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 rORESTEES. 
 
 A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 
 
 BY TROFESSOR WILSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OP " UGHTS AND SHADOWS OP SrOTTTSH LIFE," AND " THE TRIALS 
 OP MARGARET LYNDSAY. " 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY SAXTON & KELT. 
 
 NEW YORK, SAXTON AND MILES. 
 
 1845.
 
 M 
 
 « 
 
 I. R. BUTTS, PRINTER, 
 SCHOOL STREET, BOSTON.
 
 AMERICAN PREFACE. 
 
 The American edition of the trials of Margaret 
 Lyndsay, having been received Avith the strongest 
 favor, has induced the publishers to issue the For- 
 esters, of the same author, in a corresponding form. 
 Like the " Trials," it will be found to partake of 
 the same delicious pathos, fidelity of character, 
 deep moral lessons, and a beauty of diction, unsur- 
 passed, and in admirable unison with the subject. 
 Its author has indeed a profound knowledge of the 
 human heart, and though he principally delights 
 in depicting " the lowly joys and destinies ob- 
 scure " of the humble ranks of life, yet, in the 
 present tale, he has given a brief and faithful por- 
 traiture of the fashionable world. 
 
 One great merit that characterizes our author's 
 productions is their style of sentiment, widely dif- 
 fering from the sickly and sentimental affectation 
 that pervades the writings of inferior novelists —
 
 4 PREFACE. 
 
 it is the sentiment of soul, the very essence of ex- 
 quisite sensibility ; and we defy the most heartless 
 in perusing this beautiful story, from not having 
 his feelings keenly excited, and his heart expand 
 with better and holier affections to his fellow men. 
 
 It is indeed difficult to say which is the most 
 finished character in the Foresters — the beautiful, 
 gentle, and spotless Lucy, — the strong-minded, 
 intellectual, and afflicted Michael, — the patient, 
 suffering and virtuous Agnes, — the prodigal and 
 lawless Abel, — the poor scholar, — the mild May 
 Morrison, or the noble Lady of the Hirst. All of 
 these are true and touching pictures of life, and 
 yet so exquisitely finished are the smaller person- 
 ages in the drama, that any attempt in assigning to 
 either a precedence in merit, would be a nugatory 
 and hypercritical task. 
 
 Like the " Trials of Margaret Lyndsay,'- the 
 scenes and characters are, for the most part, laid in 
 Scotland, and, consequently, the author has done 
 them ample justice. One portion of the story, 
 however, takes place in Cumberland, in England, 
 on the banks of the beautiful lake of Windermere, 
 where is situated the author's delightful resi- 
 dence of Elleray. It is well known that in his 
 poems, and some of his other productions, he has 
 celebrated the scenery of this beautiful region ; yet, 
 in our humble opinion, it has never been so felici- 
 tously and poetically depicted as in the pages of
 
 PREFACE. O 
 
 the Foresters ; while, to those who are curious of 
 acquiring a knowledge of this far-famed portion of 
 England, where have resided some of the first of 
 our modern poets, the founders of what is termed 
 the " Lake School of Poetry," we would recommend 
 its perusal. 
 
 As, we believe, this is the first American edition 
 of the work, we trust it will meet with a hearty 
 welcome, and that every parent will give it a place 
 in his family ; calculated as it is to diffuse moral 
 and religious principles through the medium of 
 a beautiful domestic story. Such are, indeed, 
 books, and their authors the best friends of hu- 
 manity — they can never perish — they depend not 
 on the fashion of the world, and cannot be out of 
 date, till the dreams of young imagination shall 
 vanish, and the deepest sympathies of love and 
 hope be chilled. " For, while other works are ex- 
 tolled, admired and reviewed, these will be loved 
 and wept over. Gentle hearts shall ever blend 
 their thoughts of his among their remembrances 
 of the benefactors of tiieir youth. And when the 
 favor of the world 'shall hang upon the beauty of 
 their hearts,' how often will their spirits turn to 
 him, who, as he cast a soft seriousness over the 
 morning of life, shall assist in tranquillizing its 
 noon-tide sorrows." r. h. 
 
 1*
 
 THE FOEESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Of the humble mansions that, not many years ago, were 
 thickly interspersed through the romantic scenery of the 
 Esk, between Roslin and Lassvvade, there was not one 
 more l)eaiilirLil than that which bore the appropriate 
 name of Dovenest. It was built on a gentle eminence, 
 that merely lifted it in safety above the highest water- 
 mark of the river, sweeping round the little sylvan penin- 
 sula ; and the breath of smoke that rose from its hidden 
 chimneys was, even on the calmest day, lost on the broad 
 bosom of the overshadowing wood, before it could reach 
 the naked cliff that rose like a pillar into the sky. 
 Several glades, and even pasture fields, lay concealed at 
 no great distance up and down the stream ; and a few 
 steps could, in either direction, lead into prospects of 
 contined but richest cultivation, where the houses of the 
 more opulent looked out cheerfully, each over its own 
 quiet pleasure ground, nor seemed, in their unostenta- 
 tious retirement, at all out of unison with the character 
 of the solitary or clustering cottages of the poorer in- 
 habitants. But for a fantastic projection of rock, with 
 its crown of drooping birch trees, Dovenest would have 
 commanded a view of the caverned cliffs of Hawthorn- 
 den, and indeed, even of Roslin Chapel. Although the 
 castle was not visible, the rooks were seen flying over
 
 O THE FORESTERS. 
 
 its turrrets; and, on a calm day, the noise of the linn 
 was heard below the toundations of the old place of 
 worship. The village Sabbath bell sent its voice so 
 distinctly down the glen, that it sometimes seemed to be 
 ringing close to the very cottage ; and, on a warm, still 
 summer's day, there was but one sound of bees from the 
 broomy knoll of Dovenest, to the wallflowers on the 
 crevices of that hallowed ruin. There was felt to be 
 a little quiet world within itself; and the same stream, 
 the same rocks, the same line of sky, bound together, 
 cottage, chapel, and castle, in one spirit of harmonious 
 beauty. 
 
 Dovenest was not a summer retreat for lawyer, citizen, 
 or poet, although it had often been coveted both by 
 matter-of-fact and imaginative men, and its architecture 
 been made to undergo frequent alterations in the day 
 dreams of tasteful artists; but it had been for thirty 
 years the dwelling of its obscure and industrious owner, 
 Adam Forester, a gardener. Adam Forester had been 
 proud of that humble professional name in the prime 
 of life, when his good spade was his ordy fortune : and 
 he desired no better, in after times, when by skill, la- 
 bour, and integrity, he had accumulated sufficient capital 
 to purchise that pretty little property, and by degrees, 
 spring after spring, had made his nursery garden the 
 pride of all the glen, and, to idlers from the city, one of 
 its rarest and luost delightful attractions. The southern 
 bank, which he had cleared from the embosoming wood, 
 seeuied to enjoy perpetual sunshine; and so happily 
 sheltered was it by natural mounds and battlements, 
 that often while there was a storm among the oaks above, 
 not a blossom was shaken from its fruit trees ; and the 
 blackl)ird continued to sing undisturbed from the top of 
 the steady larch that' rose single from a grass-plat in 
 the middle of the garden. That larch was famous 
 duritig early spring, in the perfect beauty of its tapering 
 verdure, and glowing with a million cones of purple that 
 lay profusely scattered over the long graceful btanches that 
 swept the mossy floor, up to the slender last year's shoot 
 that scarcely supported the blithsome songster. Nothing
 
 THE FORESTERS. 9 
 
 could surpass the order and regularity prevalent over 
 the parterres of flowers, the beds of seedlings, and the 
 wider banks of infant forest trees, already distinguish- 
 able in shape and hue of leaf, stalk, and tendril, but all 
 equally unlike the gigantic forms they were destined one 
 day to become in park or mountain. The spirit of young 
 vegetable life wantoned everywhere around, below the 
 shadow of the ancient woods ; and old Adam Forester, 
 the gardener, unconsciously loved the flowers and plants, 
 among a constant succession of which he had spent up- 
 wards of forty not unhappy years. He had not reached 
 his time of life without some heavy griefs; but when he 
 went out to muse at eventide, he felt, like the patriarch 
 of old, that God had to him been a God of mercy, and 
 thought with profound peace of mind on the hour, now 
 assuredly near at hand, when he should be laid in the 
 same grave with the mother of his children — her whom 
 he had buried twenty years ago, but whose image had 
 been with him, to support and console, duly and without 
 fail, at morning and evening prayers. 
 
 Adam Forester had enjoyed more of pure and real 
 happiness than often falls to the lot of man in his con- 
 dition of life, although, perhaps, that be sometimes the 
 very happiest condition in the world. His mind, origi- 
 nally one of strength and sensibility, had received that 
 best of all education — the education which untempted 
 and unperverted nature bestows upon itself, during em- 
 ployment that is laborious but not slavish, and during 
 leisure that is free for much thoughtfulness at least, if 
 not for systematic study, in the interval benignly provid- 
 ed between the two twilights for the refreshment and 
 restoration of every human soul. From youth to man- 
 hood, and from manhood to age, he had always been 
 bettering his worldly circumstances : he had never made 
 a single retrograde step in his lowly well-doing; and, 
 while many whom he acknowledged to be better than 
 himself had suflered sore chances and changes, going 
 down in trouble to untimely graves, and others had, in 
 some few instances, become absolute paupers from vice 
 or misfortune, he had thankfully enjoyed continual inr.
 
 10 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 crease of prosperity, and along with it an enlargement loo 
 of heart that enabled him to feel the blessing af Provi- 
 dence. Although he lived in a thatched house, with 
 such temperate appetites as its frugal hearth could easily 
 supply — wore on work days the mean but decent apparel 
 of a. labourer — opened his Bible with a hand that labor 
 had hardened — sat on the sabbath in a pew among poor 
 people — interchanged greetings on a footing of perfect 
 equality with every honest individual of that class to 
 whom, by his birth, he belonged — and required for the 
 daily sustenance of his unambitious heart only the simple 
 converse of working men — yet, Adam Forester was not 
 altosether a stranger to the society of persons occupying 
 the more elevated stations of this life, nor in that society 
 did he miss the respect due to his estimable character. 
 In the way of his profession, he had become known to 
 many men of wealth and rank ; and the plain dignity of 
 his manners, especially as age began to add to the 
 lineaments of his countenance, that power of reverence 
 which is superior to that of every mere artificial distinc- 
 tion, was acknowledged by all who had sense to discern 
 and appreciate the natural and unalienable authority of 
 intelligence and virtue. 
 
 Dovenest, therefore, although thus beautiful in its own 
 seemingly romantic world, had never been the scene of 
 any other joys and sorrows than such as belong neces- 
 sarily and essentially to human nature in every condition. 
 The worthy owner had suffered many domestic afflictions, 
 but all in the common course of nature ; and with a 
 wife who tenderly and reverently loved him, and had 
 discharged every duty towards him and their children 
 in joyfulness and gratitude, he had lived many long 
 peaceful yeais. During those years an infant — a child 
 — one blooming girl — a boy of much promise — and, 
 saddest loss of all, a son grown up to manhood — had 
 been taken away, suddenly, or after lingering decay. 
 Five funerals had there indeed been, before that blackest 
 of them all, when the mother was carried to her rest. 
 But these deprivations had been scattered over the length 
 of full thirty years. Mercifully timed, it might be said.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 1 1 
 
 had been the visits of the angel of death. And although 
 there not unfrequently iiad been seasons when smiles, 
 or at least any thing approaching to laughter, would have 
 grated against the heart-strings of the whole saddened 
 family, and when it almost seemed as if their happiness 
 were never more to deserve that name, yet natural 
 distress gradually yielded to natural comfort, and the 
 survivors carried over upon one another, and into one 
 another's hearts, the affection that had belonged to them 
 that were no more seen, except in the startling visions 
 of sudden waking recollection, or in the dreams of sleep. 
 Even the affliction that made Adam Forester a wid- 
 ower, brought with it healing upon its wings. For, 
 when his Judith died, she was not cut off suddenly in 
 the prime of life, nor did she pine away in its fall; but, 
 after the gray hairs had been visibly mingled with the 
 once bright brown, an illness, neither frightfully siiort 
 nor tryingly prolonged, extinguished the lamp of life 
 that burned clearly to the close; and, with all the most 
 anxious solicitudes of a mother's heart at rest, she was 
 resigned to shut her eyes upon her husband and her two 
 dutiful sons. Her sober matronly steps and (juiet smiles 
 were no more seen, and, in a few years, generally for- 
 gotten. But, in not a few neighboring families, lier 
 image remained, as if her picture had liung upon the 
 wall ; and the poor continued to bleps her who had not 
 only relieved their hunger, but had given charity to 
 their friendless soids. The lines of l.ibor and advancing 
 age were painfully deepened on the widower's face during 
 the year she left him, and the neighbors all prognosti- 
 cated that he would never recover the blow. But theirs 
 was a common mistake ; the old man was not forsaken 
 in his bereavement ; in a few weeks he took his place 
 in his pew in the kirk ; the lark called him to his garden, 
 not, perhaps, from such sleep as he had once enjoyed ; 
 and although they who knew him intimately saw a 
 change in all his demeanor, and heard a difference in 
 the usual tones of his speech, yet, to indifferent observers, 
 he was the same active, industrious, old man as before. 
 Nor did Dovenest undergo any perceptible diminution
 
 12 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 of its cheerful neatness, except that there seemed about 
 it a less gorgeous flush of flowers than formerly, and 
 that the lustre of the latticed windows was not so spot- 
 less, and somewhat more thickly overgrown, now that 
 one pruning hand was cold. But Adam Forester, in 
 his more awful hours, was not without a source of com- 
 fort, that every year flowed deeper and deeper in the 
 midnight silence; while, in his ordinary work day life 
 in the open air, he had the best of earthly solaces, in a 
 fair reputation, health yet unimpaired, a sound under- 
 standing, and a clear conscience ; a sufficient competence 
 against the evil of eld, two dutiful sons, and, above all, 
 the love of labor, strong as that of life itself, that sub- 
 dues within the heart a thousand vain anxieties, and 
 changes the stern law of necessity, against which many 
 fruitlessly rebel, into the voluntary choice of a calm and 
 well-ordered life. 
 
 On the death of his wife, Adam Forester had been 
 left with two sons, Michael and Abel. They had both 
 received a regular education, and possessed more than 
 ordinary abilities. Michael had, at one time, thought 
 of becoming a clergyman, and had attended the univer- 
 sity ; but, on his mother's death, he felt it to be impos- 
 sible to leave his father alone, and being fonder every 
 month of that way of life, and deeply attached to the 
 place of his birth, he resolved to follow his father's 
 employment, and had now done so for many years. He 
 was a man of staid deportment and quiet manners, but 
 of deep and strong feelings — it may, indeed, be said pas- 
 sions — and of extraordinary strength of intellect. But 
 he had no worldly ambition, and was satisfied to live 
 the same homely and obscure life with his father. He 
 was enough of a scholar to be able to read the Old and 
 New Testaments in their original tongues ; and his 
 favorite studies, next to theology, circumscribed as they 
 necessarily became, were natural history and astronomy. 
 Each year brought, independently of reading, its own 
 irrowth of inward knowledge; and Michael f^orester of 
 Dovenest, had long been esteemed the first man in all 
 the neighborhood for general talents, and sound prac-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 13 
 
 tical information in the business of life. His whole 
 appearance betokened no ordinary character ; and, al- 
 though he did not purposely keep aloof from the young 
 men of the place, his infinite and unapproachable supe- 
 riority was felt by them all, and he was looked upon as 
 the equal of the parish minister, and other persons of 
 education and authority. Proud was the old man of 
 such a son, but it was a pride that now and then only 
 made its way into a heart fortified with a far higher prin- 
 ciple — that of religious gratitude ; and, as they worked 
 in their garden together, the gray-headed father would 
 sometimes rest his withered hand on his spade, and, 
 leaning over it as if to pause from his work, bless his 
 son in a fervent prayer, nor care if his dim eyes poured 
 down upon the ground a shower of passionate tears. 
 Working together, day after day, from morning to night, 
 and sitting together every evening, there was often long 
 silence between them, but never any dearth of inward 
 thoughts ; and eacli heart was as fertile of affectionate 
 feelings as the soil of the garden beneath the common 
 labor of their hands. The very helplessness of old age 
 was felt to be a happy state in the presence of such a 
 protector ; and, when the old man would lay himself 
 down, during the heat of the day, beneath the shadow 
 of the sycamores, for a single hour of rest, reluctantly 
 availing himself of the privilege of threescore and ten 
 years, his closing eyes could not help seeing, in his 
 dutiful son, as it were the figure of an angel watching 
 over his sleep. 
 
 Abel, the younger brother, although now far less 
 deserving than Michael, was, notwithstanding, almost 
 as dear to his father ; for strong instinctive affection will 
 not yield to the law of descent, and the frailties, the 
 follies, and even sins of children, will often mournfully 
 endear them to their parents. Abel, too, in face, in 
 eyes, the color of hair, and the tone of voice, was the 
 very image of his mother ; and grievous as had been his 
 misconduct, that overpowering resemblance had never 
 pleaded for him in vain. There was also much that was 
 redeeming in his amiable but uncertain character ; and 
 2
 
 14 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 how could a father long retain wrath, or even strong 
 displeasure towards one so ready to repent, so warm in 
 his affections, and, when away from evil associates, so 
 perfectly winning in all his ways, and so reconciled even 
 to an active and industrious life? Lively, versatile, 
 and increnious — he was, indeed, when at home, the light 
 and the music of the house and garden; and the old man 
 thought, and still thought, and fondly deluded himself 
 into conviction, often broken and as often repaired, that 
 Abel was about to reform, and to become a credit to him, 
 like Michael, in his declining days. Although Abel had 
 not yet absolutely disgraced himself by any dishonest or 
 dishonorable action, a mist hung over his reputation 
 both in town and country ; his few known associates 
 were persons of profligate habits ; rumors were afloat 
 in the neighborhood of an indefinite, but distressing 
 kind ; and it was the belief of all that, ere long, he 
 would bring himself to disgrace and ruin. His father 
 tried to shut both his eyes and his ears, but still he saw 
 and heard enough to fill his mind with dismal appre- 
 hensions ; and, now that all the past was peace — now 
 that he could look, not only without one single pang on 
 the gravestone above his Judith, and the other five 
 dead ones, all of them long ago so tenderly beloved, but 
 even with the profound satisfaction of expecting rest — 
 he felt it cruel to be disturbed, almost at death's door, 
 by a son to whom he had been, perhaps, but too indul- 
 gent, and whose errors seemed, month after month, to 
 be darkening into wickedness. O that Abel were re- 
 formed ! thought often the old man — and that prayer was 
 sometimes worded in his sleep — then might I yield up 
 my spirit to its Maker! Abel knew well his father's 
 grief, and often wept bitterly, like a child, before his 
 tremulous rebuke — too like a child, for his tears were 
 soon dried ; gay smiles, too delightful to a forgiving fa- 
 ther, took their place, and, after the deep but transient 
 calm of reconcilement which Abel had a heart tender 
 enough to feel, but not firm enough to remember, away 
 he flew like a bird, and disappeared, for months, in the 
 unknown dissipation and vice of the city. " My boy
 
 THE FORESTERS. 15 
 
 loves me as kindly as ever, but he reverences me no 
 more, and my power over him is but as of a shadow. O 
 Michael! when 1 am dead, try to save poor Abel ; for if 
 evil befall him, methinks my bones will not rest in the 
 grave !." 
 
 Such words as these were not lost upon Michael ; for, 
 independently of his filial reverence, he loved his brother 
 Abel with exceeding affection. Indeed, the very differ- 
 ence in their characters, pursuits, and habits, endeared 
 them to each other ; and while the elder brother could 
 not help being won by that mirth and merriment, that 
 frolic and whim, so foreign to his own nature, but so 
 congenial with the whole frame of Abel's, that unthink- 
 ing boy could not but venerate in Michael that irreproach- 
 able practice and those uncompromising principles in 
 whic+i he found himself to be so deplorably deficient in 
 the hour of trial. The disparity in their age also, (for 
 Michael was the elder by upwards of ten years,) gave an 
 endearing character to their mutual affection. It had 
 always preserved between them an unbroken integrity of 
 feeling, without the deadening or alienating interruptions 
 of jealous or angry moods. Abel no more thought of 
 ever quarrelling with Michael than with his father him- 
 self; and if ever Michael had occasion to chide or re- 
 prove] him, the remonstrance was indeed fatherly, in 
 spirit and in word, tempered at the same time by the 
 sense of the feebler authority of brotherhood, and breath- 
 ed forth as a confidential communication between friend 
 and friend. 
 
 "You must not think that I love Abel better than you, 
 Michael, although sometimes it would even seem as if the 
 dear unhappy boy did indeed drive you out of my heart. 
 No — no — no — you, Michael, are my best beloved son 
 — boy, lad, and man the same — true at all times to me, 
 your aged father, and to your God. If ever I have been 
 silent, cold, harsh, or sullen towards you, my son, I ask 
 your forgiveness, for, in truth, age chills even something 
 of the warmth at a father's heart." 
 
 The father and son were sitting together on a bench in 
 a sort of small natural arbor that faced the light of the
 
 16 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 setting sun ; and as Michael looked on the old man's 
 face, he felt that he had never before noticed the wrinkles 
 so deep, nor seen over all his countenance so strong a 
 shadow of the world to come. He knelt down and asked 
 a blessinof. Tenderness and awe were like a religion in 
 his spirit; and as the withered hands were laid upon his 
 head, he felt as if a human parent were interceding for 
 him with a divine, and that such prayers would not be 
 unheard in heaven. At that moment light footsteps were 
 heard, and Abel stood before the opening of the arbor. 
 
 There was a wild and unsettled expression in his eyes, 
 a feverish flush over his cheeks, and his whole demeanor 
 was disturbed. Self-dissatisfaction and shame, mixed 
 with an angry recklessness, sadly obscured that face on 
 which, a few years ago, every one that knew it looked 
 with pleasure and affection. Yet the unhappy youth 
 could not now divest himself of that respect, that vene- 
 ration with which he had from his very heart always 
 treated his father. The scowl which he had summoned 
 to his brow gave way before the solemn look of the old 
 man's dim eyes, and, struck at once into remorse for the 
 mere show of disrespect to his father, Abel hung down 
 his head and wept. When he found voice, he said — 
 " Father, I am going to leave Dovenest for good and all, 
 and to-morrow I set off for England with Will Mansell. 
 You must not ask me any questions — I could not think 
 of going without coming to ask your forgiveness and 
 your blessing." The old man, who had long feared the 
 worst of his son, now felt that the worst had almost be- 
 fallen him ; for Mansell was a man of a ruined reputation, 
 and known to be familiar with criminals. " Yes — yes — 
 Abel, here is my blessing — and my forgiveness ;" and the 
 old man rose up and kissed his undutiful son, with many 
 tears. Meanwhile, Michael retired a short distance from 
 the arbor, and when he returned totake farewell of his 
 brother, Abel was gone. "O Michael, when I am dead 
 — and this parting has taken some months friim the year 
 I might have had to live — never lose your pity for Abel, 
 for much I fear will he stand in need of pity, hurrying 
 on to disgrace or destruction." " My brother shall never
 
 THE FORESTERS, '17 
 
 want," said Michael, "while these hands have strength 
 to work — while there is water in the channel of the Esk, 
 and corn grows upon its banks. But I will go after him, 
 and perhaps he will return to his father's house." — "No, 
 Michael; he will never return; never in my time, at 
 least — and if he does return, it will be as a wretched 
 beggar — ay, worse than a beggar, a criminal — flying 
 perhaps from justice, and his life forfeit to the law." 
 
