such li"ht emotion ruled Lettice’s fancy. Her love —if it were love, and she scarce knew it as such— had crept in unwittingly, under the guise of pity, reverence, affection ; it had struck its roots deep in her na ture; and though it bore no flowers, its life was one with the life of her heart. She never paused to think, “Do I love?” or “Am 1 loved?” but her whole being flowed into that thought wave after wave, like a stream that in sensibly glides into one dry channel, leaving all the rest. Lettice sat and thought mournfully over the many weeks of wearying ex pectation for him who never came. — How at first the hours flew winged w ith restless joy, how she lay down in hope and rose in hope, and said to herself, calmly smilingly, “ To-morrow—to mo row !” 1 low afterwards she strove to make those w ords into a daily balm to still fear and pain that would not sleep; how at last she breathed them wildly, hour by hour of each blank day, less believing in them than lifting them up like a cry of despair which must be answered. But it never was answered; and the silence now had grown so black and dull around her, that it pressed down all struggles—left her not even strength for fears. She had feared very much at first.— The young Earl W illiam, so sanguine, so bold, might have been deceived. — The king’s seeming lenity might be but assumed, until he could crush the poor remnant of the Kuthven blood. She pondered continually over the awful tale of the Gowrie plot; often at night in her dreams she saw the ensanguined axe, the two heads, so beautiful and young, mouldering away on the Tol booth. Sometimes beside them she saw another . Horror ! she knew it well—the pale, boyish cheek —the thoughtful brow. Then she would wake in shudderings and cries; and falling on her knees, pray that wherev er he was —whether or no he might gladden her eyes again—Heaven would keep him safe, and have pity upon her. Again she thought of him in pros perity, living honoured and secure un der tne glory of the Kuthven line— forgetting old friends as her father had said. Well, and w hat right had she to murmur] She did not —save that at times, even against her will, the selfish cry of weak human tenderness would rise up —“Alas thou hast all things, and I—l perish tor want!” But her conscience ever answered, “ He neither knows nor sees, so with him there is no wrong.” Night, heavy night, fell down once more. Lettice had learned to long for the dull stupor it brought—a little peace, a little oblivion mercifully clos ing each blank day. “Is it not time for lest, father ]” she often asked long ere the usual hour; and she was so glad to creep to her little bow er-cham ber, and shut out the moonbeams and the starligh', and lie in darkness and utter forgetfulness, until lulled to sleep by the ripple of the stream close by.— There had been a time when she either sat up with her father, or else lay awake till midnight, listening for steps in the garden—lor voices beneath the window —when every summons at the gate made her heart leap wildly. But all this w as passed now. Lettice. put down the lamp, took off her coif, and unbound her hair. Be fore retiring she opened the window and gazed out into the night, which was cold, hut very clear. She half leaned forward, and stretched out her hands to the north. No words can paint the look her countenance wore. It was yearning, imploring, despairing, like that of a soul longing to depart and follow upwards another soul al ready gone. In her eyes was an in tensity that seemed mighty enough to pierce through all intervening space, and fly dove-winged to its desire. Then the lids dropped, the burning tears fell, and her whole frame sank collapsed an image of hopeless, motionless de jection. She was roused by a noise—the dash of oars on the usually-deserted river. She shut the window hastily, blushing lest the lamp should have revealed her attitude and her emotion to any strang er without. The sound of oars ceased —there were footsteps up the garden alleys—there was her father’s eager voice at the door, mingled with other well-known voices. They were coming! —they were come ! In a moment all the days, weeks, months of weary waiting were swept away like clouds. The night of her sorrow was forgotten as though it had never been. “ And now that I am returned, thou wilt not give me another flower, Mistress Lettice]” said the young earl, as he followed her up the garden walks in the fair spring morning. She had risen early, for sleep had been driven away by joy. “ There are no flowers row, at least none gay enough to be worth your wearing. Daisies and violets would ill suit that courtly dress,” said the maiden, speaking blithely out of her full-hearted content. “ Does it displease you then ] Shall I banish my silver-hilted sword, and my rich doublet with three hundred points, and don the poor student’s hod den gray] I would do it, fair damsel, and willingly for thee!” And he smiled with a little conscious pride, as if he knew well that six months passed in the shadow of a court had transformed the bashful youth into an accomplished cavalier—brave, hand some, w inning, yet pure and noble at heart, as the