 That severe passion of grief did not, however, endure 
 long in a heart that, in all its sufferings, had found what 
 strength there is in submission. The old man hearkened 
 to comfort from his elder son, and tried to convince him- 
 self that his fears might prove to have been altogether 
 ungrounded. And a letter from Abel, about a month 
 after, written in a kind and cheerful spirit, restored him 
 apparently to his usual composure, so that it might be 
 said that Dovenest was again happy. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Among the lowly households closely connected in 
 ancient friendship with the family at Dovenest, there was 
 none so dear on any account as that of Sprinkeld — a cot- 
 tage that stood by itself in a sheltered holm, a few 
 fields from Lasswade. It had been built by a native of 
 the village, a prosperous tradesman, who died in the 
 prime of life, leaving a widow and one daughter. His 
 widow did not long survive him ; and the child was left 
 to the care of a female relation who had resided in the 
 family, and who loved the orphan, Agnes Hay, as ten- 
 derly as if she had been her mother. This excellent 
 person had lost her husband many years before, and had 
 no children. Her whole income consisted of the very 
 moderate jointure which she enjoyed as the widow of a 
 clergyman, from the best of all charitable institutions; 
 2*
 
 18 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 but this, added to the little fortune of her ward, was a 
 complete independence, and enabled them to lead the 
 same life to which they had been accustomed, without 
 difficulty or privation. Agnes Hay had, therefore, never 
 felt what it is to be an orphan. She had lost both her 
 parents before she was eight years old ; and at that inno- 
 cent and joyful age, less than one single summer suffices 
 to wipe away the bitterest tears, although their source is 
 still left open in the unpainful affection of the heart. 
 Perhaps those early afflictions gave a somewhat deeper 
 tone of pensiveness to a character naturally thoughtful 
 and sedate ; and, no doubt, the remembrances of her 
 dead parents survived more distinctly and tenderly in 
 that retired and almost solitary life. Being an only child, 
 and having had few playmates, her thoughts and feelings 
 naturally reverted to the past, so that the bygone happi- 
 ness of her childhood was never entirely forgotten, but 
 continued to blend itself with all those unsought enjoy- 
 ments which nature graciously provides for the expand- 
 ing affections. Few incidents or events had occurred 
 to diversify her calm and contented life, nor had any 
 strong emotions ever disturbed the tranquillity of her 
 innocence. Each succeeding Sabbath found her humbly 
 trusting in that contrite spirit which even the most inno- 
 cent must feel when joining in the services of religion ; 
 and weeks, months, and years had glided by, leaving her 
 now in the prime of youth, a favorite with all the families 
 in the neighborhood, even with those to whom she was 
 hardly more known than by appearance or name ; while 
 at those firesides where she was a familiar guest, she was 
 beloved with a perfect love for all those delightful endow- 
 ments that showed themselves more attractively in the 
 unconscious simplicity of her mild and gentle manners, 
 and almost veiled her beauty itself under that charm of 
 character which, belonging peculiarly to the gifted indi- 
 vidual, is felt to be at once permanent and irresistible. 
 
 Neither Michael Forester nor Agnes Hay knew that 
 they were in love with each other. Indeed, for two or 
 three years past, it had almost seemed as if there had 
 been some slight shadow thrown over the friendship of
 
 THE FORESTERS. 19 
 
 the two families. Accidental causes, such as will often 
 arise in the least varied lot, had made the footpath less 
 frequently trodden that led from Dovenest to Sprinkeld. 
 But where there is sincere and well-founded mutual affec- 
 tion in good hearts, it remains unimpaired among all 
 hindrances, interruptions, or absence. Pleasant remem- 
 brances of words and looks supply the place of actual 
 interchanges of kindness ; and, perhaps, the softened 
 images of innocent delight, returning of their own ac- 
 cord upon our hearts, do more than anything else in this 
 world to attach us to those with whom that delight had 
 been enjoyed. Agnes Hay was frequently hearing the 
 character of Michael Forester spoken of by those whom 
 she most respected in terms of the highest praise — his 
 talents, his industry, his uprightness, and, what was even 
 more touching to her heart than them all, his filial piety, 
 and his fond attachment to his infatuated brother. Some- 
 times she thought what happiness it would have been 
 had she been his daughter, or his sister, or any near 
 blood relation, so that she might have had the privileges 
 of an inmate of his household. She had, indeed, scarcely 
 one single relation living but Aunt Isobel, as she had called 
 from her infancy the good t)l(i lady who was her protec- 
 tress. Such thoughts passed through her heart oftener 
 than she was aware, but without any disturbance of feel- 
 ing; for, although she interchanged affectionate greet- 
 ings with Michael Forester every Sabbath at church, and 
 not unfrequently saw him on ordinary week-day occa- 
 sions, her heart was entirely free from passion. Never 
 had she fallen into one single vain dream of him and his 
 dwelling; so that had he married another, it did not 
 seem to Agnes that such an event would have affected, 
 or at least diminished the happiness of her contented 
 life. And yet, when Aunt Isobel, in speaking of liis 
 excellence, had once said, what a happy woman would 
 be the wife of Michael Forester, Agnes had unconsciously 
 turned away her face; and, as she did so, her eyes fell 
 upon the geraniums in all their rich and variegated glow 
 which she had received from him, and had tended with 
 assiduous care, as she herself thought, entirely for the 
 rke of their own beauty.
 
 20 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 With Michael Forester the case was somewhat differ- 
 ent. He was fifteen years older than Agnes ; and al- 
 though the growing charms of her womanhood had 
 gradually inspired him with far other feelings than those 
 with which he had been accustomed to regard the pretty 
 little child that he had often led by the hand through his 
 gardens, and sent away, happy as a fairy, with a bunch 
 of flowers, yet a sense of the disparity of years, which to 
 him seemed far greater than it was in reality, kept down, 
 as if it were even in his conscience, any fonder affection 
 for Agnes as she had been stealing into the beauty of her 
 prime. It seemed impossible that she could love him ; 
 and that belief in the mind of such a man, overcame all 
 vain hopes, and reconciled him, without much pain, 
 to the thought of some day seeing Agnes Hay the wife 
 of another. He therefore strove with himself, and not 
 altogether unsuccessfully, not indeed to abstain from her 
 society, for that was impossible, but to regard her at all 
 times as one to whom he could never be more than 
 a friend, or a brother, or a father. Sometimes, in the 
 quiet of a beautiful summer evening, when, in his silent 
 leisure, his mind unconsciously framed pictures of the 
 future, he felt that to Anges Hay he could be all these, 
 and more, far more than them all ; that to see her beau- 
 tiful countenance at that lattice window — her delightful 
 figure walking along that green — her white arms em- 
 ployed in training the roses around the trellice work of 
 that humble porch — to hear her name him in the familiar 
 words of love, and tune her soft voice especially for his 
 ear — thoughts like these did sometimes indeed overpow- 
 er him — for he had led a pure and unstained life — vice 
 had withered not one fibre of his heart — he had wasted 
 none of his best emotions on unworthy objects — so that 
 his visions of domestic happiness were bright and strong, 
 and he looked on them with the same solemn, devout, 
 and sacred spirit with which, on the Sabbath day, he 
 entered the place set apart for worship. But still the 
 belief recurred that Agnes could not love him — that she 
 would one day be another man's wife ; and in depriving 
 himself of the dangerous enjoyment of his own loving, 
 almost impassioned thoughts, he felt that such self-denial
 
 THE FORESTERS. 21 
 
 brought its own recompense, and heightened that happi- 
 ness which Providence had allowed him to enjoy without 
 either fear or blame, and which he humbly acknowledged 
 was sufficient for contentment and gratitude. 
 
 One beautiful Sabbath evening, Michael Forester was 
 walking by himself along the banks of the Esk, and met 
 Agnes Hay going to Roslin to bring home her aunt, who 
 had that day attended divine service in that church. 
 The meeting at such a time, and in such a state of their 
 affections, was felt by them both to be more than usually 
 happy. Agnes took Michael's arm with cheerful willing- 
 ness, and they spoke of everything most interesting 
 to the welfare of their respective homes. The sweet 
 serenity of the afternoon was in perfect unison with that 
 of their own hearts ; and Agnes, the orphan Agnes, with 
 such a friend by her side, felt as calmly confident of the 
 duration of her peace, as if she had had a hundred kind and 
 rich relations alive, and the future provided and fenced 
 in against the intrusion of any earthly calamities. All 
 the woods were ringing with vernal delight and joy; 
 and her countenance, whose general character was meek 
 and pensive, was now tinged with the very light of glad- 
 ness ; her steps, usually so graceful in their composure, 
 were now no less so in the buoyancy of exhilaration ; and 
 without doing the slightest violence to the native and 
 prevalent modesty of her demeanour, the innocent crea- 
 ture's perfect happiness enlivened every attitude and 
 every motion, while not altogether unconscious, perhaps, 
 of the power of her beauty, she stepped over stone and 
 stalk, on their devious hill-side track, through the over- 
 hanging trees whose branches sometimes almost impeded 
 their progress, and touched their heads with the first 
 odorous buds of an early spring. 
 
 Dovenest and its gardens lay before them at a sudden 
 bend of the river. The cushat dove was sounding his 
 deep song in the pines behind the low thatched roof: 
 and in front, the bright golden oak, whose foliage pre- 
 ceded by at least a fortnight that of all the other trees, 
 shone in the setting sun. " Will you cross the stepping- 
 stones, my dear Agnes, and see how this spring promises
 
 22 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 in our gardens? You have not been within our gate 
 once during this finest and most forward of all Aprils, 
 and to-morrow is May-day." Agnes was glad to comply ; 
 and they descended into the channel of the river, where, 
 at the head of a stream that formed a small waterfall, 
 there was a natural ledge of rock, over which, when the 
 water was low, it was easy to cross the Esk. The 
 showery April had however slightly flooded the stream, 
 and while Agnes was speaking of going round by the 
 wooden bridge, Michael Forester took her gently in his 
 arms, and, in a few moments, let her down from his 
 breast, in all her blushing beauty, on the turf of his own 
 paternal acres. The heart within that manly breast, by 
 habit and duty in general so calm, beat as loudly as if it 
 were the heart of fear itself in an unexpected peril. Her 
 pure breath had been close to his cheek, closer than 
 it had ever before been since she was a child, and 
 he had felt on his side, the motion of that virgin bosom, 
 where purity, innocence, and loveliness were folded 
 up together in most beautiful repose. " She is an 
 orphan," thought Michael — "O that this very blessed 
 day I could win her heart ! " and hope came to him from 
 the unoffended expression' of her downcast eyes, as they 
 walked arm in arm towards his house. Few words were 
 uttered by him — and none by Agnes — till they entered 
 the little white gate, with its arch of woodbine and sweet- 
 briar ; and as it closed behind them, Michael Forester 
 felt suddenly that what he loved most on this earth was 
 now within the boundaries of his own dwelling. Dearer 
 was she to him than all his other best and happiest pos- 
 sessions — than all other remembrances — all other hopes 
 — even than his father's grey hairs. Yet at the very 
 time that he thus knew, in the tumult of his heart, that 
 the fair and meek orphan was, and must for ever be to 
 him life itself, and that without her life would be as 
 death, yet his other human affections were not lost 
 or swallowed up in that stronger love, but rather all com- 
 prehended within its influence, so that he loved both fa- 
 ther and brother, and his other friends, better for the 
 sake of his own Agnes Hay.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 23 
 
 With a faltering voice, which he in vain tried to com- 
 pose, Michael Forester said, with great tenderness — 
 "The time was, Agnes, when you came almost every 
 day to Dovenest ; then it was only week after week ; 
 now I may say it is only month after month; and in fu- 
 ture, perhaps, it may be only year after year. Yet 
 it might be better for me if it were so ; for, Agnes, you 
 will be the wife of another soon, perhaps ; and, whenever 
 that happens, may the blessing of God fall upon you ; 
 but from that day shall I be the most miserable of men. 
 I love you, Agnes; but I know that you cannot love me 
 — it is impossible!'' And as the image of the fair child 
 passed before him, dancing along the very walk where 
 they now stood, with garlands of flowers wreathed round 
 her small waist and arms, he felt with a pang that Agnes 
 could not now look on him as a lover, whom she must 
 have so long regarded with such other feelings; and he 
 remained silent in his despair. 
 
 The whole heart of Agnes Hay seemed to herself to 
 have undergone a deep change since she had met Michael 
 only, an hour ago ; but, in truth, she had for years loved 
 him in the undisturbed innocence of her gentle nature. 
 She had, oftener than she knew, thought of him, as a 
 certain despondency would sometimes come over her 
 when musing on her orphan state ; and therefore this 
 avowal of his love, although wholly unexpected, did not 
 find her altogether unprepared. The words, heard at 
 first with a delightful doubt of their meaning, reached, 
 before Michael had ceased speaking, the very core of her 
 heart ; and never having had any attachment to any 
 other person, beyond that of mere ordinary kindness, 
 she felt that she could give him all that her life had ever 
 contained, without reserve of one single transitory feeling. 
 "Impossible to love Michael Forester! — no — no — 
 say not so — I have loved you ever ; and I will love you 
 as long as I know to love all that is good, worthy, and 
 most estimable in a Christian husband." That one last 
 word was sufficient for Michael Forester's perfect happi- 
 ness ; and be folded this beautiful orphan in as warm 
 and reverential an embrace as ever brought woman to 
 man's beating bosom.
 
 "24 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 They walked for a while, silent and composed, through 
 the dewy arbors; and stood, hand in hand, beside the 
 dial, shadowless at the sweet hoar of eight, in the last 
 dewy evening of April. All around was orderly, peace- 
 ful, prosperous, and beautiful. Then, as if by the same 
 impulse, they bent their way towards the house ; and 
 Michael fervently blessed his Agnes as she stepped across 
 the threshold. They sat down together in the neat little 
 parlor, whose window looked up the Esk,.upon a home 
 scene hemmed in by a fantastic sweep of wooded rocks. 
 The large family Bible was lying open on the table; and 
 Michael, taking the hand of his Agnes, laid it upon the 
 sacred volume, and in that betrothment, with a reveren- 
 tial prayer of thanksgiving, they vowed to love one another 
 until death. Agnes shed a kw tears over the blessed 
 page ; but they were such tears as nature consecrates to 
 her best affections, and assuredly were not of evil omen. 
 Michael Forester kissed others away from her sweet 
 eyes, as her head rested upon his breast ; and in that 
 tender and sacred embrace, in which he folded his be- 
 trothed, and in which a pious spirit expressed its grati- 
 tude to Heaven for an unhoped and boundless happiness, 
 Agnes felt, beyond all possibility of being deceived, that 
 she had committed her lot in this life to a man who knew 
 the value of innocence, and in wedlock would cherish 
 and respect it. But voices were heard near the porch ; 
 and although Agnes knew well whose they were, and 
 had nothing to fear from such intruders, yet a new tre- 
 mor crept over her at their approach, and her heart that 
 had beat tranquilly in the arms of her lover, palpitated 
 violently as she arose to meet her own Aunt Isobel and 
 old Adam Forester. 
 
 A few words from Michael explained the reason of all 
 those unusual tears, and that speechless confusion. Aunt 
 Isobel could not but give herself some little credit for 
 having always internally predicted that this would be a 
 marriage some day ; but now that her few doubts and 
 misgivings were removed, and she found that she was 
 in good truth a prophetess, she could not help weeping 
 in her joy, as she thought that now, die when she might.
 
 THE FOEESTERS. 25 
 
 her beloved orphan would not be left desolate. The old 
 man had always loved Agnes as his own child, and had 
 sometimes allowed himself to wish that Abel had been 
 deserving of such a wife. Now that his eyes were opened 
 to what he had never before suspected, and saw Michael 
 in possession of such a treasure, he blessed her with a 
 fervent voice, and pronounced her name, as if he dwelt 
 upon the sound ; for the name of the daughter he had 
 lost was Agnes, and he had read it but a few hours ago 
 on her gravestone. The thought of poor Abel and his 
 cureless follies passed across the old man's mind, and he 
 felt that if that dear boy would but repent and reform, it 
 would be a blessed lot to be gathered with the dead, for 
 that then the whole happiness possible to human life 
 would have been his, and it would therefore be time to 
 depart. But the closing shades of evening warned the 
 party to break up — the stars were already faintly visible 
 — and Agnes, who did not forget others in her own hap- 
 piness, feared that Aunt Isobel might suffer from the cold 
 dews. So, in a few minutes, they left Dovenest ; but 
 not before the evening psalm had been sung, in which 
 the voice of Agnes, silvery sweet, but somewhat tremu- 
 lous, touched Michael's heart, in his own house, with a 
 profbunder emotion than his nature had ever experienced 
 before; while the old man, unable to withstand the 
 beauty of its holiness, could not continue his part in the 
 sacred melody, but bowed down his head, and, with a 
 broken voice, breathed a few words of thanksgiving. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Few ostentatious ceremonies marked these humble 
 nuptials ; yet decent preparations had been made for their 
 change of life, and the marriage day of Michael Forester 
 and Agnes Play was almost a kind of holiday in Lasswade 
 and its neighborhood. Some little idle gossip there had, 
 no doubt, been about the happy couple, for at least a 
 3
 
 26 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 month before the union ; for Agnes was not only beauti- 
 ful, but an heiress; and it is surprising what interest 
 some good people take in the dearest concerns of those 
 with whom they are not perhaps at all acquainted, but 
 for whom they hold themselves entitled even to judge 
 and decide, from the single circumstance of having seen 
 them at church or market. Some wise critics in mar- 
 riage matters could not help thinking that Michael For- 
 ester, although a most excellent man, was somewhat too 
 old and grave for so very young and lovely a bride, and 
 were anxious to justify that opinion by adding some ten 
 years to his useful life. Some conscientious persons 
 again, were much afraid that Agnes Hay, who had been 
 bred up daintily under the care of her aunt, who, it was 
 well known, had always taken upon herself the whole 
 trouble of housekeeping, would make but an indifferent 
 wife to a man who had followed a laborious profession, 
 and would probably expect more activity and frugality 
 than it was likely he would find in a young woman spoiled 
 by ease and indulgence. Others wondered, and of their 
 wondering could find no end, what would become of 
 poor Mrs. Irvine? Young Mrs. Forester would surely 
 never be so heartless as to leave her by herself at her 
 advanced time of life; and yet, should she take the good 
 old lady with her to Dovenest, who could say to a cer- 
 tainty that she would prove agreeable to the husband, or 
 to his father, who was well known to be rather a particu- 
 lar sort of man, of perfect integrity, but of a very imper- 
 fect temper ? 
 
 These serious topics had been very seriously discussed 
 at the tea-tables of Lasswade, Roslin, and their neighbor- 
 hood ; and had given rise to many clashing and conflict- 
 ing opinions. All anxiety, however, in the public mind 
 about Aunt Isobel was removed ; for, even on the very 
 marriage day, she went with her dearly beloved Agnes 
 from Sprinkeld to Dovenest. Her own parlor there had 
 been prepared for her weeks before ; and a pretty parlor 
 it was — the very same in which she had first known that 
 Michael and Agnes had pledged their troth ; with a low 
 roof, and one window down to the floor — a window that.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 27 
 
 but for weekly pruning, would soon have been blinded 
 by the clustering roses; and from which she could see a 
 little waterfall, woods, and rocks; on either side, a few 
 pasture fields, here and there the roof of a half-hid house, 
 or the blue smoke from chimneys concealed entirely in 
 the groves of Dryden. 
 
 The summer months passed over Dovenest in perfect 
 happiness ; and that silent and somewhat melancholy 
 spirit that, for a few years, had lain on the house and 
 grounds, was now almost wholly dispelled. Although 
 the old man could never, for one day, forget his Abel, 
 yet Agnes filled up the void in his heart. In all things 
 she was indeed a daughter. There was no interference, 
 however slight, with his habits, formed insensibly during 
 the lapse of so many years — no hindrance from house- 
 hold arrangements ever met him in any of his own pecu- 
 liar ways, from morning to night — no formal ofiiciousness 
 ever caused him trouble by its ill-timed attempts to pre- 
 vent or remove it — no unimportant word — no unsympa- 
 thising look ever made him feel that there was a separa- 
 tion between the souls of the old and young. But Ag- 
 nes, from the first week of her abode at Dovenest, had 
 felt and understood, with the delicate and fine discrimi- 
 nation of a loving nature, the prevalent spirit of the 
 household. In the fearless confidence of an affection 
 which was to endure for life, she gently took upon her- 
 self the management of all those little concerns necessary 
 for her father's comfort, and walked about the place with 
 as familiar and unrestrained a happiness, as if she had 
 herself been born in the house, and had attended on her 
 father from the earliest years of moral reason. Sprinkeld 
 itself, pleasant place as it was, and the scene of her whole 
 previous happy life, was not forgotten, but removed, as 
 it were, far back into the distance of years. For in her 
 husband's house was her whole heart centred — beyond 
 the white garden gate her thoughts never strayed — and 
 all the beautiful or affecting images, which other happy 
 days and scenes had supplied, were now all collected 
 together within the bounds of Dovenest. A thousand 
 delightful visits which she had made there long ago, and
 
 28 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 had forgotten, now rose distinctly to her remembrance; 
 she recollected the voice, the figure, the occupation, the 
 kindness to her, then a child, of him who was now her 
 husband ; and in all those renewals of the past, made in- 
 voluntarily, and by the mere force of affection, there was 
 nothing different from what she now experienced; but, 
 although at that time imperfectly understood, the same 
 goodness, integrity, and peace had been witnessed, within 
 whose bosom she now lived in love and gratitude. 
 
 Michael Forester led, outwardly, just his usual life; 
 but the whole world had to him undergone a sudden and 
 blessed transformation. Hitherto, he had been happy in 
 the cultivation and enlargement of his intellect — in the 
 discharge of his duties — and in the indulgence of filial 
 and paternal affeciion. These pleasures were with him 
 still ; but now a being, simpler, purer, more innocent far 
 
 — more benignant towards all her fellow-creatures, and 
 more entirely pious to her Creator than he felt it possible 
 that he himself, or any other man could be — laid herself 
 and her whole life in trust within his bosom. Such 
 blessedness, only a few months before, he had not even 
 ventured to imagine, much less to hope. Agnes Hay he 
 indeed had always loved, but only as one most fair and 
 good, who was to be nothing more to him, and everything 
 to some happier man. Now, their lives were blended 
 together, and he felt his whole character elevated and 
 purified by the union. Not a day now passed without 
 absolute happiness, without calm and deep enjoyment. 
 Every day was now divided into hours of different delight ; 
 so that life itself, which formerly escaped away unnoticed 
 
 — year following year in confusion within the memory- — 
 seemed now to be prolonged by the continual and unin- 
 terrupted succession of employments for the hand and the 
 heart, each giving way to the other, but when over, still 
 all remembered. 
 
 Adam Forester now worked but seldom, and when he 
 did, only for his amusement. This, his son insisted 
 upon ; for there was no need to conceal from his father 
 that his strength was much decayed, and that his work 
 days were over. We know not what causes within the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 29 
 
 soul may affect, for good or evil, the body of old age. It 
 seemed as if all Abel's misconduct, and even his deser- 
 tion of home, had not touched the old man's frame so 
 strongly as the perfect happiness with which he now saw 
 himself surrounded. That happiness had given a shock 
 — a gentle one no doubt, but still not unperceived — to 
 that frame which had borne, undepressed and unfaltering, 
 the weight of three-score and ten laborious years, with 
 all their inevitable anxieties and sorrows. His hand, 
 long so steady, had now more than a slight tremble when 
 lifted up in prayer; even with his glasses he could read 
 the Word of God no more : but the voice of Agnes, soft 
 and low as it was, was still not indistinctly heard by his 
 now dulled ear, when louder tones were all undistinguish- 
 able ; and on her arm alone would he lean in his Sab- 
 bath walk along the Esk, and confess to her, his dutiful 
 daughter, that an unpainful sense of weakness told him 
 to hold himself ready for perhaps a sudden summons. 
 But such solemn thoughts were reserved for solemn 
 times; and so cheerful were his ordinary converse and 
 demeanor, that it was remarked by all his neighbors, that 
 although there might be a change for the worse in his 
 bodily frame, yet that the youth of Adam Forester's mind 
 seemed indeed to have been renewed. 
 
 But the happiness of this household would have been 
 incomplete without Aunt Isobel. She was indeed the 
 most lively and cheerful of all possible old ladies, blest 
 with untameable good spirits, and that happy constitu- 
 tional temperament that cannot abide the pressure of un- 
 necessary or undue sorrows. Having been all her life 
 long, from mere childhood, thrown upon her own re- 
 sources, and accustomed to a busy, bustling, and careful 
 life, all her energetic qualities had been cultivated to the 
 utmost, and she looked upon idleness as at once the 
 greatest of sins and of punishments. She was always 
 doing something, and would have found some regular 
 employment even in the solitary cell of a prison. Yet, 
 although constantly on the alert, she was never teasing 
 nor troublesome in her activity ; although perpetually 
 moving about, she was never in any body's way ; and, in 
 3*
 
 30 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 the midst of her multifarious concerns, she always wore 
 a smiling face, as if perfectly mistress of her business, 
 and sure of the result — which result was never her own 
 ease, of which she at no time thought, but the ease, com- 
 fort, or happiness of others. She was not nmch of a 
 literary woman, although her powers of wit, humor, and 
 raillery, would have set many a blue-stocking aghast ; 
 but, nevertheless, she had her album. A formidable 
 quarto it was, and therein had she copied, in a neat old- 
 fashioned hand, full of dexterous contractions, and in an 
 orthography original and ingenious, almost every receipt, 
 however recondite, known to the then culinary world. 
 Indeed, that book of magic told how best to do everything 
 that could be done in any house, from hall to hut. And 
 although Aunt Isobel had never had an opportunity of 
 displaying her knowledge and powers on a very splendid 
 scale, yet had it been acknowledged by the whole world 
 that Sprinkeld was a perfect model of the most beautiful 
 order and neatness that ever was seen, and that every- 
 thing within doors, just as without, seemed to go on of 
 itself by some natural process, change succeeding change, 
 without any apparent effort, like the very season. 
 
 With a heart full of tenderness, and alive to every kind 
 human feeling, Mrs. Irvine, for that was Aunt Isobel's 
 name, made no pretence to sensibility. On the contrary, 
 she was much averse to the shedding of tears, which she 
 thought shoald be reserved for solemn occasions, frequent 
 enough, as she had herself experienced, in this uncertain 
 world. Although the most charitable of Christians, in 
 thought, word, and deed, she disliked the whining even 
 of real poverty and distress; and often gave alms with a 
 severe countenance, which some finer spirits might prob- 
 ably think dimmed the merit and marred the beauty of 
 the charitable deed. But Mrs. Irvine thought neither of 
 the merit nor the beauty of her limited charities — they 
 were from 3 kind, humble, and pious heart; and she 
 thought her Maker would be best pleased when he be- 
 held her relieving, under his providence, the wants of 
 the worthy, and sometimes even giving unto the vicious 
 and the wicked, since their wants are indeed the greatest
 
 THE FORESTERS. 31 
 
 and the most mournful that can befall the children of 
 men. Her's was a deep, still, unostentatious religion, 
 that but slightly colored her outward demeanor upon 
 week days ; but duly as the Sabbath came, her whole ap- 
 pearance, person, and deportment, were calmed and 
 elevated. Every worldly care, however laudable in itself 
 at other times, was now thrown aside with her weekly 
 garments ; those quick busy steps became composed and 
 even dignified ; that sharp shrill voice was subdued into a 
 pleasant lowness ; her face, which had never at any time 
 been more than comely, but always expressive of good- 
 ness and intelligence, was now almost beautiful in its 
 tranquillity, with her gray hair decently braided over her 
 open and yet unwrinkled forehead ; and as, in her black 
 silk gown, which were her widow's weeds thirty years 
 ago, and had never been worn but on Sabbaths, she took 
 her place in the pew in her kirk, and placed before her 
 the Bible which her husband had given her on her wed- 
 ding day, there was not perhaps in all the congregation 
 one more like a lady than she, if such a distinction may 
 be thought of in such a place, while assuredly there was 
 not one more truly a Christian. 
 
 How then could the family at Dovenest be otherwise 
 than happy? It seemed to Michael and Agnes as if the 
 first summer of their marriage, even independently of their 
 own joy, was most especially beautiful. Never, in the 
 memory of Adam Forester himself, had there been so 
 many soft, warm, and dewy nights, so many cloudless 
 and sunbright days. In spring the frost had spared the 
 blossoms — the summer insects had not touched the fruits 
 — and the autumn had come mildly to gather her ripened 
 riches. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The merry Christmas week was just over, with all its 
 festivities, and the new year had begun to open auspi-
 
 32 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 ciously on the family at Dovenest, when, one forenoon, a 
 stranger, of most respectable appearance, came into the 
 garden and enquired (or Michael Forester. They retired 
 into an inner room, and the visiter did not take his leave 
 for upwards of an hour. Michael accompanied him to 
 the gate, and on his return into the house, his disturbed 
 and troubled countenance did not for a moment escape 
 the notice of his wife. Indeed, she had never before 
 seen her husband so agitated, and knew well enough that 
 something most disastrous must have happened. Her 
 fears were instantly for Abel ; although she could not 
 help dimly apprehending some evil personal to Michael 
 himself, so haggard and even ghastly was the expression 
 of his long, dark, and gloomy silence. She followed him 
 into his room, and, sitting down by his side, took hojd of 
 his hand, and looked up to his face, but without smiling 
 or uttering a word. Her husband looked on her with 
 gentle, but sad and even weeping eyes, and, folding her 
 to his bosom, said — " Abel has ruined himself and all of 
 us forever. Yes, Agnes, he has beggared us all ; and, 
 O Agnes ! what is worse, far far worse than beggary, he 
 has committed a fearful and a fatal crime — is a forger 
 and a felon — may die the death of shame — and the white 
 head of the old man may yet be brought to the dust in 
 agony and dishonor. Yes, it will kill him. Abel has 
 murdered his father — Abel whom he loved so tenderly — 
 Abel whom he will yet weep over in forgiveness, when 
 his tongue no more is able to pronounce a blessing. Poor, 
 lost, unhappy boy! we will all of us forgive him. And, 
 O Agnes ! that the wide sea were now rolling between 
 him and us, so that the dreadful arm of the law might 
 not reach him, and his life be safe, from the cruelty of 
 justice, in a foreign land ! " 
 
 The time had now come, soon and unexpectedly, when 
 Agnes felt herself called upon to exert that power which 
 her heart told her resided in its pious innocence. No 
 repining pang shot through that instructed heart — no 
 selfish grief, when thus told suddenly that poverty was to 
 be her lot — no woeful disappointment of lawful hopes 
 which it had been her duty to cherish — no yain wish —
 
 THE FORESTERS. ' 33 
 
 no idle thoughts flung back to the independent retire- 
 ment of Sprinkeld — but with the whole passion of love 
 that existed in her nature, she embraced her husband's 
 neck, and, with every kindest and most encouraging 
 word, addressed to his own ear, mingled prayers of holiest 
 fervor for his peace of mind to the Giver of all mercies. 
 " O Michael ! what need we care for poverty — nay, poor 
 can we never be, although all our worldly substance may 
 have melted like the snow. For Abel we must forever 
 weep, and also for our father ; but, Michael, my Michael, 
 yield not to your despair ; he will escape — he will escape 
 — fear it not ; and when we hear and know that he is 
 safe, happier shall we all be than ever ; although that, 
 indeed, is impossible, for, since I was your wife, too 
 happy have I been for any one in this mortal world." 
 
 It was fortunate that Adam Forester had gone, this 
 sunny forenoon, to Roslin, and thus escaped hearing this 
 intelligence, which, no doubt, the stranger would have 
 communicated to him had he been at home. In a won- 
 derfidly short time, Michael recovered first from the 
 fever, and then from the stupor of that great grief. Agnes 
 had had no arts of allurement or fascination when she 
 was a maiden ; but, in her unreserved simplicity, had she 
 given him her affection. Nor since her marriage had 
 she ever sought to sway his mind, either in trifling or 
 serious concerns, but by the truth and purity of disin- 
 terested love, which had no other object in this life but 
 to make him happy. Now, she had made use not of 
 many words, nor yet of very many tears ; but those that 
 were said and shed had done their office, and her hus- 
 band was perfectly composed in this most severe afflic- 
 tion. As he looked on her calm, still beautiful face, 
 almost smiling, and which, had it not been for the 
 thoughts of Abel, would most assuredly have smiled, 
 with its usual untroubled sweetness, on the prospect of 
 poverty or even Avant, he could not but feel the utter 
 worthlessness of all other possessions; while the hopeful 
 light of her eyes beaming fondly upon him, forced him to 
 believe that his brother would escape, and that the worst 
 evil he had feared need no more haunt his imasination-
 
 34 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Each tear as it fell at times down her cheek upon his — 
 each almost repressed sigh — each whisper of comfort 
 when no word was syllabled — and each consoling sentence 
 of wisest words, when her emotion permitted utterance 
 to her calm voice — restored him more and n)ore nearly 
 to his usual tranquillity. A sort of haze hung over the 
 evil that had befallen — its most hideous features were 
 hidden — and all those cheering thoughts arose, which, 
 whencesoever they came, and by whomsoever inspired, 
 are, in times of distress, the sure reward of a virtuous 
 and pious life. 
 
 Aunt Isobel now came bustling, with her usual mirth 
 and vivacity into the room, but instantly changed her 
 mood and her manner when her eyes met those of Agnes. 
 For the first time in her life had she now seen in these 
 eyes something like an expression of misery, which was 
 not diminished by the faint smile that reluctantly passed 
 over their tears. Could it be, she thought, that Michael 
 had been unkind? — and she turned towards liim an al- 
 most upbraiding look. But Michael kissed the brow of 
 Agnes, and, putting her hand into that of her guardian — 
 for that was still her deserved name — he earnestly desired 
 the old lady not to be disturbed while he told her of a 
 very great and melancholy misfortune, the details of 
 which he had not yet communicated fully even to his 
 wife. 
 
 "The stranger who left the house about an hour ago 
 is a respectable person in trade in Edinburgh ; and my 
 unhappy brother, poor Abel, instigated, no doubt, and 
 assisted by that villain Manse), has forged upon him to 
 a very large amount. Abel has got the money ; and 
 unless I repay it, Mr. Maxwell will do all he can to dis- 
 cover, apprehend, and bring my brother to punishment ; 
 that is, to death — yes, to certain irreprievable death. If 
 I make good the loss he has sustained, he will suffer the 
 affair to rest ; Abel will escape this time at least ; and 
 we may yet rescue him from destruction." The good 
 ' old lady sighed deeply, and wiped her eyes, but said not 
 a word, and motioned him to proceed. " At my father's 
 deaihj which God remove to a distant day, you know
 
 THE FORESTERS. 35 
 
 this property is mine, burthened with a considerable 
 mortgage, and a small annuity to Abel. We have some 
 outstanding debts due to us ; and you know the amount 
 of the fortune my beloved Agnes brought me : all togeth- 
 er, would no more than repay what Mr. Maxwell has 
 lost by my infatuated brother's crime." — " Hush ! hush ! " 
 said Agnes ; " I think I hear my father's footsteps ! " 
 They listened; but it had only been the motion of some 
 bird among the withered leaves. " Yes, my dear Agnes, 
 I feel the meaning of your fears — to know all that we 
 know would break the old man's heart. I did not think 
 it necessary to consult you what ought to be done ; so, 
 trusting to your approval, I told Mr. Maxwell that I 
 would make good what he had lost to the last shilling I 
 possessed, or would possess for years to come. But I 
 told him that it would certainly kill my father to be told 
 of Abel's crime; sol have become his debtor to the 
 whole amount he desired ; and while I continue to pay 
 him the interest, he will not demand the principal till my 
 father's death. Then Dovenest must be sold ; and we 
 must seek out, in our poverty, for another habitation." 
 
 Michael rose from his seat at the close of these words, 
 and paced hurriedly up and down the room. "Alas! 
 Mrs. Irvine, you will think now — it will be impossible 
 for you not to think it — that Agnes Hay has made an 
 unhappy marriage, and that you brought her up so ten- 
 derly and so wisely, to become miseral)le at last. And 
 yet, if I could die for my Agnes — if, for her sake, I 
 could pour out from my heart every drop it contains — 
 if I could purcliase her peace through life by the mutila- 
 tion of my limbs and miserable decease in a lazar house" 
 
 "O Michael! my husband, what is this I hear? 
 
 Did you not promise, even now, when you pressed me, 
 as you said, with pride to your bosom, to think nothing 
 of this evil, which, since Abel is to be spared, is no evil 
 at all? No! Michael — it is a blessing — a blessing 
 from that Being who has been most merciful to us all our 
 days — who guarded my orphan head by day and night, 
 and has given me the gift of an humble and contented 
 spirit." And so saying, the beautiful young wife knelt
 
 36 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 down, and folded her hands beneath her bosom, over the 
 babe that stirred within her, and gave her a foretaste of 
 a mother's joy. " Disturb her not, disturb her not," 
 said her guardian, with sobs that might not be controlled. 
 "Not I — not I was it that taught my Agnes — her vir- 
 tues are from God, and from God came the lore that put- 
 teth to shame all worldly wisdom, and maketh her alike 
 fit for the trials of earth, or the reward of heaven." 
 
 It was no sudden and transient fit of enthusiasm, but 
 the calm deep movement of piety, that kept Agnes in the 
 attitude of prayer. To the meaning of her words, high 
 as it was, her nature was to be for ever true. No exulta- 
 tion felt she in her submissiveness ; it was the strong 
 humility of a perfectly resigned heart. The fair sight 
 breathed a corresponding calm over those who in them- 
 selves had not perhaps been so comforted ; and, on rising 
 from her knees, she was rewarded by the peace on her 
 husband's face, and the kind eyes of her guardian, that 
 looked on her with a Sabbath smile. And now the old 
 man's footsteps were evidently heard : every cheek was 
 dried, and every voice composed to cheerfulness, when 
 their father entered the room. He put his staff in the 
 usual corner, and said with animation — "Children, I 
 have had a sharp walk, and it is a fine black frost — let 
 us to our meal — for an east wind gives a good appetite, 
 and I think that I may yet live to see another Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 The small round table was now covered with its white 
 cloth, and placed near a blazing root fire. Agnes, with 
 even more than her usual tenderness, wheeled the old 
 high backed arm-chair into its place. The old man held 
 up his withered hand, and bowed down his hoary head 
 in a thanksgiving over the frugal repast ; and, forgetting, 
 or hushing within their hearts, all painful thoughts, the 
 family broke their bread in peace, and there were even 
 smiles sent round the board, which, in spite of that sore 
 distress, was blessed of heaven.
 
 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A SNOW storm liad been blowing throughout the day 
 from all points of the compass, and huge drifts blocked 
 up almost the roads and paths leading into the valley of 
 the Esk. The family of Dovenest were sitting, somewhat 
 late on a January night, round a blazing fire ; nor did 
 the secret, which their hearts had kept from the old man, 
 painful as it was to think upon, prevent them from enjoy- 
 ing much happiness. Indeed, by their constant care to 
 look cheerful at all times in his presence, they had often 
 made themselves really so, when, if left to themselves, 
 they could not but have been oppressed with anxiety and 
 grief Adam Forester had that night spoken frequently 
 of Abel, and lamented that they did not know where lie 
 was ; for, said he, " I wished to have sent him a new 
 year's gift ; which he, no doubt, must be sorely in need 
 of. The poor boy has not, I fear, such a comfortable 
 house as we have over his head this wild night — not 
 such a fire as ours to sit by — no — no . Why did he ever 
 leave his father's house? " Soon after these words, the 
 old man fell asleep in his chair, and nothing more was 
 said by anybody to disturb his slumber. Michael took 
 his book ; Agnes sat before him at her work, of a kind 
 most affecting to the heart of a young wife; and Aunt 
 Isobel, whom nobody ever saw idle, was moving about 
 the room with noiseless steps, and getting ready the eve- 
 ning meal by the time the old man should awake, which 
 he was sure to do when the clock gave warning before 
 the hour of eight. Early hours, night and morning, were 
 kept at Dovenest, with some variation, both in winter 
 and summer ; and from November till the end of March, 
 nine was the hour of evening prayer. 
 
 A loud blow struck the door; and then a man dressed 
 
 in red, like an officer of justice, burst into the room. 
 
 He looked round, for a few seconds, with a stern smile, 
 
 and then said — " Ay, ay ; you have put Master Abel to 
 
 4
 
 38 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bed, I trow; but the bird is not flown — he is in the 
 cao-e ; so, good folks, without more ado, let him be pro- 
 duced. I must do my duty." And he laid down a pair 
 of handcuffs on the table. 
 
 Adam, roused from his sleep by that horrid intrusion, 
 kept his eyes fixed in a ghastly stare upon the pitiless 
 wretch, while his withered cheeks were white as ashes. 
 
 "Giles Mansell has forged on the Bank of Scotland; 
 and his crony, Abel Forester, your son, old man, is im- 
 plicated. The brass plates were found in the garret he 
 inhabited, not long since ; but no need of palaver ; hang- 
 ing is but hanging, so bring him out, or I must have a 
 search in the rookery." 
 
 The old man now knew that Abel was a forger, and 
 saw him on the scaffold. He gave no sigh, no groan, 
 no shudder; but, as if a bar of iron had struck him on 
 the temple, or vapor damp suffocated him, his head fell 
 back, and his features grew rigid, as in the grasp of death. 
 Isobel saw the change, and soon bathed his forehead. 
 But Michael questioned the officer, who, unmoved, with- 
 out circumlocution, and in a few plain and dreadful 
 words repeated the frightful truth. 
 
 The miserable father seemed to hear in his swoon ; and, 
 raising himself np in his chair, which he was too weak 
 to leave, fastened his eyes once more, as in fascination, 
 upon a serpent. " Abel has done many things sore 
 amiss, Mr. MTntyre — for I know your name, sir — but 
 he is no forger ;" and the very sound of that fatal word 
 struck on his heart like a knell, while, with his eyes still 
 fixed in dreadful doubt on the officer's dark scowling 
 countenance, and, with a forced smile of hope that passed 
 away over his quivering lips and cheeks, he laid back 
 his white head once more, and uttered one long, dismal, 
 deadly groan of incurable despair. 
 
 M'Intyre searched thoroughly the whole house, and 
 then appeared to believe that he had come thither on 
 wrong information. He sat down, laid his loaded pistols 
 on the table, and helped himself to food. Meanwhile, 
 Michael had taken his father in his arms, and, carrying 
 him into his own room, laid him on liis bed. He tried
 
 THE FOKESTEKS. 39 
 
 to comfort him in liis agony ; but his father, although he 
 looked on him, did not seem to hear or to understand his 
 words. Agnes came and sat down at the bedside, hold- 
 ing the old man's head between her hands, and Michael 
 returned to the room he had left. M'Intyre was eating 
 greedily, and demanded liquor, which was given. There 
 the fiend sat, with his shaggy eyebrows, coarse features, 
 and sallow complexion, dead to all human misery. The 
 thief-taker had once been a soldier, and had seen much 
 of honorable and dishonorable death. For twenty years 
 — for the wretch's coarse hair was grizzled — it had 
 been his business to prowl about prisons — to lock cells 
 upon guilt and despair — to sit cold as Ice beside quaking 
 caitiffs at the bar — and to do hideous work about scaffolds 
 on days of execution. Even he had an idea of duty — 
 inexorable with a warrant — and not to be bribed by the 
 criminal on whom he had set his fangs — gruff and grim 
 in his integrity, that was proof against the silver and gold 
 of those who had been driven to wickedness by want and 
 famine. 
 
 " Nae doubt it is hard on your father, sir ; but, in time, 
 he'll get ower it like mysel. It's nae secret — a' Scot- 
 land kens it — how my ain son, Donald Dhu, rubbed 
 shouthers with the gallows. He had gotten up to be ser- 
 geant in the Forty-second — the Auld Black Watch — but 
 a halbert wouldna content my gentleman — he wad fain 
 be an ensign; so he forges a bill for four hunder poun'. 
 But his hawse wasna made for hemp: aff gaed Donald 
 across the seas, and was shot through the heart by a black 
 nigger in the West Indies. Anither stoup o' whisky, sir, 
 gin ye please. It 's a bitter night — eneuch to tirr a taed ; 
 and I hae been uj) to the oxters in snaw-pits fifty times, 
 between this and Loanhead." 
 
 Michael, who had had time to reflect on the charge 
 against Abel, began to recover his spirits, and to believe 
 that this might be a mistake: at all events, he had no 
 reason to think that his brother was now in Scotland ; 
 and, in this belief, he could bear more patiently the pre- 
 sence of the loquacious man of blood. " Weel, weel, 
 man, I 'm no sorry that this ne'er-do-weel brither o' yours
 
 40 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 is no here the nicht. But diiina think thai he '11 no he 
 gruppit duing this ve-ra moon. Think ye he 'il- escape 
 a' the thief-takers hetween tlie Land's End and John o' 
 Groat's? . We're a strong squad. And then there's no 
 a clachan, nor a town, nor a road side change-house, that 
 hasna a hue and cry description o' him by this time — 
 liker than ony painted picture. There they are stuck up 
 on every smiddy door — every cross stane — every gable 
 end — every kirk yett. A fox may as weel think o' rinnin 
 i' the day time through amang houses, and alang the 
 king's high road, without being worried by a thousand 
 curs. The hue and cry will gang down into the very 
 coal pits ; and the chimley soopers will ken him war he 
 to tak a brush owre his shouther, and blacken his face 
 like the deil himsel. But here 's to you, sir. This is 
 prime spirit. I 'se warrant it 's smuggled." 
 
 Finding that Michael did not join in the conversation, 
 the officer lighted his pipe, and sat mute and surly, with 
 his huge hand close upon his pistols, till the clock struck 
 twelve, when, with an oath, he started to his feet, and, 
 growli.'ig out that he must be at the jail by two o'clock, 
 pocketed his weapons, and faced the storm, still raging 
 furiously, in the starless night. Michael listened at the 
 door, and heard him plunging through the wreathes away 
 down the glen. 
 
 Michael's heart, in some degree, revived on the removal 
 of that loathsome reptile, or beast of prey ; and just as 
 he was about to go into his father's room, the old man, 
 supported by Agnes and Isobel, came feebly forwards, 
 and requested to be placed in his chair. " O Abel, Abel ! 
 why hast thou done this thing? And is there, indeed, 
 no pity for thee among thy fellow creatures? No; they 
 know not how to pnrdon each other's sins. But we have 
 not had family worship yet ; and it must be done before 
 I take to my bed; for from that bed shall I never be lift- 
 ed again, till you, Michael, walk at my feet, and lay your 
 father in the only place of rest on this cruel earth." But 
 Michael was not able to read the chapter; so Agnes, 
 stronger than them all in this trial, took the Bible, and 
 read what her father had marked some hours before, with
 
 THE FORESTERS. 41 
 
 a voice that faltered less and less at every verse, and, at 
 the close, was almost steady as it had been in the morn- 
 ing worship. 
 
 A pane in the window that moved on a hinge was stir- 
 red, and a well-known whisper said — " Brother — broth- 
 er ! " The old feeble man started like a youth to his feet 
 at the sound of Abel's voice. The door was unlocked ; 
 and there in the midst of them, all drenched with sleet 
 and snow, stood the poor hunted felon. " Kiss me — kiss 
 me, Abel — for I am sick — sick at heart ;" and the mis- 
 erable man laid his icy cheek close to that of his father. 
 Instinctively he supported him to his chair, and knelt 
 down, leaning his head upon his father's knees. " Will 
 not that fearful tiend return against us ? " said the old 
 man, looking wildly towards the door; and Michael 
 stood, in his giant strength, before his father and his 
 brother, resolved that not a hair of Abel's head should be 
 touched till he himself was killed. But the officer had 
 obeyed his instructions, and was now miles on his road to 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Abel had, for weeks, suffered more pain, hunger, and 
 cold — more searching misery of mind and body — than 
 had almost ever fallen to the lot of man; and the relief 
 now yielded, by the very light and heat of the hearth, 
 was felt in his spirit through its frame. They who loved 
 him so dearly would fain have spared him the agony of 
 shame in telling the extent of his delinquencies : all that 
 they desired was to hear from him if he had any hope, if 
 there was any chance of escape. But his sin, his shame, 
 his sufferings, were now all, for a time, forgotten ; for a 
 cold flutter, he said, was tugging at his heart, and he fell 
 down like a corpse upon the floor. His father, who, a 
 few minutes before, was unable to walk across the room 
 unassisted, now raised his son's head with an arm of 
 strength, and, along with Michael, bore him to that bed 
 in which he had slept for so many tranquil and innocent 
 years. Every other fear was lost in that of his immediate 
 dissolution ; and the old man expressed his determina- 
 tion to sit by him during the whole night. The lights 
 4*
 
 42 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 were soon extinguished — all but one taper — and, at 
 dead of midnight, there was silence, if not sleep, over all 
 the house. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Had Adam Forester been even a stern and austere 
 father, instead of one most indulgent and forgivinor, the 
 pitiable condition of his son must have softened all judg- 
 ment of his undutiful transgressions. His suilt had been 
 great, but so had already been its punishment. He had 
 found himself inextricably involved in many dishonest 
 and dangerous practices by Mansell, whose sister he had 
 privately married. That unprincipled person had urged 
 him to the commission of all those acts which had made 
 him amenable to the criminal law, and had indeed so 
 practised upon his easy and credulous nature, as to lead 
 his hand into guilt without even a clear knowledge in his 
 mind that he was perpetrating any crime. Mansell — a 
 man of education and ingenuity — had been an engraver, 
 and had applied his knowledge of that art to the worst 
 purposes. Abel had been made a convenient tool of by 
 his abandoned brother-in-law, and at last found that he 
 had brought himself close to the very edge of destruction. 
 He scarcely knew the exact extent of his own guilt; but 
 he knew that he had been proclaimed a felon, and that 
 the officers of justice had, for some time, been in search 
 of him on a capital charge. Mansell was somewhere 
 hidden in the wild darkness of London ; and Abel's wife 
 was concealing herself in the north of England, till it 
 might be possible for him to elude the keen blood-hounds 
 that were hunting him out, and join her at an appointed 
 place in those secluded regions. 
 