young knights were in the golden time of Sidney and of Raleigh. Lettice regarded him in frank admi ration. “ Truly, my Lord Gowrie, you are changed. Scarce can 1 dare to give you the name you once honoured me by permitting. How shall I call you and Master Patrick my brothers]” “ / wish it not,” said the young man hastily. “As fur Patrick —never mind Patrick,” as Lettice’s eyes sitemed wandering to the river-side, where the younger Kuthven rat in his old seat. “ You see he is quite happy with his herbal and his books of philosophy. — Let him stay there for 1 would fain have speech with you.” He led her into a shady path and began to speak hurriedly. “Lettice, do you know that I may soon be summoned back to Scotland—not as a captive, but as the reinstated Earl of Gowrie ? And Let lice”—here his voice filtered, and his cheek glow ed, and he looked no more the bold cavalier, but a timid youth in his first wooing—“dear Lettice, if 1 might win my heart’s desire, 1 would not depart alone.” “Not depart alone] Then thou wilt not leave Patrick with us, as was planned ]” said the girl, uttering the first thought that rose to her mind, and then blushing for the same. “ i spoke not of Patrick—he may do as he wills. I spoke of someone dearer than brother or sister; of her who”— “ What! is it come to that]” mer rily laughed out the unconscious girl. “ Is our William at once, without sign or token, about to bring to us, and then perforce to carry away home, a bonnie Lady Gowrie ?” The carl sc .tied startled by a sud den doubt. • It is strange you should speak thus! Are you mocking me, or is it a womanly device to make me woo in plainer terms] Hear, then, Let tice, that I love ! It is you 1 would w in, you whom I would carry home in triumph, my beautiful, my wife, ray Lady Gowrie!” She stood transfixed, looking at him, not with blushes, not with maiden shame, but in a sort of dull amaze. “ Do my words startle you, sweet one? Forgive, me, then, for I scarce know what 1 say. Only i love you — 1 love you! Come to my heart, my Lettice, my wife that shall he and he stretched out his arms to enfold her. But Lettice, uttering a faint cry, glided from his vain clasp, and tied into the house. In their deepest affections women rarely judge by outward show. The young earl, gifted with all qualities to charm a lady s eye, had been loved as a brother —nothing more. The dreamy Patrick, in whose apparently passion less nature lay the mystery wherein such as Lettice ever delight—whose learning awed, while h s weakness at tracted tender sympathy —he it was who had unconsciously won the trea sure which a man giving all his sub stance could not gain—a woman’s first, best love. Her wooer evidently dreamed not the truth. She saw him still walking where she had left him, or passing un der her window, looking up rather anx iously , yet smiling. One thought only rose ciearly out of the chaos of Let tice’s ijimd—that he must be answer ed; that she must not let him deceive himself—no, not for an hour. What she should say she mounfully knew— but how to say it t Some small speech she tried to frame; hut she had never been used to veil any thought of her in noeent heart before him she treated aei brother. It was so hard to feel that all this must be changed now. Lettice was little more than eighteen years old, but the troublous life of a motherles girl had made her self-de pendent and linn. Therefore after a while, courage came to her again.— Strengthened by her one great desire to do right, she descended into the garden, and walked slowly down the alley to meet the earl. Ilis greting was full of joy. “Did 1 scare her from me, my bird ? And has she flown back of her own ac cord to her safe nest —her shelter now and evermore ?” And once more he extended his arms, with a look of proud tenderness, such ai a young lover wears when he feels that in wooing his future wife he has east off the lightsome follies of boyhood, and entered on the duties and dignities of a man. Lettice never looked up, or her heart would have smote her—that heart which, already half-crushed, had now to crush another’s. Would that wo man felt more how bitter it is to in flict this suffering, and, if wilfully in curred, how heavy is this sin! Even Lettice, with her conscience all clear, felt as though she were half guilty in having won his unsought for love. — Pale and trembling she began to say the words she had fixed on as best, humblest, kindest—“ My Lord Gow rie”— “ Nay, sweet Lettice, call me Wil liam, as you ever used to do in the dear old time.” At this allusion her set speech failed, and she'burst into tears. “Oh, Wil liam, why did you not always remain my brother? 