 Abel had, at last, been driven to such extremities in 
 his endeavors to conceal himself, that for a week he had 
 remained, day and night, in one of the old tombs of the 
 Greyfriar's Church-yard. Now and then he had come
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 43 
 
 out, like a ghost, from that dreadful asylum, and purchas- 
 ed something to keep him alive. The weather had been 
 intensely cold, and the poor criminal had been sometimes 
 nearly frozen to death. But the love of life — that strong 
 passion — had supported his heart in the very frostiest 
 famine ; and the agitation of an unceasing anxiety had 
 made his blood to circulate, when otherwise it would 
 have been congealed through his veins in that open vault, 
 whose only door had sometimes been a drift of snow. In 
 the squalor of his wretchedness, he had at last been afraid 
 to go into any shop to purchase a loaf to devour in his 
 gnawing hunger : eyes looked at him suspiciously, he 
 thought, and people whispered to each other; so that, 
 unable longer to endure that direful imprisonment, he 
 had issued forth in spite of fear, and, in defiance of all 
 emergencies, had found his way, in that snow storm, to 
 the house of his father. Some one had, perhaps, known 
 his countenance, and informed the police that he had 
 been seen in the city; or Mr. M'Intyre's visit to Dove- 
 nest might have been one of those accidental coinci- 
 dences, that often bring guilt to detection, and at all 
 times hang over the workers of iniquity — making, on a 
 sudden, the most safe and secret place dangerous as the 
 lion's den. 
 
 His extreme suffering had so worn out both soul and 
 body, that Abel, on his arrival at Dovenest, was at first 
 almost insensible to every thing he saw or heard. His 
 very remorse was lost in pain, sickness, and exhaustion; 
 and while his old gray-headed father had embraced him 
 once more, he scarcely knew that he was in the old man's 
 arms. " Let me lie down, father, for I am dead with 
 weariness, cold, hunger, and want of sleep." Adam For- 
 ester's strength had seemed miraculously restored on 
 sight of his son. On his shoulders, rather than on Mi- 
 chael's, had the prodigal leaned as he tottered to his bed ; 
 at that bed-side his father heard his hurried confession; 
 nor would the old man go to his own rest till Agnes be- 
 seeched him with those soft dewy eyes, whose gracious 
 power he could never oppose, and promised to call him 
 up before daylight, with that low and plaintive voice
 
 44 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 which had never yet asked and been refused, and never 
 would so do until his dying day. 
 
 But long before daylight there was Adam Forester 
 sitting by his Abel's bedside. With his own hands had 
 he lighted a fire in the room, and was preparing some 
 tbod for him when Agnes appeared. A few hours' warm 
 sleep had much restored the miserable man ; and, wholly 
 possessed with the feeling of being once more at home — 
 once more a dweller in Dovenest — Abel almost forgot 
 that he was a hunted felon, and that in an hour he might 
 be drt-^ged from his bed and flung manacled into a dun- 
 geon. All the evil of these two last years, whether it 
 were sin or sorrow, guilt or remorse, was banished from 
 his memory — himself of that distracted time had per- 
 ished away — and he was the innocent Abel of other 
 days, when he had little more to upbraid himself with, 
 but a few faults and follies, forgiven as soon as known, 
 and never remembered against him beyond the first even- 
 ing prayer. Then would he all at once remember what he 
 was now ; and as the horrible future appalled him, he 
 wished that the past might be here peacefully expiated, 
 and his head never more lifted up from that pillow. 
 
 Within the last few hours, some of the strongest of all 
 human passions had, with severe force, struck the heart 
 of old Adam Forester ; and passions, too, opposite to 
 each other as midday and midnight. These sudden 
 shocks had, for the time, communicated, as it were, a 
 preternatural strength to their victim. But when the 
 final excitation subsided, it left him weak as a reed. He 
 was sensible, before others observed it, that a palsy had 
 crept over him — that his powers of speech were be- 
 numbed, and that this must be the finger of death. The 
 change was soon visible to all but Abel ; and Michael, 
 Agnes, and Isobel, who had the most nice of all his 
 looks, gestures, words, and motions, certainly knew that 
 he was fatally stricken. There was no painful distortion 
 to distress their hearts — his speech was not greatly 
 changed ; but a mortal weakness overspread face and 
 figure, and there was an expression in his eyes that told 
 the lids would in a few hours be closed. " f am dying,
 
 THE FORESTERS. 45 
 
 children : let me have all your prayers." Abel had 
 again fallen asleep, and heard not his father's voice. 
 
 There was no weeping or lamentation at that death- 
 bed. As the tide of life kept ebbing away, the old man 
 seemed anxious and more anxious about Abel. But his 
 anxiety although heavier, seemed less painful, and to be 
 nearly akin to hope and trust. They who surrounded 
 him knew well what was meant by each faint single 
 word; they also knew all he wished to hear; and as his 
 dim eyes looked towards tliem, which of them he expected 
 to speak. " If my Abel has wronged any one, sell this 
 patrimony, Michael, and purchase him life." 
 
 Michael had kept one secret from his father ; for he 
 knew that, independently of other considerations, old 
 men cannot bear, without severe pain, the thoughts of 
 the property their industry has painfully purchased de- 
 parting into a stranger's hands after their death; and 
 Adam Forester was not altogether without this failing 
 incident to old age. But now Michael saw that he could 
 give him strong comfort. " Father, fear not for Abel's 
 life. Of this last crime of his associate, he has said that 
 he is wholly innocent ; and however suspicious circum- 
 stances may be against him, they will all be explained, 
 should he ever be brought to trial. The innocent will 
 not suffer. Other wrong things has Abel done ; but, 
 some months ago, I settled the whole with his accuser ; 
 and even with this, my patrimony, have I already pur- 
 chased safety to his life. Not a hair of Abel's head 
 shall be hurt, father — no, not a hair of his head." — 
 "Then can I die happy," said the old man; and these 
 were his last words. Agnes leaned down her cheek close 
 to his, and was about to smooth his pillow; but she heard 
 no breath, and said calmly to Michael — "Our father is 
 dead."
 
 46 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 In a kw weeks it was known throughout the neighbor- 
 hood that both Dovenest and Sprinkeld were to be sold. 
 Some people, who pretended to be in the secret, said, 
 that Michael's young wife longed for a town life, and had 
 given him no peace until he had agreed to remove into 
 Edinburgh. Others looked grave, and shook their heads, 
 saying, they had never thought Adam Forester a rich 
 man : that heavy mortgages were on his small property ; 
 and that, no doubt, Abel had cost his fond and foolish 
 father much money — the old man having, very repre- 
 hensibly, encouraged him in all his extravagance. None 
 knew the real state of the case; although, in a short 
 time, Michael let it be generally understood, that he was 
 able, indeed, to pay all his debts; but, after that was 
 done, that he should be but a poor man. Coarse and idle 
 rumors died away in less than one little month; and it 
 was felt by every fireside in the glen, that, when the For- 
 esters left it, it would lose the best family it had contained 
 within the oldest memory. There was no pity felt for 
 them, for they all seemed composed and cheerful shortly 
 after the funeral. Indeed, there are persons — and the 
 Foresters were of that number — who, even in severest 
 trials, are objects of a higher feeling than pity, and appear, 
 in the elevation of misfortune, worthier our envy than 
 our compassion. Towards them, all impertinent curiosity 
 is at once quelled by the simple dignity of their demeanor : 
 their condition, whatever it may be, must not be ques- 
 tioned ; and, although we remain ignorant of their real 
 circumstances, we take the propriety of all their conduct 
 on trust, and follow them in all their unrepining changes 
 with our silent and approving sympathy. 
 
 Nor was there now any unhappiness very hard to be 
 endured within the walls of Dovenest. Abel had re- 
 mained in his concealment, till he thought he might 
 venture to attempt his nightly escape over the hill coun- 
 try into the north of England. His case was desperate;
 
 THE FORESTERS. 47 
 
 and after many contrite and remorseful confessions, and 
 receiving his brother's entire forgiveness, he went his 
 way, promising to let them hear something of him, if he 
 eluded detection, as soon as prudence would permit. 
 The silence of all rumors concerning him was the best 
 comfort that could be offered to all their hearts ; and 
 they were willing to cherish the belief that he had efTected 
 his escape beyond seas. That belief was enough. What 
 although they were about to be what is called poor? By 
 that poverty they had probably purchased Abel's life, at 
 a time when it was forfeited, and he himself might have 
 been seized. And what peace could there ever have 
 been at Dovenest again, if, for its sake, Abel had been 
 destroyed 1 Yet, although soon to leave that beloved 
 place, they did not seek violently to dissever from it their 
 strong affections. They would enjoy it to the last ; 
 every day they had yet to remain within its quiet bounds, 
 they filled up, from morning to night, with endearing 
 thoughts of its beauty — every little nook was visited and 
 revisited with an unstrained pleasure, gently mingled 
 with an unpainful regret — every tree that hung its shadow 
 over the hawthorn hedge, upon their own river, they re- 
 garded more fondly now that their last spring was adorn- 
 ing its familiar branches ; and as they stood beside the 
 dial, they prayed that the hours might throw over it their 
 lingering shadows, that the day of their departure, though 
 fixed, might be as remote as possible; and their last two 
 months extended, in the multitude of their thoughts 
 within them, into the length of a mournful but not un- 
 happy year. To Michael, the prospect of leaving for- 
 ever the house in which he had been born, was, perhaps, 
 less disturbing at any time, than it was to Agnes, to 
 know that the scene of her bridal happiness was soon to 
 pass away from her like a dream. Seeing them perfectly 
 resigned. Aunt Isobel lost nothing of her habitual vivacity, 
 and her constant cheerfulness often insinuated itself by 
 an agreeable contagion into their spirits, when, perhaps, 
 they were disposed to despond, and might have yielded 
 to the pressure of natural disappointment and distress. 
 And, ere long, there was a new inmate within the peace-
 
 48 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 ful dwelling; for a child was born; and Michael and 
 Agnes being now parents, not one single shadow of sor- 
 row could abide round its cradle. Agnes felt it at her 
 bosom — Michael saw its mother smile — and all mere 
 worldly prosperity was, under the power of that sacred 
 instinct, utterly forgotten. Richer were they than tongue 
 could tell, or heart could conceive: and the Sabbath day 
 on which the infant Lucy was baptized, was the most 
 serenely and perfectly blest day of all their lives, scarcely 
 excepting that on which they had been married. 
 
 Michael Forester had tixed upon a plan of life, and had 
 already prepared to carry it into execution. The only 
 master he had ever known was his own father, and that 
 had been always a pleasant servitude. Independent he 
 would still be; and, in so resolving, he felt that he was 
 influenced by an allowable, an honorable pride. A strong 
 man, in the meridian of life, well educated, and not un- 
 conscious of his abilities, what had he to fear either for 
 himself or those he loved? Nay, a new spring of happi- 
 ness seemed to be flowing within his heart, now that a 
 demand was made for exertions that, but for this misfor- 
 tune, would have been unnecessary, and he looked with 
 a steady and bold eye into futurity. Plis life at Dovenest, 
 industrious as it had been, almost appeared to him now, 
 in the elation of his hopeful mind, to have been a life of 
 indolence. " I will build another house — I will cultivate 
 other fields — I will become a sitter in another kirk — I 
 will form other connections — not to the forgetfulness of 
 any one thing, place, or person now dear to me; no — 
 no — never shall they cease from my grateful remem- 
 brance ; but to all those 1 will add other enjoyments ; and 
 my Agnes, if so it pleaseth heaven, my beautiful Agnes 
 shall be yet happier than ever." 
 
 There was a pastoral farm in the parish of Holylee, 
 called Bracken Braes, which had been attached to one 
 still larger several years ago, but which was again to be 
 let by itself, owing to the mismanagement and failure of 
 the tenant. The dwelling-house had been suffered to go 
 almost entirely into decay ; but the agent of the rich pro- 
 prietor, to whom a large district of the country belonged,
 
 THE FORESTEBS. 49 
 
 at once offered to repair or rebuild it ; and Michael, hav- 
 ing easily found sureties, took the farm. Aunt Isobel, 
 out of her jointure as a minister's widow, had, during 
 upwards of thirty years, saved three hundred pounds ; 
 and Michael knew what was his duty too well to refuse 
 employing that sum in the way that was best for the hap- 
 piness of the household. The cheerful old lady laughed 
 on confessing her unknown riches; but tears of thankful- 
 ness were, at the same time, in her eyes, when she knew 
 what a blessing was now in her little store. So, while 
 Agnes was happy with her infant, Lucy, at Dovenest, Mi- 
 chael frequently visited Bracken Braes, which was to be 
 ready for them on the 25th of May, when there would 
 be a joyful flitting; ay, joyful, even although it was to 
 be from Dovenest: although that gate which he had so 
 often unlatched was to he closed behind him for the rest 
 of his life. 
 
 The house of Bracken Braes, at the end of February, 
 was in ruins. The messy stone wall, round what had 
 once been a garden, was, in many places, fallen down ; 
 and, here and there, the wild sweetbriars seenied to hold 
 it together by their roots and tendrils. ]n that defaced 
 garden nothing was to be seen but a few gooseberry 
 bushes in their old age, almost as tall and wide as lilacs. 
 A sheltered bourtree, and a mountain ash, dwarfed by 
 the browsing cattle, stood at one gable end which was 
 yet entire, and a noble plane, overshadowed tlie deserted 
 domicile. The hill side behind, from whicli the place 
 took its name, was sprinkled with brackens, interspersed 
 with a few hazels; while, here and there, a holly, with 
 its burnished green, brightened the pasture. The other 
 low hills, near at hand, were smooth and bare; but, in 
 the distance, was a range of heathery mountains. Seve- 
 ral streams, or rather runlets, rose impercei)tibly round 
 about; in droughty weather, no doubt, dried up, but now, 
 with the melted snow, clear as diamonds; while a well, 
 even still clearer, and never known to have been dry, 
 green with water cresses, and resplendent with various 
 vegetable lustre, had Iain there, for a good many years,
 
 50 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 undisturbed by bowl or pitcher, and stirred only by the 
 shaggy hill ponies, or sportsman lying down to- quench 
 his thirst, when in pursuit of the solitary plover. 
 
 Poets are fond of building fairy cottages in an oasis in 
 the desert, or perhaps beneath the lake waves, or in 
 groves of air at the rising or setting of golden suns; but 
 here, all transformation, sudden and beautiful as it was, 
 was the work of homely human skill, laboring on the 
 homeliest materials. A small quarry of blue slate stone, 
 unworked since from it had been built the parish kirk, 
 nearly a century ago, was cleared of brackens, briars, 
 and foxgloves, to the disturbance of nothing but the little 
 shy wren and the old gray hare; and, in a week, the 
 sledges had laid down beside the ruined walls wherewith- 
 al to rebuild up anew their ancient proportions. Mi- 
 chael's own hands dug the foundations, and shaped them 
 into lines even of picturesque beauty — obeying only the 
 character of the ground, and its small jutting angles. 
 The merry masons soon ran up the walls. Several oaks 
 that had been dug up from a neighboring moss, almost 
 as fresh as when they had sunk in it, furnished the lintels 
 and the humble roof tree; a few carts of wheat straw 
 from the sunny and fertile fields of Stowe were enough 
 to form a thick regular thatch roof, impervious to the 
 thawing snows, or the deluging hill rains ; the trowels 
 covered the low front and gable ends with a cheerful 
 gleam of whiteness that perhaps the painter might have 
 condemned, but which was to smile on the narrow glen 
 with perpetual sunshine; and there was the homestead 
 of Bracken Braes seen, from foundation stone to chim- 
 ney top, before the second moon had entirely withdrawn 
 her midnight light from the glittering stream of Heriot 
 Water. 
 
 The -sun, on the 25th of May, rose with so joyful a 
 lustre upon Dovenest, that all its inn)ates felt it would be 
 worse than vain to be very sorrowful ; but, even before 
 that joyful lustre had glinted upon the woods of Dryden, 
 Hawthornden, and Roslin, all its inmates had been mov- 
 ing about in the gray and uncertain dawn. They had 
 not been forced to sell their furniture, nor to undergo the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 51 
 
 mean miseries of a sale. It was soon despatched towards 
 Bracken Braes. Their last meal was taken in Doveiiest ; 
 and, if some tears were shed as they were going down 
 the glen, all eyes were nearly clear before they reached 
 Lasswade. It was rather like a party of pleasure seeking 
 a rural holiday than a family leaving an old home. 
 
 ** Ay, yonder is our new dwelling-place!" exclaimed 
 Aunt Isobei, as, during one of the cool hours before eve- 
 ning, the little cavalcade turned round a green monad 
 that had hidden Bracken Braes. " Look yonder, my 
 jewel; will not your cradle rock pleasantly yonder like a 
 bit nest on the shady bough?" and she raised up the 
 baby in her arms, that certainly smiled an answer to her 
 cheerful nurse. In a few minutes Michael took Agnes 
 in his arms, and welcomed her with a kiss to their new- 
 habitation ; and there she stood more beautiful and be- 
 loved than even on that afternoon when they first told to 
 each other their pure affection. To Agnes the scene 
 around her was far more than enchantment. Her hus- 
 band had spoken of the place in measured praise, fearing 
 it might not please after Dovenest. But it was so differ- 
 ent from that spot, in its simple pastoral beauty, that Ag- 
 nes loved it at once, without any comparisons, for its own 
 sake. In silent joy she walked with her husband — Aunt 
 Isobei behind them, cherishing and singing to the infant 
 
 — up the avenue that winded round a knoll to the front 
 of the cottage. There, on each side of the sloping 
 banks, were the very self-sarhe rose trees that had flour- 
 ished so richly at Dovenest — many of the very self-same 
 flowers — and a few shrubs that had been especial favor- 
 ites. "They are taking kindly to the soil already," said 
 Michael. "But here — here," cried Aunt Isobei, "here 
 is the prettiest flower of them all — my own little Lucy 
 Forester, the primrose of Bracken Braes !" 
 
 For a couple of hours Aunt Isobei was quite in her 
 element, arranging every thing within doors and without 
 
 — insisting, all the time, that Agnes should not fatigue 
 herself, but remain with her Lucy on the seat beneath 
 the plane tree. The parlor was soon furnished, if not 
 with the same orderly neatness which it received next
 
 52 THE FORKSTERS. 
 
 d;jy, very passably at least, consi'Jering ail the hurry and 
 confusion; and it was needful it should be so, for a party 
 of visiters were already at the gate. 
 
 Tiie clergyman of tlie parish, and his sober-suited sis- 
 ter, Mr. and Miss Kerniedy, and with them several of the 
 most respectable neighbors, (among others, Peter Tait, 
 the formal and pragmatical schoolmaster,) had come, by 
 Michael's appointment, to give a welcome to their new 
 parishioners at Bracken Braes. Agnes and Aunt Isobel, 
 each in her own pleasant way, received their unexpected 
 guests, who had not come unprovided ; and a tea party 
 was soon laughing and talking in the parlor. By and by, 
 the twilight softly darkened their faces, and the night 
 hawk was heard without, whirring at intervals his mono- 
 tonous song, now close at hand, and now from the other 
 side of the glen. The kind visiters, with a warmth like 
 that of ancient friendship, said farewell beneath the still 
 shadovv of the plane ; and the family, in another hour, 
 had all thankfully gone to rest in their new dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Six quiet and laborious years, every week and month 
 of which had, no doubt, contained its own little interest- 
 ing incidents, had brought the farm of Bracken Braes to 
 the perfection of pastoral beauty. Many a cold marsh, 
 with its long unprofitable rushes, had been converted into 
 the hard firm sod, on which the sheep lay with their 
 lambs on the daisied herbage. Unseen turf fences went 
 winding along the foot of every eminence, and even round 
 and round the lower hills, subdividing the whole farm into 
 picturesque enclosures. Small spots of rye and barley 
 were visible among the heatlier ; the turnip field shewed 
 its richer verdure beside the stony slope of the uplands ; 
 and, down in the haughs, on the water side, bloomed the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 63 
 
 white and purple clover, protected, by thick thorn hedges, 
 from the cattle browsing on the old lea adjacent to the 
 homestead. That homestead looked now almost like a 
 building of other years : the thatch had received its 
 weather stains — the most beautiful of coloring ; but little 
 of the walls below the eaves could be discerned through 
 the roses, that clustered more thickly round the large 
 vine-like leaves of the Virgin's Bower; the very shrub- 
 beries now cast their shadows ; and the old plane tree 
 itself, that seemed to have reached its growth a quarter 
 of a century before, had extended its branches beyond 
 the roof, and darkened the parlor twilight. Every bare 
 nook about the place was now overgrown ; every mark 
 of the labor that had created cottage, garden, and avenue, 
 was hidden ; all the little stone walls were covered with 
 moss and wild creepers; the lanes leading away to neigh- 
 bors' house, sheep fold, shealing, or peat moss, were 
 adorned with furze and hawthorns; and the character of 
 the whole small territory was that of completed cultiva- 
 tion, denoting comfort and independence. 
 
 Not only had Michael Forester prospered in his worldly 
 circumstances, and gained the esteem of the whole parish, 
 but, during these six years, there had never been an hour 
 of much anxiety at his fireside. Agnes Hay — for he 
 always called his wife by her own sweet nauie — had 
 been to him all that he desired. Agnes certainly was 
 not what could be called a very active or ruling house- 
 wife ; for gentleness and serenity were the prevailing 
 qualities of her disposition, and she allowed the stream 
 of life quietly to murmur by in her contentment. There 
 was no waste — no extravagance — no carelessness under 
 her mild domestic dominion ; but her arrangements were 
 all noiseless in their regularity, and proceeded in the 
 spirit of peace. If there was any one thing in which she 
 ever upbraided herself for being too expensive, it was in 
 the article of dress. But her husband, although a plain 
 and almost austere man in all his habits, thought Agnes 
 Hay the most beautiful being on earth, and in that beauty 
 he placed all his pride. It needed not many ornaments,
 
 54 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 but it could bear some, without iiny diminution of its 
 matronly and niaideiilike simplicity. Michael himself 
 worked at every sort of labor, and in all weather ; but 
 there was no need for Agnes to perform any other tasks, 
 but such as suited her somewhat delicate health ; and 
 when he came home from the hill, and found her sitting 
 at her needle, dressed as he desired, and with Lucy at 
 her work too beside her knee, he felt his whole nature 
 not only supported, but purified by the cheerful presence 
 of so much beauty, innocence, and affection. At even- 
 ing he saw those for whom he had been toiling during 
 the day; and a feeling far profounder than pride or ad- 
 miration was constantly in his heart whenever he left or 
 entered the humble porch. An undisturbed quiet was 
 for ever in his house, broken only by the sharp shrill voice 
 of Aunt Isobel, who liked to speak in an upper key, or 
 by her footsteps still quick as those of girlhood, and, 
 sweetest of all sounds, by the prattle and the singing of 
 his Lucy, in features the very image of her mother, but 
 the most gleesome of children, and wild as the fawn in 
 the wood. Yet, in the midst of all her mirth, Lucy 
 would fall hush in a moment at her mother's voice, and 
 all the smiles nearly disappear in the composed cheerful- 
 ness of her eyes and forehead. Then those golden clus- 
 ters lay still upon her fair temples. The child, at the 
 bidding of her mother's eye, would take up her book — 
 perhaps the Bible — and read ; or in employment equally 
 religious, with her little hands would set the house in 
 order against her father's return, and arrange upon the 
 table his frugal meal. Vv^hether the lark or the linnet 
 sung or were mule in the open air, within there was at 
 all times a music that never was heard with weariness, 
 and in the darkest of days there was thus a sunbeam in 
 the house. 
 
 Lucy was only six years old, but bold as a fairy — she 
 had gone by herself a thousand times about the braes, 
 and often upon errands to houses two or three miles dis- 
 tant. What had her parents to fear? The footpaths 
 ■were all firm, and led throuoh no places of danger, nor 
 are infants of themselves incautious when alone in their
 
 THE FORESIERS. 55 
 
 pastimes. Lucy went singing into the coppice woods, 
 and singing she reappeared on the open hill side. With 
 her small white hand on the rail, she glided along the 
 wooden bridge, or, lightly as the ouzel, tripped from stone 
 to stone across the shallow streamlet. The creature 
 would be away for hours, and no fears felt on her account 
 by any one at home — whether she had gone with her 
 basket under her arm to borrow some articles of house- 
 hold use from a neighbor, or merely for her own solitary 
 delight, wandered off to the braes to play among the 
 flowers, coming back laden with wreaths and garlands. 
 With a bonnet of her own sewing to shade her pretty 
 face from the sun, and across her shoulders a plaid, in 
 which she could sit dry during an hour of the heaviest 
 rain beneath the smallest beild, Lucy passed many long 
 hours in the daylight, and thus knew, without thinking 
 of it, all the topography of that pastoral solitude, and 
 even something of the changeful appearances in the air 
 and sky. 
 
 The hnppy child had been invited to pass a whole day, 
 from morning to night, at Ladyside, (a farm house about 
 two miles off,) with her playmates, the Maynes, and she 
 left home about an hour after sunrise. She was dressed 
 for a holiday ; and father, and mother, and Aunt Isobel, 
 all three kissed her sparkling face before she set off by 
 herself, and stood listening to her singing, till her small 
 voice was lost in the murmur of the rivulet. During her 
 absence, the house was silent, but happy; and the even- 
 ing being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home 
 every minute; and Rlichael, Agnes, and Isobel, went to 
 meet her on the way. They walked on and on, wonder- 
 ing a little, but in no degree alarmed, till they reached 
 Ladyside, and heard the cheerfid din of the imps within 
 still rioting at the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne 
 came to the door; but on their kindly asking why Lucy 
 had not been sent home before daylight was over, he 
 looked painfully surprised, Jind said that she had not 
 been at Ladyside. 
 
 Agnes suddenly sat down, without speaking one word, 
 on the stone seat beside the door, and Michael, support-
 
 m 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 mg her, said — " Jacob, our child left us this morning at 
 six o'clock, and it is now near ten at night. .God is 
 merciful ; but, perhaps, Lucy is dead." Jacob Mayne 
 was an ordinary, commonplace, and rather ignorant man ; 
 but his heart leapt within him at these words, and by 
 this time his own children were standing about the door. 
 " Yes, Mr. Forester, God is merciful ; and your daughter, 
 let us trust, is not dead. Let us trust that she yet liveth ; 
 and, without delay, let us go to seek the child." Michael 
 trembled from head to foot, and his voice Avas gone ; he 
 lifted up his eyes to heaven, but it seemed not as if he 
 saw either the moon or the stars. " Run over to Rae- 
 shaw, some of you," said Jacob, " and tell what has 
 happened. Do you, Isaac, my good boy, cross over to a' 
 the towns on the Inverleithen side, and, O Mr. Forester, 
 Mr. Forester ! dinna let this trial owrecome you sae 
 sairly ;" for Michael was leaning against the wall of the 
 house, and the strong man was helpless as a child. 
 " Keep up your heart, my dearest son," said Isobel, with 
 a voice all unlike her usual ; " keep up your heart, for 
 the blessed bairn is, beyond doubt, somewhere in the 
 keeping of the great God — yea, without a hair of her 
 head being hurt. A hundred things may have happened 
 her, and death not among the number. Oh! no — no — 
 surely not death — that would indeed be too dreadful a 
 judgment! " and Aunt Isobel, oppressed by the power of 
 that word, now needed the very comfort that she had in 
 vain tried to bestow. 
 
 Within two hours a hundred people were traversing 
 the hills in all directions, even to a distance which it 
 seemed most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. 
 The shepherds and their dogs, all night through, searched 
 every nook — every stony and rocky place — every little 
 shaw — every piece of taller heather — every crevice that 
 could conceal anything alive or dead ; but no Lucy was 
 there. Her mother, who for a while seemed inspired 
 with supernatural strength, had joined in the search, and, 
 with a quaking heart, looked into every brake, or stopped 
 and listened to shout and hollo reverberating among the 
 hills, if she could seize on some tone of recognition or
 
 THE FORESTERS. - 57 
 
 discovery. But the moon sank ; and then all the stars, 
 whose increased briglitiics.s had ibr a short time supplied 
 her place, all faded away, and then came the gray dawn 
 of morning, and then the clear brightness of day, and 
 still Michael and Agnes were childless. " She has sunk 
 into some mossy or miry place," said Michael, to a man 
 near him, into whose face he never looked. " A cruel, 
 cruel death for one like her; the earth on which my child 
 walked has closed over her, and we shall never see her 
 more ! " 
 
 At last a man, who had left the search and gone in a 
 directions towards the high road, came running, with 
 something in his arms, towards the place where Michael 
 and others \^re standing beside Agnes, who lay apparently 
 exhausted almost to dying on the sward. He approached 
 hesitatingly ; and Michael saw that he carried Lucy's 
 bonnet, clothes, and plaid. It was impossible not to see 
 some spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn 
 round her neck. " Murdered — murdered," was the one 
 word whispered or ejaculated all around ; but Agnes 
 heard it not; for, worn out by that long night of hope 
 and despair, she had fallen asleep, and was perhaps seek- 
 ing her lost Lucy in her dreams. 
 
 Isobel took the clothes, and, narrowly inspecting them 
 with eye and hand, said, with a fervent voice, that was 
 heard even in Michael's despair — "No; Lucy is yet 
 among the living. There are no marks of violence on 
 the garments of the innocent — no murderer's hand has 
 been here. These blood spots have been put there to 
 deceive. Besides, would not the murderer have carried 
 off these things ? For what else would he have murdered 
 her? But, O foolish despair! what speak 1 of? For 
 wicked as this world is — ay, desperately wicked — there 
 is not, on all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that 
 would murder our child ! Is it not plain as that sun in 
 heaven that Lucy has been stolen by some wretched 
 gypsy beggar, and that, before that sun has set, she will 
 be saying her prayers in her father's house, with all of us 
 upon our knees beside her, or with our faces prostrate 
 upon the floor ? "
 
 58 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Agnes opened her eyes and beheld Lucy's bonnet and 
 plaid lying close beside lier, and then a silent crowd. 
 Her senses all at once returned to her, and she rose up 
 — " Ay, sure enough, drowned — drowned — drowned; 
 but where have you laid her? Let me see our Lucy, 
 Michael ; for in my sleep I have already seen her laid 
 out fof burial." The crowd quietly dispersed, and horse 
 and foot began to scour the country. Some took the high- 
 road, others all the by-paths, and many the trackless 
 hills. Now that they were in some measure relieved 
 from the horrible belief that the child was dead, the worst 
 other calamity seemed nothing, f(ir hope brought her 
 back to their arms. Agnes had been able to walk to 
 Bracken Braes; and Michael and Isobel saU-by her bed- 
 side. Lucy's empty little crib was just as the child had 
 left it the morning before, neatly made up with her own 
 hands, and her small red Bible was lying on the pillow. 
 
 " O my husband ! — this is being indeed kind to your 
 Agnes ; for much it must have cost you to stay here : but 
 had you left me, my silly heart had ceased to beat alto- 
 gether ; for it will not lie still even now that T am well 
 nigh resigned to the will of God." Michael put his hand 
 on his wife's bosom, and he felt her heart beating as if it 
 were a knell. Then, ever and anon, the tears came 
 gushing, for all her strength was gone, and she lay at the 
 mercy of the rustle of a leaf or a shadow across the win- 
 dow. And thus hour after hour past on till it was again 
 twilight. 
 
 " I hear footsteps coming up the brae," said Agnes, 
 who had for some time appeared to be slumbering ; and, 
 in a few moments, the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard 
 at the outer door. It was no time for ceremony, and he 
 advanced into the room where the family had been during 
 all that trying and endless day. Jacob wore a solemn 
 expression of countenance; and he seemed, from his 
 looks, to bring them no comfort. Michael stood up be- 
 tween him and his wife, and looked into his heart. 
 Something there seemed to be in his face that was not 
 miserable. If he has heard nothing of my child, thought 
 Michael, this man must care but little for his own fireside.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 59 
 
 "O speak, speak!" said Agnes; "yet why need you 
 speak? All this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is 
 in heaven." — "Something like a trace of her has been 
 discovered : a woman with a child, that did not look like 
 a child of her's, was last night at Ciovenford, and left it 
 by the dawning." — "Do you hear that, my beloved Ag- 
 nes 1 " said Jsobel : " she 'II have tramped away with Lucy 
 up into Ettrick or Yarrow; but hundreds of eyes will 
 have been upon her, for these are quiet, but not solitary 
 glens; and the hunt will be over long before she has 
 crossed down upon Hawick. I knew that country in my 
 young days. What say ye, Mr. Mayne? there's the light 
 of hope on your face." — "There's nae reason to doubt, 
 ma'am, that it was Lucy. Every body is sure o't. If it 
 was my ain Rachel, I should hae nae fear o' seeing her 
 this blessed nicht." 
 
 Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with 
 even a smile upon his countenance. "I may tell you, 
 noo, that Watty Oliver kens it was your bairn, for he 
 saw her limping after the limmer at Gala Brig; but hae- 
 ing nae suspicion, he didna tak a second leuk o' her; but 
 ae leuk is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy 
 Forester." Aunt Isobel, by this time, had bread and 
 cheese, and a bottle of her own elder-flower wine on the 
 table. "You have had a long-and hard journey, wher- 
 ever you have been, Mr. Mayne; take some refresh- 
 ment :" and Michael asked a blessing. Jacob saw that 
 he might now venture to reveal the whole truth. " No, 
 no, Mrs. Irvine, I am owre happy to eat or to drink. 
 You are a' prepared for the blessing that awaits you ; 
 your bairn is no far off; and I mysel' — for it was I iTiy- 
 sel' that found her — will bring her by the ban', and re- 
 store her to her parents " Agnes had raised herself up 
 in her bed at these words, but she sunk gently back on 
 her pillow ; Aunt Isobel was rooted to her chair ; and 
 Michael, as he rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking 
 under his feet. 
 
 There was a dead silence all round the house for a 
 short space, and then the sound of many joyful voices, 
 which again, by degrees, subsided. The eyes of all, then.
 
 60 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 looked, and yet feared to look, towards the door. Jacob 
 Mayne was not as good as liis word, for he did not bring 
 Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents ; but, 
 dressed again in her own bonnet, and her own gown, and 
 her own plaid, in rushed their child, by lierself, with 
 tears and sobs of joy; and her father laid her within her 
 mother's bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Jacob Mayne had not, perhaps, either felt more or 
 exerted himself more than his other neighbors on the oc- 
 casion of Lucy's disappearance; but her parents contin- 
 ued to entertain towards iiiin an especial gratitude. His 
 was the first sympathy they had received, and he it was 
 that rescued Lucy from that cruel gypsy. Henceforth 
 they could never see him without emotion ; and, as he 
 was a worthy man, a lasting friendship was cemented be- 
 tween the families of Bracken Braes and Ladyside. Ja- 
 cob, whose wife was living — a quiet homely woman — 
 had one son, a boy of surprising abilities, now about ten 
 years, and two daughters, only a year or two older than 
 Lucy. They were her chief companions ; but the girl 
 that Lucy loved most, as she grew up, was Mary Morri- 
 son, of Evvebank, the only daughter of a widower. Ewe- 
 bank was farther off than Ladyside, and, indeed, in an- 
 other parish. Even that imaginary distinction helps to 
 keep families apart more than distance; and, in tliis case, 
 a range of hills that might almost be called mountains 
 intervened ; so that Lucy did not see Mary Morrison 
 oftener than perhaps once a month, on an average, 
 through the whole year. But there was something in the 
 nature of these two young liappy creatures, that, all un- 
 known to themselves, knit their hearts to each other. 
 Lucy thought there was no fiice among all her other 
 friends nearly so delightful as the meek fice of Marv
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 61 
 
 Morrison; and Mary, who was ratlier the elder of the 
 two, sometimes contrived an excuse for a walk over to 
 the Heriot Water, merely to seethe joyful sHiiles of Lucy 
 Forester. Mary lived in a very lonesome house, with a 
 father who, no doubt, loved, but who was far from being 
 gentle towards her ; and the thought of tlie cheerful par- 
 lor of Bracken Braes often brought the tear to her eye, 
 when she looked at the hill range that separated it from 
 the dull solitude of Ewebank. 
 
 Jacob Mayne had a brother — a man of some property 
 — who had lost his wife and only son many years aoro. 
 Jacob himself had had severe struggles with the world, 
 and was now far from being prosperous. lie could live, 
 and clothe, and educate his children decently ; but that 
 was all. He had not been able to lay by a single shilling, 
 and scarcely any new article of furniture had come into 
 the house for a good many years. Perhaps he was some- 
 what soured in his temper by this continued poverty ; 
 and what occasionally still more depressed him, was the 
 total cessation of all intercourse between himself and his 
 brother, owing to one of those fatal (piarrels which, be- 
 ginning in the merest trifles, uniuielligihle to all persons 
 but the parties themselves, eventually alienate affection, 
 and leave those who in youth slept in the same bed, to 
 travel down, angrily and apart, to the grave. Michael 
 Forester had endeavored to reconcile them, but in vain; 
 and he had even so offended Jacob Mayne by his inter- 
 ference, that, for a short time, their familiar friendship 
 had been disturbed. The children, however, had always 
 continued to play with each other, and, while that is the 
 case, the parents wait an opportunity for reconcilement; 
 while Agnes Hay, who had "been a peace-maker, ever 
 since she had come into the parish, had done so many 
 delicate kindnesses to Jacob's wife, that, at last, one day 
 at the kirk, Jacob came cordially up to the group, among 
 whom Michael was standing during the ringing of the 
 bell, and entered into conversation with him about the 
 concerns of both their houses. 
 
 About two years after Lucy's adventure, 'here was a 
 6
 
 62 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 deep sensation sent tln-ough every household, by the dis- 
 covery of a sacrilegious crime perpetrated by a inan who, 
 up to the time of that wretched wickedness, had borne 
 the highest character for probity and religion — no other 
 than this wealthy brother of Jacob Mayne. The unhap- 
 py man was an elder; and had been observed, by a poor 
 old woman, who had sat down, unobserved, to rest her- 
 self in a shade close to the church gate, to take money 
 out of the poor's plate, and secrete it about his person. 
 The pauper watched him several Sabbatiis ; and, at last, 
 issued out of her concealment, and suddenly charged 
 him with his guilt, to which she said she had frequently 
 before been an eye-witness. In the tribulation of detect- 
 ed sacrilege, Richard Mayne had not a word to speak. 
 The fierce old crone cried out against him till her voice 
 was heard in the kirk ; and, before a crowd of people 
 who would all have disbelieved her as a maniac, the elder 
 confessed his guilt, and demanded to be led to prison. 
 
 The very horror of the crime quelled, in all hearts, 
 any desire of punishment. It shook the whole parish like 
 an earthquake, and there was a disturbed silence in every 
 house. Who miglit dare to say he could stand fast, when 
 Richard Mayne had fallen under the temptation of Mam- 
 mon, whom it now appeared he had served, and not the 
 living God? Miserable man ! what to him was money 
 — the money of the poor 1 His wife and his son — they 
 slept in the grave ; and for himself, who was more ab- 
 stemious than he — who more temperate — and who, 
 until this hidden sacrilege, in all his dealings more rigid- 
 ly just ? And of what had Richard M ay ne, the rich elder, 
 during the unknown length of his crime, robbed the few 
 paupers in the parish ^ — that palsied widow and three 
 other aged women, bedridden or tottering on crutches — 
 the two cripples, one so afflicted from his youth, and the 
 other crushed at his work by a fidling stone — and him, 
 that harmless creature, to whom reason had been denied? 
 Perhaps, altogether, a few pounds, the loss of which had 
 been felt in their salt and their meal, in their miserable 
 daily dole, by the palsied, the blind, the lame, and the 
 lunatic. Jacob Mayne, oppressed with sliame, absented
 
 THE FORESTERS. 63 
 
 himself, with all his family, from the kirk — shut himself 
 up in his house, round which no figure was seen moving 
 — and no one, for a time, went near the abode of the 
 gray-headed worker of iniquity, nor knew whether he 
 was alive or dead. Mr. Kennedy, the minister, had in- 
 deed gone to his house, and knocked at the door; but a 
 low miserable voice told him to go away ; and as he 
 looked up, on his departure, to a window, he beheld the 
 countenance of Richard Mayne, as if it were that of an 
 evil spirit already undergoing its punishment. His only 
 domestic had never returned to the house since that Sun- 
 day ; nor had any smoke been seen since then from his 
 chin)ney. Pity had not yet begun to work — at least not 
 outwardly — in any human heart towards this great sin- 
 ner. Even his brother yet stood aloof 
 
 One night, after Isobel and Lucy had gone to rest, 
 Agnes said — "O Michael! will you not go and see the 
 wretched old man — if he be indeed in life? This mis- 
 ery must be more than he can bear." The summer fire 
 had been for some time dead on the hearth, but the bright 
 moonlight filled the room, and the door was not yet latch- 
 ed. A shadow fell on the floor as Agnes was speaking, 
 and Richard Mayne himself was in their presence. Long 
 and rueful was the old man's confession; and Michael 
 now thought that he descried in him, what, before the 
 crime, he had never noticed, although, no doubt, it had 
 then existed — a manifest taint of insanity. In all his 
 remorse — and it had worn him to the bone — his hag- 
 gard eyes still gleamed when he spoke of the coins he 
 had stolen from the poor; and betrayed, in a crafty and 
 suspicious leer, the passion of the miser. The old man 
 wept when Michael told him, great as had been his crime, 
 to hope for mercy ; but as he wept, he bitterly accused 
 his brother of hard-hearted cruelty ; and, with a tremu- 
 lous voice, swore before his Maker that he would leave 
 any thing he had past that family. " I have always re- 
 ceived more kindness from you, Mr. Forester, than any 
 other man in the parish, and I have made my will in your 
 favor. Yes, I have made my will — I have indeed made 
 my will — a good hundred pound to the poor — and the
 
 64 THE FOKESXERS. 
 
 rest, in money and bonds, to you, sir; for you ofien call- 
 ed in upon nie, and were a moderate man in all your bar- 
 gains. But I have not long to live; and to-inorrow I 
 will shew myself at market, and next Lord's day I will 
 shew myself at church. God grant that she be not there 
 who saw these withered hands robbing the widow and 
 the fatherless; yet there she cannot be, for they tell me 
 she is de;id ; and, O sir, does not her ghost come every 
 midnight, and stand, pointing and laughing, with a pal- 
 sied hand, with bleared eyes, on the old white-headed Ju- 
 das Iscariot on his straw 1 " 
 
 Michael, in the morning, conducted back the unhappy 
 old man to his own house, and got a person to take care 
 of him for the short time he had to live. At church and 
 market, however, Richard Mayne appeared. Few re- 
 mained near him, even as if he had been an infectious 
 lazar. His brother had, for the first time, that Sabbath 
 attended Divine service ; but he left the kirk with his 
 family by a door at the other end from that where the 
 excommunicated elder sat; and as he never even looked 
 up, it is supposed he did not see the old man. In a few 
 weeks Richard Mayne died, and Michael Forester gave 
 orders about his funeral. His brother received an inti- 
 mation of it, but did not attend. Nobody was asked to 
 be present but the bearers ; and Mr. Kennedy and Mi- 
 chael Forester let down the coffin, and said — "Dust to 
 dust!" 
 
 It was soon known over all the parish that the unhappy 
 man had left all his property to Mr. Forester. In a few 
 days Jacob Mayne came over to Bracken Braes, and sat 
 down with a face of angry determination. " I have been 
 a poor man all my life, JMr. Forester ; and, thank God, 
 with a clear conscience and a well-behaved family, I can 
 submit to poverty for the few years I have to live. Much 
 good may my brother's money do you, Mr. Forester; but 
 the love of money is said in Scripture to be the root of 
 all evil, and it was so with my brother Richard. For 
 ourselves, sir, u'e were all tolerably well off at Ladyside 
 before you came among us ; and we can live, although 
 our families shall henceforth be strangers. You under-
 
 THE FORESTERS. G5 
 
 Stand me, Mr. Forester. As for you, Mrs. Forester, I 
 have always respected you — ay, your face was always 
 welcome in our house. But this injustice has struck 
 deep, and I could curse the hour in which I was born." 
 With these words, Jacob raised himself upon his staff', 
 and said — " Here I shake the dust off my shoes — let us 
 never more speak in this world." 
 
 Michael Forester had gone into his own room during 
 Jacob's speech, and now returned with some parchments 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Jacob, this is your poor brother's will ;" and, so say- 
 ing, he put it into the fire, which was burning briskly on 
 a somewhat chill evening. " You are your brother's na- 
 tural and only heir, my worthy friend ; and the property 
 he knew not how to use, (but you must think on him 
 with the deepest pity, for he was not in his sound mind,) 
 may it for many years prove a blessing to you all at La- 
 dyside." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What a blessed change from a long lot of poverty, in 
 which the wants and necessities of each day are with 
 difficulty supplied, leaving to-morrow and all its uncertain 
 demands unprovided for, and still lowering upon the 
 anxious foresight, to such a competency of this world's 
 woods as sets the hearts of parents free, at once and for 
 ever, from all anxieties but those that must in every con- 
 dition attend upon their children's conduct — their errors 
 or their well-doing! It is a blessing felt over all our 
 moral nature, to know that our board, however frugal, 
 can be duly spread in security and peace ; and that, 
 should we be called away on a short warning, those whom 
 we leave behind us will not fiill away from comfort into 
 any destitution. Domestic virtue is almost only another 
 name for domestic peace; and, although assuredly many 
 6*
 
 6(} THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bear extreir.est penury, not only without detriment to 
 their character, but to its purification and increased vigor, 
 yet, with people in general, extreme abasement of condi- 
 tion does mournfully abase the soul, and even our natural 
 affections themselves pine and dwindle in that cold and 
 cheerless atmosphere. 
 
 This truth was now gratefully felt by the family of the 
 Maynes. Now that his mind was relieved from that 
 trouble of anxiety about his wife and children, which had 
 more or less disturbed him by day and night, almost from 
 the year of his marriage, Jacob Mayne saw distinctly the 
 duties he had either neglected altogether, or very imper- 
 fectly performed. He reHected, with surprise and sorrow, 
 on his fretful and irritable temper, that had so often made 
 the house unhappy — on his unreasonable demands on 
 his wife and children, who, do what they would, never 
 could please him — on causeless quarrels among those 
 who yet loved one another — on many long evenings of 
 silent dissatisfaction, more painful in retrospect than the 
 angriest contentions — and, above all, on his unpardona- 
 ble, his unchristian conduct to his brother, with whom 
 he had cherished an inveterate dissension, and had suffered 
 to lead that unbefriended and lonesome life that had 
 finally preyed, as it would now seem, on his very reason, 
 till, under the power of a diseased passion, he perpetrated 
 a crime that was expiated on earth by death and infamy. 
 To these, and many other such thoughts, his mind and 
 his heart now gave a ready entrance; and he confessed, 
 in sincere contrition, all his manifold errors to Michael 
 Forester, whose noble character, in spite of all the best 
 means and opportunities of knowledge, he had grievously 
 misunderstood, and whom he had not hesitated to accuse 
 to his face of hypocrisy and injustice. 
 