1 should have been hap py then !” “ And now ?” “ I am very —very miserable.” There was a pause,during which Lord Gow l ie’s face changed, and he seemed to wrestle with a vague fear. At last he said, “ Wherefore ?” in a brief, cold tone, which calmed Lettice at once. “ Because,” she murmured with a mournful earnestness there was no doubting or gainsaying, “ I am not worthy your love, since in my heart { there is no answer—none!” For a moment Lord Gowrie drew j himself up with all his ancestral pride. “ Mistress Lettice Calderwood, I re gret that—that” He stammered, hesitated, then throwing himself on a wooden seat, and bowing his head, he : struggled with a young man’s first \ agony —rejected love. Lettice knelt beside him. She took his passive hands, and her tears rained over them; but what hope, what com fort could she give? She thought not of their position as maiden and suitor —Lord Gowrie and humble Lettice Calderwood—she only saw her old playmate and friend sitting thereover whelmed with anguish, and it was her hand which had dealt the blow. “ YV illiain,” she said brokenly “think not hard of me. I would make you happy if I could, but 1 cannot! I dare J not be your wife, not loving you as a wife ought.” “It is quite true, then, you do not love me]” the young earl muttered. But lie won no other answer than a sad silence. After a while he broke out again bitterly—“. Either 1 have madly deceived myself, or you have deceived me. Why did you blush and tremble when we met last night] Why, be fore we met, did I see you gazing so longingly, so passionately, on the way I should have come] Was that look false to ]” Lettice rose up from her knees, her face and neck incarnadine. “My Lord of Gowrie, though you have honoured me. and I am grateful, you have no right” ‘ 1 have a right—that of one whose whole life you have withered ; whom you have first struck blind, and then driven mad for love ! Mistress Calder woood —Lettice” In speaking her name, his anger seemed to disperse and crumble away even as the light touch shivers the molt en glass. When again he said “Let tice,” it was in a tone so humble, so heart-broken, that, hearing it, she, like a very women, forgot and forgave all. “ 1 never did you wrong, William : I never dreamed you loved me. In truth l never dreamed of love, at all until” “ Go on.” “ I cannot —I cannot!” Again si lence, again bitter tears. After a while Lord Gowrie came to her side, so changed, he might have lived years in that brief hour. “ Let tice, he said, “let there be peace and forgiveness between us. I will go away : you shall not he pained by more wooing.’ Only, ere I depart, tell me is there any hope for me in patience or long-waiting, or constant much-endur ing love]” She shook her head mournfully. “ i hen what was not mine to win is surely already won ? Though you love not me, still you love: I read it in your eyes. If so, 1 think—l think it would be best mercy to tell me. Then I shall indulge in no vain hope: I shall learn to endure, perhaps to conquer at last. Lettice, tell me : one word—no more!” But her quivering lips refused to ut ter it. “Give me some sign—ay, the sign that used to be one of death ! —let your ’kerchief fall!” For one moment her fingers instine c_* tively clutched it tighter, then they slowly unclasped. The ’kerchief fell ! W ithout one word or look Lord Gowrie turned away. He walked with something of his old proud step to the alley’s end, then threw himself down on the cold, damp turf, as though he wished it had been an open grave. When the little circle next met, it was evident to Lettice that Lord Gow rie had unfolded all to his faithful end loving younger brother. Still Patrick betrayed not his knowledge, and went on in his old dreamy and listless wavs. Once, as pausing in his reading, he saw Lettice glide from the room, pale and very sad, there was a momentary change in his look. It might he pity, or gi ief, or reproach, or what none could tell. He contrived so as to ex change no private word with her until the next morning; when, lounging in his old place, idly throwing pebbles in to the river, and watching the watery circles grow, mix, and vanish, there came a low voice in his ear. “ Master Patrick Kuthven ]” He started to hear his full name ut tered by lips once so frank and sister ly, but he took no notice. “ Well; what would you, Lettice !” “ It is early morning ; there is no one risen but we two; come with me to the house, for 1 must speak with you. And what I say even the air must not carry. Come, Patrick; for the love of Heaven, come!” Her face was haggard, her words wild. She dragged rather than led him into the room where the two hoys had once used to study with her father. — There she began speaking hurrriedly. “ Did you hear nothing last night ? —no footsteps ]—no sounds ]” “ No ; yet I scarce slept.,’ “ Nor I.” And two young faces drooped, unable to meet each other’s eyes. But soon Lettice went on : “At dawn, as 1 lay awake, it seemed as if there were voices beneath my window. I did not look : I thought it might be” “William sometimes rises very ear ly,” said the brother gravely. THIRD VOLUME-NO. 30 WHOLE NO 130. “It was not Lord Gowrie, fori heard them speak his name. Your hopes from King James were false ! Oh. Pa trick, there is danger —great danger! 