 But there was no reason why honest Jacob should not 
 in due time forget his errors. His hard-working wife 
 now wore a smiling face, that reminded him of what it 
 was long ago, when he crossed the moors to visit her at 
 her father's house. His girls could now show themselves 
 at church or market with the very best in the parish, nor 
 yet subject their parents to a charge of extravagance;
 
 THE FORESTERS. 67 
 
 and, above all, his son Isaac, the pride of the country 
 side, could now be sent to college, and become a scholar. 
 Nor was Jacob, bad judge as he was of such matters 
 deceived in this; for his son was indeed a boy of surpass- 
 ing genius — a boy of many tiiousand — born although 
 he was of such very ordinary people, and without one 
 single advantage — working in the fields, even at that 
 tender age, during most of the hours that he could spare 
 from the parish school. His vacations had been little 
 else than a month's bodily toil ; but nature had lavished 
 upon him her choicest mental gifts; and, in his ample 
 forehead and full clear eyes, there was apparent the ex- 
 pression of an extraordinary intellect. Michael Forester 
 approved of the plan of sending him to college ; and, 
 accordingly, before he had perfected his twelfth year, 
 Isaac Mayne, the pale-faced thoughtful scholar of Lady- 
 side, left, for the first time, the farm house in which he 
 was born, and, without friend or patron, entered with 
 enthusiasm on his academical career. 
 
 On the death of Richard Mayne, Michael Forester 
 was made an elder, and thus was broug'ht more frequently 
 into immediate intercourse with Mr. Kennedy. Michael 
 had always been a respected guest at the manse; but he 
 knew his own situation, and kept it. Mr. Kennedy was 
 a man of literary habits, and had also, for some years, 
 employed his leisure hours in educating the sons of sev- 
 eral of the neighboring gentry. Michael never intruded 
 himself upon his minister's retirement ; but they often 
 met, notwithstanding, and might be said to have been on 
 a footing of friendship ever since Michael came to Bracken 
 Braes. Nor are there any purer sweeteners of our mortal 
 lot than those calm and tempered friendships that, while 
 they scarcely seem to constitute any sensible portion of 
 our life, do yet shed their perpetual influence over it all, 
 keeping alive, within hearts that feel each other's worth, 
 all the best human affections, unimpaired by distance or 
 by time, and ready, on the slightest call of duty, to rise 
 up from their silent harboi", and display their streno-th in 
 the most disinterested and arduous exertions. 
 
 Michael's duty, as an elder, took him more than for-
 
 68 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 merly into the houses of his brother parishioners, most 
 frequently in company with Mr. Kennedy, but often 
 alone ; and sometimes, too, his wife and daughter wenl 
 with him when his visits were to the sick or the poor: 
 nor was Aunt Isobel ever found absent when she could 
 be a comfort by fire or bedside. Thus Lucy, who had 
 now reached her tenth year, had her wild spirits tamed 
 down by the knowledge of duty and distress. As quiet 
 and still were all the pretty creature's motions in a sick 
 room, as they were dancing and gleesome on the green 
 sward. The smiles that were native to her eyes were 
 not the smiles of heartless levity, that soon cease to charm 
 even on the face of beautiful childhood, but they were 
 the smiles of an involuntary joyfulness she could not help, 
 and never tried to cherish, intermingled as it was by 
 nature with the innocence of a guileless heart. The 
 more love she gave away, the more did love overflow 
 within her bosom. She loved her father, her mother, 
 Aunt Isobel, Isaac Mayne, his sisters, his parents — all 
 with a different affection; and meek Mary Morrison, 
 who dwelt beyond all the braes, for her she kept, as it 
 were, a secret corner of her heart, where none other en- 
 tered but she ; and if weeks and months passed by, and no 
 Mary Morrison came over to Bracken Braes, yet still the 
 unobscured image of that sweet girl was almost the same 
 as her living self; and often, often did Lucy commune 
 with it sitting in her parlor, or beneath the shadow of 
 the plane, or by some little clear spring among the hills, 
 whither she had gone to bring home the watercresses, or 
 to see what was now the number of the spring lambs. 
 Little as Lucy had seen or heard, that little was all pure 
 and good, or it was the purifying grief that follows re- 
 pentent guilt ; so that, although a mere child, she was in 
 her innocence wiser than she knew, and had learned to 
 look, even with a thoughtful eye, both on human joy and 
 human affliction. 
 
 Never, even in her happiest pastimes, was Lucy dis- 
 inclined to go with her father or mother to the hut of 
 Elspeth Riddel the widow, who had been a widow, and 
 had lost all her twelve children, upwards of thirty years
 
 TIIK FORESTERS. 69 
 
 ago. Close to ilje side of that frail image, now uj^vvarda 
 of ninety years old, would Lucy stand, with upward eyes 
 swimming in reverent pity, while the long locks, white 
 as the driven snows, hung over the golden glow of the 
 maiden's tresses, that changed their lustre at every motion 
 of her head. Lucy, at her bidding, would read the Bible 
 in that lonely hut; and Elsjjcth said, that, although some- 
 what deaf now, slie never lost a word of that low, sweet, 
 distinct voice. Garden flowers, too, she would often take 
 to that hut; and Elspeth, dim as her eyes were, knew 
 them all by name, in a moment; for, long before even 
 Lucy's father was born, had she often gathered such 
 flowers as these for the bosoms of pretty maidens, like 
 Lucy herself, who had all, long since, gone down in old 
 age to the grave. " Ay, ay, Mrs. Forester, I have seen 
 generation after generation, and bonny faces are for ever 
 passing away on the earth, but a bonnier face than that 
 o' your ain Lucy saw I never in a' my lang days, and 
 that 1 say before hersel, for the lassie that will come and 
 speak comfort to an auld forgotten ruin o' a human crea- 
 ture like me, may be felt, without scaith, o' her beauty, 
 perfect as it is, like the beauty o' the rose of Sharon." 
 
 Often, too, did Lucy visit Mooredge — a house only 
 less solitary than that of Elspeth Riddel, whose hut, 
 indeed, had no name, a mere turf shQiling, that had been 
 built in a single day. In the comfortable cottage of 
 Mooredge lived Allan Laidlawand his wife, now a cheer- 
 ful couple, although the very summer when the Foresters 
 came into the parish, their three sons had been drowned 
 in attempting to cross a, ford of the Tweed, when the 
 river was in flood. To hear these old people laughing 
 and talking, one would have thought that they had never 
 been acquainted Vi'ith grief; but Lucy had often seen 
 them when no smiles were in the house, and when both 
 Mr. Kennedy and her father, who had come there to pray 
 with them, that from such perfect resignation as theirs, 
 they would carry comfort to their own homes, but that 
 they could add nothing to such a frame of spirit. "It 
 is not time that cures our sorrows, Mr. Kennedy," would 
 the old woman say ; " for time would weary, and waste
 
 70 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 out, and distract the souls of us mortal creatures. No, 
 no, it is not time, Mr. Forester ; for as plainly, as clearly, 
 as distinctly do T see now the faces of my three drowned 
 boys, as I saw them on that day when they were dragged 
 out of the cruel waters ; and if me and Allan had no other 
 comfort, long ere this hour would we baith hae gaen 
 down in sorrow to our graves." 
 
 Thus passed the days of Michael Forester and his 
 family. Ten years it was since they had left Dovenest ; 
 and, although they had their share of those ordinary 
 anxieties and sorrows that will pass over the surface of 
 the calmest life, yet, during all these ten years, they had 
 known only one miserable night and day, when they 
 feared Lucy had been lost or dead. And what gratitude 
 could ever repay such happiness ? What if severest trials 
 awaited them, had they not been the favorites of heaven, 
 and had they not reason humbly to trust that, in their 
 lives, their Maker was well pleased? 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It was the cheerful season of bark pealing, and Michael 
 Forester had been, for several weeks, employed in felling 
 a pretty extensive wood, about five miles from Heriot 
 Water, on the edge of the Hirst — a large and old estate 
 belonging to a branch of the Cranstouns. Michael had 
 many persons, of both sexes and all ages, working under 
 him ; and not contented with being merely an overlooker, 
 he had the axe frequently in his own powerful hand, and 
 thus added to his other gains the wages of a laborer, al- 
 ways high in that severe and dexterous employment. 
 Sometimes he slept all night in a sheiling in the wood; 
 and, on these occasions, Lucy would come tripping over 
 the hills, and try to surprise her father by laughing in at 
 the door, even before he had left his heather bed in the
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 71 
 
 first glow of sunlight. She carried to him, in her basket, 
 provisions for the day ; remained near him till twilight 
 among the fallen trees ; and, more than once, indeed, she 
 had stayed with him all night in the sheiling. 
 
 It happened that Michael Forester had been detained 
 in the wood for two successive nights, and, therefore, 
 the whole family, Agnes, Aunt Isobel, Lucy, and their 
 three days' visiter, Mary Morrison, determined to pay him 
 a visit at his work, and bring him home with them in the 
 evening to Bracken Braes. They took with them what 
 would be considered quite a feast in the forest ; and Aunt 
 Isobel selected a bottle of the choicest cowslip wine, of 
 that celebrated vintage, which had proved victorious over 
 all competition at an annual meeting of an Edinburgh 
 Horticultural Society. Lucy said she had selected a 
 dining room, on a spot of ground, smooth as velvet, near 
 a spring, over which the huge arm of a fallen oak hung 
 like a canopy that, now and then, fluttering in the breeze, 
 and tempered to a pleasant coolness the strongest heat 
 of the sun. " There will you three sit — father, mother, 
 and Aunt Isobel — while Mary and I will wait at table ; 
 and, if you please, sing you a song when you are drink- 
 ing your wine." Lucy and Mary Morrison carried be- 
 tween them the basket of provisions covered with its 
 white cloth ; and thus they stepped cheerfully along over 
 hill and hollow, often hurrying far before, and often 
 loitering far behind Agnes and Aunt Isobel, who took 
 their own good time, not caring if they should not reach 
 the wood till one o'clock, the hour at which their table 
 was to be spread in that wilderness. 
 
 The little party, under the guidance of Lucy, pene- 
 trated, not without some difiiculties in their way, into the 
 heart of the wood, which covered nearly thirty acres. 
 " What a change since yesterday ! " exclaimed Lucy ; 
 " I saw naething o' that brae and that wee bit bonnie 
 glen yestreen. The auld oaks, as they fa', let many a 
 secret place come into the open light. Waes me for a' 
 the birds and their nests — there's a poor shilfa mourning 
 for her young." Michael beheld them all approaching 
 with a pleased surprise, and left his axe in a wide gap
 
 72 THE FORESTEBS. 
 
 across the stern of a noble oak that reached nearly to its 
 heart's core, and would soon prostrate the giant with the 
 earth. It was, indeed, now the hour of rest and refresh- 
 ment, and all the clashing and crushing sounds ceased in 
 the forest, "This way, father — this way, father," cried 
 the joyful Lucy ; " all of you follow Mary Morrison and 
 me, for we are going to lay the table cloth in the Q,ueen 
 Fairies own dining-room ; nda long before the moonlight 
 we will leave it, without disturbing any of the furniture, 
 to herself and her silent people." 
 
 " Remember, lassie, that we are not all so young as 
 yourself Here am I, an auld woman of threescore and 
 seven — for ten has a fearful sound — and I have walked 
 five good miles without crutch or staff. Come hither, 
 Lucy, like a bit roe as you are, and give me your arm 
 to lean on while I take my breath on this branch. Pre- 
 serve us, what a thickness o' moss, and what soft, gray, 
 blue, red, yellow — ay, all the seven colors, o' the rain- 
 bow, a' glowing with gold and silver on the bark of a 
 fidlen tree. Yet the bark peelers will strip it aff and 
 fling it aside without ever looking at it. Dear me! that 
 so many tall trees o' the forest should be brought low to 
 
 tan leather! And yet — 1 forgot ships maun be 
 
 built — to say nothing o' houses. Agnes, my dear bairn, 
 is not this wood, in its ain way, a very paradise?" 
 
 That word, which Aunt Isobel pronounced with a sort 
 of half self-reproving smile, was not in this case alto- 
 gether misapplied. For labor, the lot of man, seemed 
 here, even in its severity, to partake of the character of a 
 pastime. Here, from one party, the ringing axes, as they 
 kept at regular intervals biting the knotted oaks, brought 
 the short shrill echoes out of the gray cliffs that, ever 
 and anon, shewed some new shaped crag, formerly hidden 
 by the umbrage. There a group of women, girls, and 
 boys, and among them some mere infants were beating 
 the short limber branches, while a nursing mother, a 
 little apart, wrapped in her red gypsy cloak, hushed her 
 baby, and then returned cheerfully to her work. In one 
 place, a number of strong men were hauling trunks or 
 huge arms of trees out of the way, v/ith merry cries, like
 
 THE FORESTERS, 78 
 
 those of sailors at the weighing of anchor. In another 
 place, lads were heaping up the poles together in pyra- 
 mids, or binding the low cords of fire or spoke wood. 
 " A rae, a rae," exclaimed many young voices ; and away 
 bounded the beautiful animal, with twenty shepherds' 
 dogs barking in vain behind its flight. The squirrels, 
 startled at the noise of the chace, ran higher up the 
 branches of the standard oaks ; and the large white owl, 
 issuing from his crevice in the yew tree, kept floating 
 about in the darkness of the daylight, and then settled 
 on a branch with his clerical countenance, to the infinite 
 amusement of all the shouting imps in the wood. 
 
 " Come along — come along," said the impatient Lucy ; 
 " you see t1iey have all left their work. Put your hand 
 on my shoulder. Aunt Isobel ; I see Mary Morrison is 
 helping my mother down the brae." A dozen different 
 little dinner parties were now forming themselves in 
 nooks and corners; while the linnets and the chaffinches, 
 in the underwood, or on the spared trees, whose nests 
 had escaped the general devastation, began to take ad- 
 vantage of the silence, and were chirping and carolling 
 in the shaded sunshine. The cushat, too, moaned from 
 his pine ; and two or three herons came flapping their 
 slow and silent wings from some distant lake or stream 
 to the elm grove that, for the sake of those noble birds, 
 was suffered to stand with all its hereditary nests. 
 
 Lucy, with finest eye and ear, had selected the place 
 for their forest feast. It was a close scene, yet in that 
 covert was felt the whole spirit of the wood. Within 
 the circle of an old charcoal burning place, the ingenious 
 creature had so placed several wreathed limbs of trees, 
 intermingled with roots and tendrils, that they formed 
 one continued couch, with resting-places for back and 
 arm, and enclosed a slab sawn off" an antique ash, which, 
 supported by four pillars of unpeeled birch, formed a 
 table at once elegant and commodious. That table was 
 soon set out by Lucy and Mary Morrison ; and, as soon 
 as the laughing glee had subsided, Michael blest the 
 table, and, after a moment's silence, the feast began. 
 7
 
 74 THE FOBESTEKS. 
 
 " Why, Mary, had not ycu and I green clothes, and 
 then we would have been very fairies? But Aunt Isobel 
 is looking for a cup of nectar." And off flew the laugh- 
 ing Lucy, with her golden tresses, dancing in her delight, 
 and from that spring brought water clearer and brighter 
 than any diamonds ; while meek Mary Morrison moved 
 round the circle with gentler steps, and with suitable 
 demeanor, almost as if she had been indeed a servant. 
 
 Agnes, who had not been out of the lone pastoral 
 country of Heriot Water for several years, felt her tran- 
 quil heart kindled by the beautiful forest scenery ; and, 
 as she looked over the multitude of fallen trees through 
 the stems of the standing wood, she remembered Dove- 
 nest, Hawthornden, Dryden, Lasswade, and Roslin. " O 
 Michael ! you surely will not fell yonder tree ; look at it, 
 and say if it be not the identical image of the oak that 
 stands beside the ford across the Eske, at the very bor- 
 ders of Dovenest." — "Why, my Agnes, Dovenest, our 
 house and our gardens, and our trees, all are gone, or if 
 not gone by this time, so much changed, that even you 
 would not know the place. They are building there a 
 paper mill ; the mill lead runs where were our gravel 
 walks; and the wheel goes dashing round where our fa- 
 ther died and our Lucy was born." — " And why not 1 " 
 said Aunt Isobel, with a cheerful voice : " what were the 
 walls but stone and lime ; and the trees and shrubs, and 
 even the flowers, what but dead matter, without thought 
 and feeling ? There is, at least, no change in our hearts, 
 my son, but what, I hope, is a change for the better. 
 For my own part, never was I so happy ; I never saw 
 you both so happy either at Dovenest or Sprinkeld as you 
 are this blessed hour. There was no Lucy then. ' Come 
 hither my pearl.' " And while old Aunt Isobel kissed 
 Lucy's forehead, they were all silent in the hush of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " cried Lucy, " yonder is auld blind Sandy 
 Paisley with his fiddle. Only look, father, how his bon- 
 ny wee dog, Princy, leads him through among the briars 
 and branches; and how, with his staff feeling round in 
 all directions, the auld man, without a single stumble, is
 
 THE FORESTERS. 75 
 
 making his way along the wood! See now; he kens 
 folk are near at hand, for Princy is beginning to cock up 
 his ears and bark; so Sandy has taken his seat on a 
 stump, and now for his 'fiddle! Ay, you'll hear him 
 singing too — hush — it is puir Tannahill's sang, wi' 
 Mr. Smith's music — 'Jessie the Flower o' Dumblane.' " 
 
 As soon as Sandy Paisley's voice and violin were 
 heard, there was an end to all the dinner parties in the 
 wood, and the old blind musician^was quickly surrounded 
 by a crowded audience. Two or three young girls join- 
 ed in the song; and Sandy Paisley then instantly changed 
 his voice into a firm, deep, low, tremulous second, that 
 charmed the most ignorant and uninitiated in the rayste- 
 ries of music. "A reel, a reel," was now the general 
 cry; and half a dozen couple beat the sod to Tulloch- 
 goram, while Sandy yelled amain at every turn, and 
 moved his bow hand till the fingers were almost in- 
 visible. 
 
 "Are these draps o' rain," quoth the blind man, 
 " plashing on the grun' like lead ? And callants and 
 cutties, dinna ye find it close, and sultry, and breathless? 
 Tell me, are there no ony black clouds in the lift ? 
 Hear till't — that growl comes frae the west. The thun- 
 der will be rattling like artillery owre our heads by the 
 time I hae played three times baith parts o' ' The Flow- 
 ers o' the Forest." Sighing sounds went wavering all 
 over the wood ; the western horizon, far and wide, was 
 blackened ; and all the work people flew to seek shelter 
 from the thunder storm. 
 
 Agnes had always been overcome by a thundery atmo- 
 sphere, and had indeed, for an hour past, felt great op- 
 pression ; but in such a happy scene, she concealed her 
 sickness, and had said nothing. Michael, after ordering 
 the work people to keep away from the standing trees, 
 carried Agnes, almost fainting, in his arms, and laid her 
 on the heather bed in the shelling where he had slept for 
 the last two nights. Aunt Isobel sat down beside her; 
 and Michael, taking Lucy and Mary under his protec- 
 tion, lay down with them under some leafy branches.
 
 76 THE FOKESTEKS. 
 
 The thunder cloud was now right over their heads, and 
 seemed to explode like a cannon. 
 
 Every person in the wood, for the space of a moment, 
 was stunned ; and there was all around, in the hotness 
 of the unbreathing air, a strong smell of sulphur. JVlany 
 started to their feet, happy to feel, by the use of their 
 limbs, that they were unstricken, while a greater number 
 lay concealed in fear among the bushes, from which, now 
 and then, was lifted up the frighted face of some cower- 
 ing urchin. "Where is Mr. Forester?" cried twenty 
 voices ; and Lucy, who had been lying almost in his 
 arms, leaped to her feet, and stood over her father, who 
 was yet motionless, and seemingly insensible. 
 
 While the thunder went away, growling over the wood 
 and the moor beyond, into the eastern mountains, many 
 hands were assisting Michael Forester. Mary Morrison 
 was lying by his side; but, in a few minutes, she awoke, 
 as if from a dream, and looked about her unharmed. 
 There were no outcries — no clamorous voices — all was 
 nearly silent. Michael seemed to recover hia recollec- 
 tion ; and the first words he was heard to say were — 
 " Lucy — Lucy, how is your mother I " Lucy heard the 
 words with many sobs; but her sobs were changed into 
 shrieks, for she looked wildly into her father's face, and 
 saw that he was blind. The fire of heaven had scorched 
 out his eyes, and Michael Forester was never more to 
 see either the heavens or the earth. 
 
 Michael felt that there had been dealt to him a sud- 
 den and severe dispensation. But his soul knew not, as 
 yet, what might be the extent of its great loss, for he 
 knew not whether Agnes and Lucy were alive or dead. 
 Isobel had left Agnes stunned into a swoon by the noise 
 of the bolt; but, by this time, she had somewhat recov- 
 ered, and came out into the open air. Michael now 
 heard both her voice and Lucy's, and though it was the 
 voice of weeping and lamentation, yet was he now con- 
 tent, "Puirman — puir man," said blind Sandy Pais- 
 ley ; " is it, indeed, a God's truth, that Mr. Forester has 
 been blinded by the lightning? Puir man, I pi;y him." 
 and he clasped his hands together in strong compassion,
 
 THE FORESTERS. 77 
 
 the very hands that held the string by which his dog led 
 him from house to house. 
 
 In a little while, one of the boys came from another 
 part of the wood, and said — " Sarah Fleming is killed." 
 " Puir orphan," said a voice — "Sarah hadna much in 
 this world to wish living for — but she was a hard-work- 
 ing harmless thing, and quarrelled wi' naebody." Two 
 of the woodcutters brought the body to the spot, where 
 all the others were now assembled, and laid it on the 
 ground. There was no disfigurement of face or figure, 
 but the orphan girl was manifestly dead. She had nei- 
 ther brother nor sister, nor any relation working in the 
 wood. Indeed, she had been an only child of parents 
 who died before she knew their faces. And although, 
 for a week or two, every one pitied Sarah Fleming, her 
 death made small void in that little circle, and, on the 
 second Sabbath, only a very few missed her face in the 
 kirk. 
 
 The body of the orphan now lay unheeded, not from in- 
 difference to her fate, but from a sense of the unavailing- 
 ness of pity ; while every one was sorely disturbed about 
 Michael Forester, and many tried to persuade themselves 
 that there still might be hope, and that his eyesight might 
 be restored. But Isobel in her aged composure, Agnes 
 in her exceeding love, and Lucy in the distraction of 
 childish tenderness, all alike knew that hope there was 
 none, and beseeched the workmen to carry Michael to 
 Bracken Braes. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 From the first moment there had been no hope for 
 Michael Forester. This he had himself known — Agnes, 
 Lucy, and Isobel, and all who had seen the nature of the 
 affliction. It was a sudden and total change from light 
 
 7*
 
 78 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 to darkness — from free bounding inotion over all the 
 varieties of the uneven earth, to anxious and timid steps 
 along the floor of a sick room, or at hist to be guided by 
 some livincT hand within a safe and narrow circle of unen- 
 cumbered ground, set apart for the exercise of the blind. 
 Such visitations come alike upon huuiility and pride, 
 sweeping the low and the high places, so that the cottar 
 and the king are equally insecure as the worm that is 
 trodden upon among the grass. Oh ! what thoughts 
 weighed on Michael's mind as he felt himself carried in 
 pain and darkness up and down the hills towards Brack- 
 en Braes! Thoughts of dependence and uselessness, 
 perhaps of a life to be sustained on charity ! what a 
 change since the morning he had left them, as he heard 
 the door of his house opened, and knew that he was to 
 see that roof and that plane tree no more! Utterly ex- 
 tinguished were those clear bright bold eyes that had 
 never been afraid to look into any man's face — no more 
 to gaze over the meadows and pastoral braes of his farm 
 — no more to be turned in the delight of pious knowl- 
 edge towards the glorious luminaries of heaven — to see 
 sweet little fair-haired Lucy and her laughing eyes no 
 more — nor her innocent hands I'olded in prayer before 
 her Maker. Unseen by him was henceforth to be the 
 meek beauty of his Agnes. But her soft low voice, that 
 was still to be enjoyed far more than ever, and that blessed 
 head was yet to lie nightly within his bosom. The dire 
 distress met a sort of dim and awful contentment in the 
 depth of his spirit as it descended there ; and on the 
 morning of the second Sabbath, as he heard and knew 
 the sound of familiar feet and voices, somewhat as it 
 seemed more cheerful and unconstrained, Michael For- 
 ester knew not whether he might not almost be called 
 happy. 
 