1 have learned it all!” “ How]” And rousing himself, the young man regarded eagerly Lettice’s agitated mien. “ I opened the lattice softly, and list ened. When they went away, I fol lowed stealthily to the water’s edge- Patrick, they said that on the night but one after this they will return and seize you in the king’s name ! Fly—flv ! Do not let me lose forever both my brothers!” And she caught his hands as in her childhood she used to do, when beseech ing him to do for her sake many things which, from dreamy listlessness, he never would have done for his own. “ YYriiat must I do, Lettice —I, who know nothing of the world? Why did you not tell all this to YVilliam]” “I—l tell YVilliam ]” She blushed scarlet and seemed struggling with deep emotion. “Oh, true —true!” Patrick said, and there seemed a faint waking up in his passionless features. “No matter; I will at once go and tell my brother.” Lettice sat down to wait his return. All her murmur was —“ Oh, \\ illiain ! —poor William ! —so truly loving me whom others love not at all ! I turned from thee in thy prosperity, but now shall I save thee end lose myself ] — shall 1 sacrifice all to thee?” But in stinct rather than wisdom whispered to Lettice, that she who weds, knowing her heart is not with her husband, wil fully sacrifices both. In the sight of heaven and earth she takes a false vow, which, if reqirted not by man, will as suredly be avenged by God. Patrick Kuthven came back in much agitation. “He says that he will not fly ; that he heeds neither the prison nor the block, that he has no joy in life, and death is best! Lettice, go to him ; save him—you only can !” “ llow can I save him ]” mournfully Lett ice cried. “By urging him to fly. We can take horse, and cross the country to Harwich, whence a ship sails for Franee to-night. I know this, for yesterday I, too, was planning how to depart.” “ You ]” “ No matter,” said Patrick hurried ly. “Only go to William ; compel him to save his life : he will do so at your bidding.” He spoke commandingly, as if fra ternal love had transformed the gentle, timid youth into a resolute man. Let tice, won eritig and bewildered, me chanically obeyed. She came to Lord Gowrie, who, w ith the distorted aspect of one who has wasted the night in misery, not sleep, lay on the floor of what had been the boys’ plav-room. — To all her entreaties he only turned his face to the wall and answered not. At last his brother beckoned Lettice away. * Looking at Patrick, the girl marvel ed. All his impassive coldness seem ed to have melted from him. His stature appeared to rise into dignity, and there was a nobility in his face that made it beautiful to see. Lettice be held in him, for the first time, thelike ness of what she knew he would one day become—a grand, true man ; the man before whom a woman’s heart would instinctively bow down in Eve like submission, murmuring—“ I have found thee, my greater self —my head, niy sustainer, and guide !” Patrick stood silent awhile, some times reading her face, sometime cast ing her eyes downward, as it were struggling with inward pain. At last he said solemnly, “ Lettice, this is no time for idle scruple. I know a 1 that took place yesterday. I know, too, that there is one only chance, or YVil liam is lost. Is your will so firm that it cannot change ] Must he die for loving you—my dear my noble broth er, whom I would give my poor life to save ] Lettice, in this great strait, 1 entreat you —even l”—and he shudder ed visibly—“ Consider what you do. — It is an awful thing to have life and death in your hands. I beseech you let him love you, and be happy.” Lettice listened. As he spoke, slow ly — slowly the young rich blood faded from her face: she became rigid, white, and cold ; all the life left was in her eyes, and they were fixed on Pa trick, as it were the last look of one dying. “ Answer me,” she said with a mea sured, toneless voice—“answer truly on your soul. Do you desire this of me? Is it your wish that l should become your brother’s wife?” “ My wish —my wish ?” he mutter ed, and then his reply came clear and distinct, as one says the words ■which fix the sentence of a life-time, “ In the sight of God, yes !” Lettice gave him her hand, and he led her again to his brother. “ 1 need not stay,” he whispered : “you, Lettice, will say all —better say it at once.” She looked at Patrick with a bewil dered, uncertain air, and then began to speak. “Lord Gowrie, that is, William, 1” She said no more, but fell down at Patrick’s feet in a death-like swoon. Lettice lay insensible for many hours. For her there were no fare wells—when she awoke, the two bro thers were “one. She found on her O neck a golden chain, and on her finger a ring, the only tokens of the last pas sionate embraces which William hud lavished on her, whom he now consid ered his betrothed, and which she then felt no more than one dead. But when they told her all this, she flung away the ring and chain, and prayed Heaven that she might die before ever Lord Gowrie came to claim her vows. Os the younger Kuthven, she could learn nothing either from her bewilder ed father or her old nurse, except that Patrick had forcibly torn his brother away. He had not spoken, save leaving a kind farewell to his sister. In the twilight Lettice rose from her bed. She could not, for any inward misery, neglect her good father. And all her senses had been so stunned that, as yet, she was scarce alive either to the present or the future. She sat al most as if nothing had happened, listen ing to the old man’s broken talk, or