 " I never heard the kirk bell so distinctly before. 
 What a calm and clear aired day must it be, Agnes ! 
 Has Lucy gone with Aunt Isobel to the kirk ? " Lucy 
 had that moment come into the room, and her father 
 knew her lightest footstep — for, even already, in one 
 little week, had his thoughts and feelings begun to trust
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 79 
 
 more than before to the intimations of the ear. He took 
 his child's hand into his, and felt that her small fingers 
 were enclosing her Bible. " Be happy, ray Lucy, in the 
 house of God, for I am happy." Lucy's eyes were all 
 filled with tears; but Aunt Isobel called to her, with a 
 kind impatience, from the outer door, that the first bell 
 had ceased ; so the child gave her father a farewell kiss, and 
 by the time they had crossed the wooden bridge, the sun 
 was shining so joyfully, the stream murmuring along with 
 such a cheerful tune, and the lark so happy in heaven, 
 that Lucy's cheeks were dry, and the bright calm of 
 childhood established in her bosom, permanent as the 
 blue region of air lying without a cloud from the morn- 
 ing till the evening of some long summer day. 
 
 The house was filled with the stillness of Sabbath, and 
 the other few inmates had left Agnes sitting by her blind 
 husband. " O Michael ! I am a poor weak being, and I 
 fear that I have not been, in too many things, a good 
 poor man's wife. When I look back on our eleven mar- 
 ried years, I see myself cherished, and cared for at all 
 times like the best lady in the- land. For me and Lucy 
 has my husband toiled early and late, and in all weathers, 
 while I was idle by the fireside. If Agnes Hay was in 
 comfort, my Michael thought not of himself: and, O 
 may my Maker now graciously be pleased to enable me 
 to do my duties — different as they must henceforth be 
 — else better that I had never been born. O that this 
 dispensation had fallen upon me ! for I am but little worth 
 in the house, and would have been well contented to be 
 still and humble in the loss of sight, while you were busy 
 as before at all your works. O my husband ! if ever f 
 have been self-willed, or forgetful, I will weep in remorse 
 of my sins; for you taught me everything I know, and 
 without your communications of what I owed to God and 
 my fellow-creatures, more worthless should I have been 
 than even what I feel myself to be, with such a burden of 
 love and duty now laid upon my heart." 
 
 The blind man would not interrupt that piteous voice, 
 for it reconciled him to his fate. He sat up in his bed, 
 and taking Agnes' hand into his — " This ring," he said,
 
 80 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 with a smile, "I pat on thy hand with joy, when thou 
 wert the fairest of the fair — nor have years yet impaired 
 thy beauty. Blind I am, and must for ever be ; but thy 
 face will yet be visible, nor will thy smiles ever be as 
 nothing in my memory. Never once, Agnes — never 
 once — hear me, O Heavens ! from whom came the 
 scorching lightning — hast thou given me one moment's 
 unhappiness! and if thou repinest not — I shall be as 
 happy — it may be happier than ever. But I know you 
 will not repine ; for Agnes Hay, child, maiden, and 
 mother, waking and asleep, by her own hearth, in the 
 open air, and in the house of God, hath ever been a 
 Christian." 
 
 Now for a while silent, and now speaking to each 
 other a few affectionate words, three hours had passed 
 away, and the congregation had left the kirk. " Agnes, 
 think if my eyes had been yet unextinguished, and our 
 Lucy dead, what then would have been the darkness and 
 the silence of Bracken Braes? Both of us had then, in- 
 deed, been worse than blind ; for what then to us had been 
 the unavailing light? Methinks the dear lassie will soon 
 be returning from Divine service, or perhaps they have 
 taken her and Aunt Isobel to the manse." 
 
 Lucy had come into the room with feet silent as the 
 shadows, and had heard her father's words. Well she 
 knew how dear she was to her father ; but, this expression 
 of it, so overheard, carried her into heaven. She stood 
 still at the foot of the bed — a guardian angel, unseen by 
 him for whom she wept. 
 
 "Aornes, why are you sobbing?" said Michael ; but his 
 Lucy came up to his pillow, and at once melted and over- 
 awed, knelt down, and breathed a prayer, of which the 
 few simple and broken words were, assuredly, not un- 
 heard in heaven. 
 
 In the cool of the evening, Mr. and Miss Kennedy came 
 from the manse to Bracken Braes. Aunt Isobel had had 
 warning of the visit, and had the house in the same 
 cheerful order as if they had been invited to a festival. 
 
 " Come Lucy, snod your hair a little, and dinna look as 
 you had been crying." And, at that kind command.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 81 
 
 Lucy siiiilod from her very heart. The tea table was got 
 ready in JMichacl's room ; and the presence of Mr. and 
 Miss Kennedy imposed a pleasant restraint on any too 
 mournful feelings that might otherwise have arisen. The 
 minister knew the character of his elder, and his words 
 of comfort were but few; but they were chosen by a fine 
 and pious mind ; and the grace before and after that meal 
 touclied chords that long continued to sound in the re- 
 signed silence of the blind man's spirit. 
 
 Aunt Isobel, who had kept moving to and fro, now ush- 
 ered in Sandy Paisley. 
 
 " I hope you 'II no be offended, Mr. Forester, wi' my 
 coming to see how you are after your calamity. A blin' 
 man like me can feel mair than others in sic a trial ; but 
 he can, maybe, likewise gi'e mair comfort. 
 
 Auld Sandy Paisley was kindly welcomed, and shook 
 hands with Michael in his bed. He was privileged to 
 speak, lowly as he was in character and condition — for 
 he was upwards of seventy, and had been in darkness for 
 forty years. 
 
 " Wud ye believe me, Mr. Forester, when I say it, that 
 it's just like a dream to me, the time when I saw the hea- 
 ven and the earth, the stars and the flowers, human crea- 
 tures and the animals o' the brute creation ? My faith, 'gin 
 I were to get the use o' my e'en now, how I wad glower at 
 a' the outward works of God ! Guid troth, I'se warrant I 
 couldna comprehend them half as weel as I do now. It 
 wad be a sair confusion." 
 
 There was a gladsome tinkle in the old contented crea- 
 ture's voice that made these few words a homily to all 
 their hearts, and Lucy put the tea cup into his hand with 
 more than usual care and gentleness. 
 
 " r recollec' thnt I was gaen gleg frae the first week o' 
 my blindness. Before that, I never could walk twenty 
 yards wi' my e'en shut, without being terrified o' running 
 owre a precipice, or a coach and six, although I was in 
 a hay field. But nae sooner was I blin', than away I 
 marched right leg foremost, without fear o' stumbling owre 
 a stane or a straw. I felt a little nervish and queer some- 
 times before I got a doggie and string ; and ye wad hae
 
 82 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 leuch to split your sides to hae seen me louping as if I had 
 been demented, high up in the air, and ui' a laag spang, 
 at a bit runner o' water, aiblins the preadth o' my twa 
 hands. I hadna learned then, ye understand, to calculate 
 soun's ; and when 1 knoited the ba' o' my foot against a 
 stane, I wud caper as if I had run foul o' a haill cart load 
 o' road metal. But these are auld times: noo I gang 
 dannering alang as stedy as a rock, or rather like a ship 
 under sail in a fine breeze on the ocean. 
 
 The loquacity of some people — one can scarcely tell 
 why — although endless is not tiresome — and such now 
 was the loquacity of this old blind mendicant. "We're 
 gaun to hae a fine summer o't, I'm thinking. I ken by 
 the sangs o' the birds in April what is to be the nature o' 
 July. O but I like the lang days that gang snoving so 
 cannily down the skies, for then I carena whar I sleep. 
 I just drap down behint a stane or a dyke, wi' the kine 
 lying round about me, and the wee bit moorland birds 
 twittering, like perfect nightingales as they are, wi' sma' 
 interruption through the star hours. Deevil the fear o' 
 ony rheumatics, for I seldom want a drap o' the cretur 
 in a bit leather bottle I keep in ane o' my pouches. Gude 
 
 safe us ! " "Nay, Sandy, my honest friend, a little 
 
 more reverent in your language." — " Pardon, pardon, 
 Mr. Kennedy, and all the rest. I'm but a puir, senseless 
 sinner " — letting his voice drop at the same time — 
 " and what would become o' me, stane blin,' and no sae 
 far aff four score, 'gin my Maker should forget me wan- 
 dering by mysel along the highroads, or among the hags 
 o' peat mosses on the lonesome moors." 
 
 Michael Forester felt his whole nature strengthened 
 by Sandy's cheerful resignation. Shall I repine, he 
 thought, or question the mercy of God's judgments, when 
 I hear this childless, houseless, gray-haired beggar so 
 happy, over whose dying hour there may be none to 
 watch when it comes, perhaps, upon him in a snow wreath, 
 or a storm among the hills ! " Did I ever tell you," 
 continued Sandy, " the story o' the brig ? Weel, then, 
 you see there had been spate in the Yearn Water the 
 day o' John Borland's wedding, and the broose was to
 
 THE FOBESTEIJS. 83 
 
 be frae the Manse o' Mearns into Eagleshani. Thinks I 
 to myself I should like to see the broose — that is, to 
 hear the brassie : for I had a kind o' an interest in anc 
 o' the povvnies — Bob Howie's Pyet. So awhile afore 
 the start, aff I sets, intending to take my station on a bit 
 knowe at the brig end. A kittle turn it was — halfway 
 down a stey brae. As I was standing on a bit knowe, 
 hearkening about me, there was something I didna weel 
 understand in the soun' of the Yearn, a maist desperate 
 gurgling, and growling, and rampaging o' water ; and 
 the roar seemed to gang clean up to the skies, without 
 ony deadening effec' o' stane and lime. O ho! thinks I, 
 what's become o' the brig? I gangs cannily on, fit by 
 fit, wi' Service before me — (no the same doggie as that 
 aneath my chair, but the father o' him ;) and Service, to 
 be sure, youfs, and turns about, and rugs at the string, 
 like a trout that has been weel heucked wi' a bait heuck. 
 The bonnie brig o' Humbie had sunk down before the 
 spate like a pack o' cards ; and, heaven hae mercy ! 
 there comes the broose, along the flat afore the rising o' 
 the hill, a' galloping like mad, wi' a score o' lads riding 
 double, wi' bonnie lasses ahint them. Puir blin' crea- 
 tures, they were a' gallopping to destruction. Up I gets, 
 and avva like lightning, wi' Service barely able to keep 
 up wi' me ; for he was rather pechy, and had never seen 
 his master fleeing in that gate afore — roaring out, 'The 
 brig's down — the brig's soopit awa by the spate.' I 
 heard Bob Howie on the Pyet — for weel I kent the cra- 
 tur's feet like so many hailstanes — 'The brig's fa'en 
 down ; ' but ©n drove the wild deevil — for he feared 
 naething in this world — while, thinks I, ' The Pyet '11 
 flee owre the Yearn, and ne'er ken the brig's missing.' 
 However the broose fell lown, and the Pyet came back 
 to where I was stan'ing, close to the hedge; for there 
 was a power o' rough shod cattle. ' Ye hae saved the 
 lives o' mony o' us, Sandy,' said John Borland; 'what 
 reward shall ye have?' Says I — 'A kiss o' the bride.' 
 And I pried her mou, (I ask your pardon, ladies,) for I 
 was a young chiel then — no exceeding saxty — and I 
 had known Nancy Whitelaw since she was a bairn.
 
 84 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Never played I wl' sic birr as at that wedding ; and the 
 company collected for me ayont threlty shillings, to say 
 naething o'claes. The truth maun be spoken — I wasna 
 quite sober for half a week after. There's a gude deal 
 o' meaning in that story, Mr. Kennedy; but aiblins you 
 have heard it before, though I never tell 't twice the same 
 way; and yet every way is the true ane." 
 
 In an hour all visiters were gone. Agnes and Lucy 
 accompanied Mr. and Miss Kennedy as far as the linn ; 
 and old Sandy Paisley retired thankfully to his straw bed 
 in an outhouse — the sort of lodging which the blind 
 mendicant had preferred to every other for many years. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It was within his own heart and his own home that 
 Michael Forester found the most eft'ectual consolation 
 under his irremediable calamity ; but the universal com- 
 passion felt for him over the parish, and expressed in a 
 hundred affecting ways, could not but breathe its own 
 peculiar comfort. He knew that there was not a single 
 fireside, for many miles round, at which he was not 
 thought of, and prayers offered up for the welfare of his 
 family. Not a day passed without children dropping in 
 with inquiries from their parents; and offers were made 
 and accepted to perform, gratuitously, little pieces of 
 work about the farm which could not be delayed, now 
 that the power of the summer season was strong on the 
 earth. In the discharge of his duties as atj elder, Mi- 
 chael had been in every house in the parish. Families 
 with whom he had scarcely any other acquaintance, now 
 visited him with much of the affectionate solicitude of 
 old friends ; while the few to whom he had long been 
 attached by an intimate friendship, behaved like brothers, 
 or sons, or fathers. If there were any persons who look-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 85 
 
 ed on the Foresters with unkindly feelings — of envy, or 
 jealousy, or causeless offence — they now dismissed all 
 such recollection from tlicir minds, and bore testimony 
 to Michael's worth and the piety of his resignation. Even 
 Elspeth Riddel — the old lonely creature of niiiety — who 
 had not been able to attend the kirk for several years, 
 tottered down to Bracken Braes, and on the utmost verge 
 of life, with the world fast fading away from her dim 
 eyes, and all its bands long ago broken, she eagerly be- 
 seeclied Michael to tell her how his mind bore this dis- 
 pensation, and smiled cheerfully when she heard his col- 
 lected reply, like one still interested in this scene of 
 shadows. 
 
 Michael had now almost completely recovered his for- 
 mer strength ; and, at first sight, a stranger could not 
 have discovered that he was blind. His deportment had 
 always been quiet and grave, altliougii he was a man of 
 great strength and activity; and his blindness had occa- 
 sioned but a slight alteration in his appearance and his 
 movements. His high, broad, ample forehead, chiefly 
 fixed the notice of those who regarded him ; and in the 
 pleasant calm of his other intelligent features, it was not 
 at first observed that his eyes were extinguished. Mi- 
 chiel Forester was generally the tallest man present; and 
 his naturally straight and erect person was little, if any- 
 thing, depressed now by the feeling of helplessness or 
 insecurity. On the contrary, much was added to its dig- 
 nity by that settled calm which, approaching to melan- 
 choly, was only found not to be so when you entered into 
 conversation vvith him, and found his mind alert upon all 
 topics, and full as ever of the power of intelligence and 
 enjoyment. While ordinary — perhaps frivolous — mirth 
 and amusement went on about him, Michael sat, unaware, 
 perhaps, of the trifling pleasures stirring in the room ; or, 
 if aware of them, he allowed them to proceed without 
 reofret or reproval. He remembered what he had himself 
 been a couple of months ago, and was glad to think that 
 those pleasant pastimes which sweeten life were going or 
 in his presence, although he could now take little or no 
 
 8
 
 86 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 active part in such recreations. Voices now were to liini 
 the sole symbols of affection and happiness; and he felt 
 himself every day recognising shades of tone in the voices 
 of those he most loved, that expressed to him all the va- 
 rieties of the most watchful feeling, and seemed even to 
 yield him a deeper knowledge than he had ever possessed 
 before both of their love and their character. A word 
 from his Agnes was now even more than a smile had 
 been before; and when he heard Lucy laughing or sing- 
 ing, in or out of doors, he also at the same time saw the 
 h'jppy creature as vividly in her beauty as if he had gazed 
 upon her with a thousand eyes. Already he felt the gra- 
 cious processes going on within him, by which nature 
 supplies those losses which would seem fatal to the peace 
 of a mortal being, and finally converts into a blessing that 
 elevates the whole life, that which still continues to ap- 
 pear to others to be a curse that would almost make 
 death itself welcome to the stricken spirit. 
 
 It was now the time of the sacrament in the parish of 
 Holylee. The kirk was a very small edifice, and with its 
 narrow aisle, if the passage may so be called that divided 
 the pews, was ill adapted for the celebration of that rite. 
 Accordingly, it had been the usage, from time immemo- 
 rial, to administer the sacrament in the open air. There 
 was a low round hill, not far from the kirk, with a plat of 
 level ground at its foot, of which, as it was a sheep pas- 
 ture, the herbage was always smooth and short. Round 
 this green eminence the streamlet glided away like a 
 dream; and, within the distance of a few hundred yards, 
 an unseen waterfall refreshed the place with a perpetual 
 murmur. The knoll was covered with the congregation, 
 and on the edge of the plat stood a tent from which the 
 zealous minister addressed his flock. On that plat, too, 
 the tables were spread — there the elders placed the 
 bread and wine; and beneath the blue skies of heaven 
 was ratified that mysterious covenant between fallen man 
 and his Redeemer. 
 
 At this summer's sacrament, all eyes were turned upon 
 Michael Forester. For several years before, he had been 
 seen there acting as an elder; but now he did not ven-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 87 
 
 ture to tTke upon himself any active duties. Kind way 
 was made for him and his f\imily, as, walking between 
 Agnes and Lucy, he entered among the seats placed on 
 the greensward. Lucy had hold of her father's hand, 
 and every eye blessed the little beautiful guide. The 
 blind man was delighted in his darkness to hear the rus- 
 tle of the leaves of Psalm Book and Bible, as the congre- 
 gation prepared to sing the praises of their God, or looked 
 out the text from which their pastor was to preach the 
 tidings of salvation. He thought of other meetings of 
 other years, yet his soul was not dismayed. 
 
 During this solemn service, the eyes of one young crea- 
 ture especially, Emma Cranstoun, were often fixed on the 
 fiimilyof the Foresters. She was then, indeed, the Lady 
 of the Hirst; for her father had died several years ago, 
 and her only brother was a prisoner of war at Verdun. 
 Emma Cranstoun had been educated fashionably in Eng- 
 land, and this was the first summer she had been in Scot- 
 land since her infancy. Although one so well born could 
 not want friends, yet Emma, in the midst of riches and 
 splendor, had long been as much to be pitied as the poor- 
 est orphan. Her heart was by nature formed for every 
 pure affection, but it had been locked up during those 
 years when the fountain of feeling flows with most force 
 and clearness. Delicate health brought her to the Hirst, 
 to breathe for a summer the air of her native hills ; and 
 being on a visit, for a few days, at the manse, she now 
 attended the sacrament at Holylee, and took her place 
 among the humblest parishioners. Early during the ser- 
 vice her eyes had fallen on Agnes and Lucy, whom she 
 saw to be mother and daughter. Michael's calamity she 
 had heard spoken of, and her heart was suddenly touched 
 with emotions of pity and admiration, Although there 
 was little difference in their dress from that of their lowly 
 equals, Emma Cranstoun saw at once about them a finer 
 character of feclingr and intelligence. Her heart was in- 
 terested, attracted, drawn towards the group by the cords 
 of some invisible sympathy ; and, after the service was 
 concluded, she told Miss Kennedy that she wished to 
 speak to her tenant, Michael Forester. The impression
 
 88 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 which, unaware to them, Michael and his family had 
 made upon the young Lady of llie Hirst, was rendered 
 still more favorable during that short conversation; and 
 Emma Cranstoun, who had scarcely ever before spoken 
 to a cottager, because she liad had no opportunities, was 
 touched with a new delight on finding so much sense, 
 grace, and beauty in those whom she had been taught to 
 consider almost an inferior order of beings. Emma 
 Cranstoun was but sixteen years old, and Lucy was ele- 
 ven, so that her heart yearned towards the child at every 
 blush that mantled round her downcast eyes ; and she said 
 within herself, that she would, that very evening, pay a 
 visit to Bracken Braes. 
 
 Emma Cranstoun, the Lady of the Hirst, was accus- 
 tomed to follow all her inclinations; but these were uni- 
 formly innocent. Self-willed she no doubt was, but her 
 nature was a happy one, and even her caprices were vir- 
 tuous. Her heart had been defrauded, by an imperfect 
 education, out of much that was the natural dowry of 
 youth; but it had received no taint of corruption. She 
 had retained her simplicity in the midst of false or exces- 
 sive refinement ; nor had the hollow hypocrisies of those 
 to whom the care of her early years had been committed, 
 taught her any unconscious imitation of artifice or deceit. 
 The creature of impulse she indeed was, but her impulses 
 were all instinctively towards right actions and the socie- 
 ty of the innocent like herself. Of this kind was her 
 strong sudden emotion of love to Lucy Forester. It might 
 be called a mere whim — a sport or sally of the humor — 
 yet who could look on Lucy's face and say, that to love 
 it at sight was either thoughtless or unreasonable? In 
 the calm of the evening, therefore, Emma look with her 
 a single domestic, and walked up the vale towards Brack- 
 en Braes. 
 
 With a delighted wonder at its perfect neatness, order, 
 and beauty, the Lady of the Hirst stood below the plane 
 tree and gazed on the cottage. The enchantment of 
 heavenly music rose from within with many a joyful 
 swell, and many a pathetic close. She knew that the 
 family were praising their Maker — that this was the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 89 
 
 evening psalm. She turned aside her head to listen more 
 intently, and her eyes fell upon the golden light of the 
 setting sun. The pure evening air — the walk up the 
 vale — the whole solemn business of the day ^ — and the 
 novelty of all around her, worked upon her heart and 
 her imagination ; and when the hymn ceased, Emma felt 
 the tears on her cheek, and drew a deep sigh of disturbed 
 happiness. It seemed as if, since this Sabbath morning, 
 a new life and a new world had been revealed to her, 
 and that before this evening she had known little or 
 nothing either of her own heart or of her fellow crea- 
 tures. 
 
 Lucy was leading her father out to his seat below the 
 plane tree, to enjoy an hour of its dim shadow, before 
 they all retired to rest, when she beheld the Lady of the 
 Hirst smiling upon her with the most affable benignity. 
 " Father, father, our Lady is here," breathed Lucy in a 
 whisper; and Michael turned respectfully towards the 
 sweet voice of their visiter. Agnes and Aunt Isobel were 
 soon of the party ; and Emma sat on the osier seat beneath 
 the tree, surrounded by her new friends, who regarded 
 her with affectionate admiration. Agnes Hay was fair 
 in her matronly serenity, and beautiful Lucy indeed was, 
 with all her kindling smiles, half subdued by bashfulness 
 and humility ; but Emma Cranstoun possessed that charm 
 which only high refinement can give, and which is alto- 
 gether irresistible and inimitable when united, as in her 
 it was, with simplicity as unaffected as ever belonged to 
 rural innocence in the most solitary dwelling. " They 
 say that the Cranstouns have ever been a beautiful family," 
 whispered Aunt Isobel to Agnes ; " but never, surely, 
 since they bore that name, was there a fiiirer daughter of 
 that house than that lovely image." Then, seeing a slight 
 hectic flush on the lady's cheek, Agnes entreated her not 
 to sit in the dews, but to honor a poor man's house with 
 her presence. 
 
 The conversation led insensibly into the cares and 
 joys, the pains and pleasures belonging to humble life. 
 Emma Cranstoun asked a great many questions, but every 
 c*
 
 90 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 sentence seemed to awaken her heart. Hiiherlo she had 
 seen, and only seen poor men's houses, and passed them 
 by witliout a feeling or a thought. She had seen the 
 smoke rising from the chimneys in the morning or even- 
 ing calm, and thought it beautiful ; but, as it dissolved 
 in the air, it was forgotten, as if it had been a picture of 
 an unreal thing. Now she looked with intense interest 
 on all the furniture of the farm house; and homely as it 
 was, in comparison with the splendor in which she had 
 always lived, she could not but feel how interesting and 
 appropriate it was, and how true the character of every- 
 thing belonging to those excellent people was to their 
 condition. " Are all the families of humble life like 
 this?" thought the simple girl ; if so, may I live all my 
 days at the Hirst, and be a daily visiter among the cot- 
 tages." 
 