idly watching the graceful smoke wreaths of the Virginia weed that Sir Walter Raleigh had just introduced, and with which rare luxury the young kinght’s friendship had provided David Calderwood. Oppresed by the sudden events which had greatly discomposed the ten or of his placid existence, the worthy doctor smoked himself to sleep. W hen with his slumbers Lettiee’s duties ceased, her bitter grief rose up. It choked her—it seemed to make the air close and fiery, so that she could not breathe. Dark and cold as the March night was, she fled out. But she kept in the thick alleys of the garden—she dared not go near the river, lest out of its cool, cool depths should rise a de mon, smilingly to tempt her there. But at length, when the moon came out from under a black cloud, Lettice thought she would approach and sit in Patrick's old seat by the side of the Cam, where in summer nights they had spent hours—she, with girlish ro mance looked up at the stars, and he teaching her all concerning them in his learned fashion, for the boy was a great astonomer. Was it a vision ? that he sat there still, in his old attitude, leaning against the willow-tree, the ligh f sla ting on his upward brow ! Her first thought was, that he had met some fearful end, and this was his apparition only. She whispered faintly “ Patric k but he neither spoke nor moved. Then she was sure she beheld the spirit of her beloved. Her highly-wrought fancy repelled all fear, and. made her feel a strange joy in this communication from the unseen world. Once more she called him by his name, adding thereto words tenderer than his living self would ever hear. — Then, seeing that the moon east his shadow on the water, the conviction that it was no spirit, but his own bodi ly form, made her start and glow tilth shame. Yet, when she approached, he lay so still, his eyes were closed, and she could almost have believed him dead. But he was only in a deep sleep of such heavy exhaustion that he hard ly seemed to breathe. Lettice crept beside him. Scarce knowing what she did, she took his cold hand and pressed it to her breast. There, suddenly waking, he felt it closely held and met a gaze so pure and maidenly, yet so full of the wild est devotion—a look such as man rare ly beholds, not even in his wife’s eyes, for the deepest tenderness is ever the most secret. Scarce had Patrick seen it than it melted into Lettiee’s ordina ry aspect; but he had seen it, and it was enough. “ When did you come back ?” faint ly asked Lettice. “At twilight: a day’s hard riding exhausted me, and 1 suppose I fell asleep here.” “ And wherefore did you return ?” Mechanical were the questions and re plies, as though both spoke at random. “ Why did I return ?” “ Yes—to danger. I had forgotten all that. O, Patrick, how shall we save you 1 Why did you not sail with Wil liam, if he has sailed ?” “He has ! There was a passage for one only—his life was most precious— he is my elder brother, so 1 persuaded him to go on board; and then—l left him.” “ Patrick—Patrick !” Unconscious ly she looked up at him in her old child ish. loving way, and her eyes were full of tears. “ Are you glad, Lettice ?” “ Glad, because you have done a no ble thing. But if through this you should be discovered and taken ; if I —that is—we all—should lose you — Hush!” That instant her quick ear, sharpened with terror, heard down the river the sound of oars. “ They are coming—those men I saw last night— they will have brought the king’s war rant that 1 heard them speak of. It is too late. O, would that jou at least had been saved !” “I, and not William ?” His words spoke grave reproach, but his looks be lied his tone. “I think not of William now. Why did he go and leave you to perish ? But 1 will not leave you ; Patrick, 1 will die with you—l” “ Lettice!” lie began to tremble, he took her hand and looked question ingly into her eyes. There seemed a doubt suddenly purling off from his mind, so that all was light and day— ay, even though nearer every minute came the distant sounds which warned him of his danger. “Hark! they are close upon us;” said Lettice in an agonized whisper.— “They will search the house through : what must be done?” “ I know not,” answered Patrick dreamily. “ But 1 know: come—come!” She drew him cautiously into a lau rel thicket close by, which, lying deep in shadow,furnished a safe hiding-place. Thinking a moment, she took off her black mantle, and w r rapped it over him, that his light doublet might not be seen through the boughs. “ We may escape them,” she said ; “we two have bidden here many a time w hen we were children.” “ Ah, Lettice!” he sighed, “we were happy then ! Even now, if W illiam had not loved” “Hush! they are landing; 1 hear their steps—keep close.” She made him kneel so that her dress might hide him, and, as fearing that his fair float ing curls might catch some stray moon beam, she put her hands upon his hair. Footsteps came nearer and nearer— life or death was in each tread. The terrified voice of David Calderwood was heard declaring that, hours since, the Scottish brothers had fled; and still the only answer was “Search—search!” In their agony the two young crea-