 The sun had gone down, and there was now as much 
 darkness as there would be during the whole night. The 
 Lady of the Hirst, more than courteously, wished good 
 night to Michael, Agnes, and Aunt Isobel ; and happy 
 indeed was Lucy to walk by her side, part of the way, to 
 the Manse. " Do you think, my pretty Lucy, that you 
 could love me ; for I wish that we were friends 1" Lucy 
 was afraid to speak ; the very thought of such a superior 
 being to herself calling her friend, was more than the 
 simple child could, for a moment, imagine. But all the 
 way back from the manse, beneath the moon and the 
 stars, Lucy was thinking, in her delight, what she could 
 do for that beautiful lady — how she could serve her in 
 any way, however small, only to shew her gratitude ; and, 
 when she thought on that sweet smile, and still sweeter 
 voice, addressed to her blind father, Lucy felt that she 
 could die willingly for one so free from pride, so lovely, 
 and so compassionate. Agnes, whose quiet heart was 
 yet at all times filled with tenderest anxieties about Lucy, 
 this night laid her head on her husband's bosom with an 
 assurance that her child }iad found a friend ; and that 
 fair and benignant creature was before her in her dreams.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 91 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Little more than half of Michael Forester's lease of 
 twenty-one years had expired, when he had lost his sight; 
 and during the first despair of that deprivation, he had 
 thought of giving up his farm. But he soon felt that there 
 was no necessity for doing so, and that with faithful 
 assistance he could continue to pay his rent, and do 
 justice to the heautiful property he had so long cultivated. 
 That assistance he had found in William Laidlaw, a 
 nephew of the old childless couple at Mooredge. All 
 the braes had long been clear pasturage — the holms by 
 the streamlet's side were rich in natural soil and generous 
 treatment — each enclosed field had been brought to sus- 
 tain unexhausted its due rotations of crop — the small 
 coppice woods, preserved from sheep and cattle, flourished 
 amain with their oaks, birks, and hazels — while here 
 and there among the hedge-rows stood an ash or an elm 
 of no mean growth, and casting a grateful shadow in the 
 pastoral solitude. Now that nearly three years had 
 elapsed since his blindness, Michael had every reason to 
 believe that Bracken Braes still preserved its superiority 
 over every other farm in the parish. 
 
 During these three years it was astonishing what pro- 
 gress Michael Forester had made in that practical educa- 
 tion which the blind pursue under the guidance of nature. 
 Indeed, he had many and great advantages over the 
 generality of men reduced to that condition. His strong 
 natural talents and deep natural affections had all been 
 genially cultured and cherished, so that, from the first 
 week of his affliction, his mind and his heart had neither 
 of them been left desolate. Thoughts and feelings had 
 been stored up against that evil day, and the blind man 
 felt strong in knowledge and in love. His habits had, 
 from boyhood, been of a thoughtful cast; and when the 
 presence of the visible world was veiled from his eyes, 
 his meditations only became more concentrated — or
 
 92 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 rather more spiritual ; but there had been no violent 
 wrenching away or breaking off; and, in an incredibly 
 short time, memory supplied the place of sight, and her 
 images were substantial as realities. His body and his 
 limbs were powerful and active beyond those of most 
 men ; and he soon learned to plant his feet on the ground 
 without shrinking or timidity, and to walk along fearless 
 of all obstructions. A hundred sounds unnoticed before 
 were now familiar to him, each signifying something 
 useful for the blind to know. He, by degrees, observed 
 how all surrounding objects modified his perceptions. 
 Measurements of relative distances were unconsciously 
 made in his mind every shorter or longer walk he took, 
 and paths became known to him alone, existing not to 
 the eyes of others, but traced out by his ear and his 
 touch. The stream could not wind its most noiseless way 
 without his ear detecting the altered -murmur over deep 
 or shallow. He knew in a moment precisely where he 
 stood, as the gentle din of the tiny waterfall rose up from 
 among the hazles. The cawing of the rooks rising or 
 falling on his ear, told him how far he was from the Hirst 
 woods ; and he knew, from the plover's cry, before he 
 came to the edge of the moss. Echoes, that others heard 
 not, whispered to him the path in his solitude. The hol- 
 low ground — the acclivity — the bent — the lea — the 
 light gravelly soil — the heavy till — the moss turf — the 
 heather patch — the wet rushy flat — the stony upland 
 — here and there a huge rock — or an extended preci- 
 pice — by help of these characters, he reperused in his 
 darkness the country around him, that he had so long 
 studied with open eyes ; and thus every month he heard 
 and felt his way farther and farther among the braes, 
 hills, and mountains. He soon found that his long staff 
 was indeed like a feeler, as old Sandy Paisley had told 
 him, and that it was really every part of his existence. 
 But it was not thus that all his practice had been acquired ; 
 for his gentle, patient, and devoted Agnes was for ever 
 at his side ; or, Aunt Isobel, whose lamp burned with a 
 more cheerful glow as the mist of years gathered round 
 it — or Lucy led the way with a dance and a song, or
 
 THE FORESTERS. 93 
 
 hushed and silent as an undisturljcd lapwing walking on 
 the solitary lea. When alone, which he not unfrequently 
 was, even at a distance from the house, he knew that the 
 eye of God was upon every footstep of the blind, and 
 beyond all doubt, that very calamity itself brought wis- 
 dom. The creature was told by a still small voice to 
 throw itself upon its Creator. 
 
 In such a state of mind, what a blessing was such a 
 wife as Agnes! What, if a vain, light, unintelligent wo- 
 man had been called upon to assist and comfort him, 
 even although conjugal affection had subsisted in her 
 bosom ! But here was a guardian being constantly near 
 him, night and day, strong in peace, innocence, and piety. 
 No storm.y passion had ever broken the calm continuity 
 of her blameless life. Never had she denied God or her 
 Saviour, by vain repining or wilful disobedience. Her 
 Bible had not been taken up casually, giving unwelcome 
 intimations that were neglected in worldly cares, or that 
 served only to sadden the heart with the touch of feelings 
 too solemn and sacred to hold long alliance with mere 
 earthly affections. But in that Bible she had, from the 
 dawn of reason, seen revealed a light that never was 
 eclipsed by the clouds of this world. Let her read that 
 book a thousand and a thousand times, not a single page 
 ever became wearisome on the repetition ! To what state 
 of the soul might not one or other of those touching para- 
 bles be applied! On evening of work day, alike as on 
 that of the Sabbath, had her heart ever been open to that 
 Sermon on the Mount ! So that when her blind husband 
 was sitting by the fireside, that blazed with the old roots 
 his own hands had collected, and Lucy working, or read- 
 ing, or singing, beneath the quick notice of Aunt Isobel's 
 eyes, while all the room was else silent, but the tick of 
 the clock, or the rustling noise in his wicker cage of a 
 thrush that had never known liberty ; at such an hour, 
 in that hut, restorative and like a voice from above was 
 the memory of those words — " Blessed are the poor in 
 spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven ! " 
 
 And during the three years of her father's blindness, 
 how had his Lucy shot up into a stately flower! On that
 
 94 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 disastrous day in the Hirst Wood, she was but a child — 
 now she was the fairest maiden of all the hills. Month 
 after month had Michael felt her head growing up beneath 
 his hand — and he had not now to stoop so low to kiss 
 her cheek. Her voice had lost much of its infantine 
 tone, and was deepened into a mellow music. Free, 
 still, were her motions in the open air as those of the 
 fawn at play; but she stepped about the house, of which 
 she had now her own part in the arrangements, with a 
 blithesome carefulness ; while at church, she sat as per- 
 fectly composed and attentive during the whole service 
 as the oldest person. Her feelings were naturally quick, 
 warm — almost impatient ; and when left wholly to her- 
 self, Lucy might sometimes be wayward and headstrong; 
 but when any duty called her to her father, then in a 
 moment she was hushed, like a lark that drops down 
 suddenly into its nest from the sky when the shadow of 
 the hawk is seen on the hill side. Nor did Michael 
 Forester deny to his Lucy any of the harmless pastimes 
 suitable to her age. Each season had its holidays, and 
 perhaps winter, with all its snow, gloom, and darkness, 
 was to Lucy the cheerfullest time of all the year. Then 
 she and the Maynes went for a month or two to the 
 dancing, in a barn near the Manse, or to learn church 
 music in the village school. But, above all, the other 
 festivals that came between their long intervals of homely 
 life, tinging them with the hues of imagination, was merry 
 Halloween. In that secluded glen, the mirthful supersti- 
 tion of that night was felt to be prolonged almost from 
 winter to winter. Bracken Braes was most frequently 
 the chosen scene of the revels. The commodious kitchen 
 was decked with branches of the hawthorn, red with its 
 humble fruit — and with the holly boughs, cut without 
 mercy, and in spite of all their prickles, to brighten the 
 festivities. Then the easily excited spirit of childhood 
 and youth threw all its feelings and all its fancy into the 
 hazle-nuts that cracked away from the ruddy embers ; 
 and many a pretty face, in vain pursuit of the swimming 
 apples, hung over the water-pail, with its long heavy 
 tresses to be readjusted by the hand of some boyish sweet-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 95 
 
 heart. Meanwhile the older people carried on their own 
 conversation hy the chimney nook, undisturbed by the 
 noisy mirth that gave a happier flow to their own thoughts ; 
 and many a joke went round the circle — the wit of the 
 lowly mind that seldom lacks, in its contentment, a strong 
 trace of kindliness, and wisely sports with the hardships 
 of the poor man's life. 
 
 Nor had that visit of the young and beautiful Lady of 
 the Hirst been the last, by at least a hundred, during 
 those few years at Bracken Braes. Emma Cranstoun's 
 heart had received, on that Sabbath, an impression which 
 was never to be effiiced. Not without great injustice 
 could it have been said that the innocent girl had not 
 before that day been a Christian ; for, in the midst of all 
 the vanities with which her steps had been surrounded, 
 she had never been a stranger to the place of worship, 
 nor unacquainted with her Bible. But the influence that 
 ought to have been prevalent and abiding, had been but 
 partial and transitory; that look had been taken up only 
 at formal intervals of time far otherwise occupied ; and the 
 Sab[)ath day, not more than decently observed, stood by 
 itself uncommunicaiing with the week ; so that a pious 
 spirit had still to be reawakened and renewed. Neither had 
 the life she had been constrained to lead frequently stirred 
 her best human affections. But as soon as her eyes had 
 been opened to the knowledge, however limited, of hum- 
 ble rural life, she beheld before her wants that she could 
 supply; sorrows that she could assuage; evils that she 
 could avert ; and joys that she could increase tenfold ; 
 while, thenceforth, all the precepts of Christianity, either 
 of will or deed, seemed to call upon her for obedience 
 and practice. She had carried the beauty of her presence 
 into every house in the parish ; her charities, under the 
 advice of Mr. Kennedy and Michael Forester, had become 
 every season more effective; and happy were all — rich, 
 independent, and poor — to see that, on those errands of 
 real religion, the lady whom all loved, had drawn new 
 health from the pure gales of heaven — that all symptoms 
 of that fatal malady had left her cheek — and that Provi- 
 dence, under whom she humbly served, had bidden her
 
 96 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 own native hills breathe into her bosom a stronger spirit 
 of life. 
 
 And where, during all those years, was poor forgotten 
 Mary Morrison, Lucy's earliest friend? Had all their 
 affectionate thoughts towards each other, as they had 
 often sat in the same plaid, in the moors and mosses, 
 passed away like the sounds and the shadows of that soli- 
 tude? Had Lucy lost in her pride, now that she was a 
 guest even at the Hirst, all her more than sisterly love 
 for meek Mary Morrison in that lonely hut with her stern 
 father? No; Lucy learned other lessons from Emma 
 Cranstoun ; and she who had been Mary's helpless friend 
 in their infant days, had now become her benefactress. 
 For she had ventured to speak to the Lady about Ewe- 
 bank ; and Abraham Morrison, with whom the world had 
 gone hardly, had got such a reduction of his rent, and 
 such remission of arrears, that he had not only kept his 
 head fairly above water now, but, which was a great ad- 
 mission from him, acknowledged that he had reason to 
 be contented. Lucy's love for Mary was the same as 
 ever — there was no inequality in their condition — 
 although Ewebank was, indeed, a far poorer place than 
 Bracken Braes; and while Mary shewed, by her whole 
 behavior, that she thought Lucy far her superior in all 
 things, besides her beauty, in which there was none in- 
 deed to compare with her in both parishes; yet Lucy, 
 true to the bliss of former days, and without even the 
 shadow of change, saw in Mary the very perfection of 
 sense and sweetness, and with the same open and yearn- 
 ing heart as ever, as she came from visiting the Lady of 
 the Hirst, turned away up the narrow birchen glen of 
 Ewebank, and by the ingle, or on the brae side, whis- 
 pered away a few happy hours with Mary Morrison. 
 
 " O, Lucy, dear," said that humble creature, as one 
 day they were sitting in their plaids on the hill, " do you 
 know that I dream so often of my mother, that sometimes 
 I think it must be her ghost that visits me in my 
 sleep : she seems to weep — although not like one of us 
 mortal creatures — and asks me if I am happy." — " How 
 very young you must have been, Mary, when your moth-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 97 
 
 er died ! for I never saw her ; but has she aye the same 
 face in your dreams?" — "Ay, Lucy; the same white 
 mournfu' face she wore when I used to sit upon her knee. 
 1 remember it just as weel as if she had been buried 
 yesterday. My father was not at home the day she was 
 taken away. Oh ! dear Lucy, how my father looked and 
 groaned for months — perhaps a year — after her death. 
 Do you ken, I dinna think she was very happy : my fa- 
 ther is unco severe sometimes, and if it werena for you, 
 Lucy, I wud sometimes maist wish myself i' the mouls; 
 but when I think that surely we twa will be freen's a' our 
 days, then I canna help singing by mysel', or being cheer- 
 fu' as the morning." — " Ay, sure enough, Mary, our 
 love will never die; and, long as we behave ourselves 
 well, the Lady of the Hirst will be our friend. But look, 
 Mary, the sun is going fast fast down. Farewell, fare- 
 well." — "Oh! dinna be lang o' coming to see me 
 again " said Mary, with tears in her eyes ; " and, above 
 a' things, dinna think that I lo'e not my father. O Lucy ! 
 when my father smiles, or even when his countenance is 
 without a frown, my heart beats as if I could gang up 
 and kiss him ; and, after a', every ane has his ain way, 
 and my father has his : there is nae reason to think he 
 doesna like me, his only bairn ; and when I was in the 
 wanderings o' that fever, he was, I am tauld, sairly dis- 
 tracted." The two innocent young creatures parted on 
 the hill side — Lucy towards a cheerful home, filled with 
 comfort, peace and affection, where blessings awaited her 
 from every voice and eye ; Mary Morrison to a hut, per- 
 haps silent and solitary, or overspread with the gloom of 
 a parent's countenance, who knew not how to look kind- 
 ly in his affection upon his only child.
 
 98 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Lucv Forester's fifteenth spring was now dawning 
 upon her beauty ; and, although she had sometimes 
 brought the tear to her mother's eye, and awoke Aunt 
 Isobel's short-lived displeasure, by childish indiscretions 
 and furgetfulness, yet, amidst all the allowable levities of 
 girlhood that occasionally led her into little acts of diso- 
 bedience, wilful or undesigned, one single instance of 
 unkindness or neglect to her father had never been laid 
 to her charge. Often and often had she refused making 
 up parties of pleasure with her playmates, because he 
 might expect her to lake a stroll with him to a neighbor's 
 house, or into the quiet pastures; and, not unfrequently, 
 when, on the very eve of some rural festival, she found 
 that it was right she should remain at home, the loving 
 child had done so, not only without murmuring, but with 
 a proud delight. Her childhood was now over, or nearly 
 so; and her father, knowing that she was approaching 
 the verge of that season when all life would insensibly ap- 
 pear to her eyes covered with a different color, and when 
 her affections would be liable to wounds from many 
 causes that to her had, as yet, no existence, felt an anxie- 
 ty for her sake taking hold of his very heart, and almost 
 disturbing his sleep. " Our happiness," he would some- 
 times say to Agnes, " has been too perfect to endure 
 much longer : " and he began now to be unhappy when- 
 ever Lucy was out of hearing. 
 
 At the Manse there had lived, for about a twelve-month, 
 a youth called Edward Ellis, the son of an English gen- 
 tleman of fortune, who had been an intimate friend of 
 Mr. Kennedy. He was now nearly seventeen years of 
 age, extremely handsome, and a universal favorite over 
 the whole parish. Edward Ellis was a boy of fine talents, 
 but his mind had not yet taken kindly to books; and, al- 
 though not at all deficient in the common scholarship of 
 that early period of life, all that he knew had been learn- 
 ed almost intuitively, for his heart lay in those pursuits
 
 THE FORESTERS. 99 
 
 that brought him into immediate and free intercourse 
 with his fellow creatures. He rejoiced to accompany 
 Mr. Kennedy on his walks or visits, and thus he had be- 
 come quite a familiar guest at the firesides of the cottag- 
 ers, and at none more so than that of Bracken Braes. 
 He was not, of course, without the romance of that sea- 
 son of life, and Lucy Forester was the queen of his fairy- 
 land. 
 
 The love of Edward Ellis, however, was not such as 
 to break his slumbers, destroy his appetite, or sicken him 
 with his amusements. On the contrary, he slept as 
 soundly as any cottar after a day's darg, ate heartily at 
 all his meals, and few good days passed by in winter or 
 spring that he was not on the hills with his gun, or on 
 the banks of the river with his angle. His day's amuse- 
 ment, however, three times a week, terminated, some- 
 how or other, very luckily just at the gate of Bracken 
 Braes. Most happy were they to receive the noble boy 
 at all times; and Michael's spirits, it was observed, were 
 always raised by his animated, open, and intelligent con- 
 versation. " If all rich people, all ladies and gentlemen," 
 thought Lucy, " are like Emma Cranstoun and Edward 
 Ellis, how happy must life be in the palaces of great 
 cities! " 
 
 Lucy was not often from home when Edward Ellis 
 called there ; but, when she chanced to be so, she felt 
 something like a disappointment. She never went now 
 on an errand down to the village — a dozen hamlets bear- 
 ing the name of the parish — that she did not, uncon- 
 sciously, entertain a hope that he might be angling with- 
 in sight, or meet her somewhere in the neighborhood. 
 She had never thought much about her own beauty, till 
 she overheard Edward Ellis praising it in warm admira- 
 tion ; and, from that time, Lucy Forester would stand a 
 few minutes at her mirror, after she had arranged her 
 simple dress, and, perhaps, return to it again to alter a 
 ringlet over her forehead. 
 
 The quick eye of Aunt Tsobel saw, but without any 
 pain, the attachment of their sincere and uncorrupted 
 hearts. It was a delightful dream, that would, of itself.
 
 100 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 pass away, and yet leave no wound behind. In another 
 year, Edward Ellis was to return to England, and the im- 
 age of Lucy would then seem to him like that of some 
 shepherdess of whom he had read in a pastoral poem ; 
 while Lucy, happy in the humble enjoyments spread 
 around her feet on the floor of her father's cottage, would 
 let him depart for ever to the land of his nativity, nor 
 send after him, when a month was gone, more than a 
 tender wish for his perpetual welfare. Yet the thought- 
 ful old lady, in praising Mr. Edward Ellis, always took 
 care to speak of his departure from the glen as not far 
 distant, and probably for ever; at which times, Lucy 
 would give something almost like a sigh, and keep her 
 eyes fixed pensively on the ground ; but the indistinct 
 dream soon deserted her imagination, and she would 
 break out a-singing in her happiness. 
 
 There was a little waterfall of singular beauty, about 
 half a mile from Bracken Braes, just half way down the 
 stream to the Manse. The green hills closed ni suddenly 
 upon some low rocks that lay quite across the stream, 
 so that the waters, parting in two nearly equal divisions, 
 poured over in separate cascades into the pool ; while 
 between them rose up a natural pillar, from whose base 
 sprung a few weeping birch trees, and a single mountain 
 ash. About a rood of grass-plat was level with the 
 sleeping waters below ; and down into that solitary, but 
 always cheerful place, a sheep track led along one side 
 of the brae. An old decayed yew, covered entirely with 
 ivy, and called the Howlet's Nest, stood within reach of 
 the spray that kept its mantle in perpetual verdure. 
 Here Lucy bleached the garments she brought from 
 Bracken Braes, and here Edward Ellis was fonder of 
 angling than in any other pool on all the water. Unde- 
 signedly, but fortunately, had it become a trysting place 
 to these youthful lovers. 
 
 There are often days before February has closed, that 
 come down unexpectedly, and without warning, from 
 heaven, with a delightful summer feeling that is not ex- 
 ceeded in softness even by the balmy June. On such a
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 101 
 
 day, Lucy and Edward found themselves together beside 
 the Hovvlet's Nest. 
 
 " Will Lucy Forester give Edward Ellis a lock of her 
 hair, to keep for the sake o' the bonniest lassie in a' 
 Scotland, when he may be wandering afar off, perhaps 
 in a foreign country, away beyond the seas?" 
 
 " Oh me! Mr. Ellis," cried Lucy with a beating heart; 
 " are you, indeed, going away from llolylee, never more 
 to return?" And tears, she wished not to reveal, in the 
 sincerity of her innocent affection, trickled down her 
 cheeks, from which the rose leaf color had in an instant 
 vanished. 
 
 " No, no, my sweet Lucy, not for another year at 
 least ; and that is a long lono- time, is it not? with many 
 months of long summer days, and many months of long 
 winter nights, it is hard to say which the happiest." 
 
 Lucy felt relieved from a deadly feeling ; for a year, 
 to her young imagination, did, in truth, appear an almost 
 unbounded time ; and, since Edward Ellis was not to 
 leave Holylee for a whole year, she was again nearly 
 happy as ever. Edward took one of her rich auburn 
 ringlets that hung over her temples, and, while Lucy 
 stood still in her joyful tears, he fastened a little gold 
 brooch on her bosom, whose beauty, like that of the 
 white lily, was alike fair in shade and sunshine. 
 
 " Now, Lucy, sing me one of Burns' songs ; and, if 
 you please, let it be — 'To Mary in Heaven.' " 
 
 The happy girl at once complied; and, while Edward 
 Ellis laid his hand upon her shoulder with all the tender- 
 ness of youth, she sung that beautiful hymn to the mel- 
 ancholy accompaniment of the lonesome waterfall. 
 
 Isaac Mayne, the scholar and poet of the vale, came 
 down the footpath, and stood before the pair, just as 
 Lucy was singing, for the last time, the pathetic line 
 that commences and closes the hymn. Isaac was several 
 years older than Lucy — about seventeen — but having 
 been in Edinburgh for successive winters, and when at 
 home buried in his studies, he had not been much at 
 Bracken Braes since she had been a mere child. Isaac
 
 102 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Mayne, however, under silent and shy habits, concealed 
 strong passions ; and while he seemed to be giving all 
 his intellect and imagination to the study of books, he 
 had yielded up his heart to violent human emotions. He 
 had all along resolved, within his own heart, that Lucy 
 Forester should, some day, be his wife ; and the flower 
 was growing, he thought, in its solitude, to the perfec- 
 tion of its nature, without any eye but his capable of dis- 
 cerning its consummate beauty. Sometime, during the 
 last summer, he had looked on Edward Ellis with a jeal- 
 ous eye ; and now that he had left Edinburgh for a single 
 holiday, he came upon him standing almost in an em- 
 brace with his own Lucy Forester. Pride — rage — 
 shame — jealousy — and grief — all entered his heart to- 
 gether ; and, mere boy as he was — indeed what else were 
 they all but children — the same pangs rent his breast as 
 ever drove manhood into insanity or death. His pale 
 cheek became sallow — his dark eyes flashed fire — he 
 thrust his hand fiercely through his raven locks, and his 
 frame, that had been feeble from his infancy, shook as in 
 a slight convulsion. He scarcely spoke, but passed by 
 frowning and sullen, and disappeared down the narrow 
 pass, as if on his way to the Manse. Lucy wondered a 
 little at his abrupt manner; but said, that poor Isaac 
 Mayne was ruining his health and spirits by too deep 
 study. Edward Ellis saw the truth, and, with the pride 
 of a successful rival, laughed at the rude scholar, and 
 said — "I hope Isaac will not drown himself for love." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Come, Lucy," said Aunt Isobel, " lay down your 
 knitting, and give us a lilt, my lassie — any air you like; 
 for your father seems drowsy, I think — your mother has 
 not said a single word for at least ten minutes — yourself
 
 THE FORESTERS. 103 
 
 have been mute as an image ever since you took that net 
 into your hand — and not a soul can I get to converse 
 with me. This is dull, dreary work ; and that perpetual 
 drive of Washing sleet against the panes is enough to 
 deafen one's very life. Come, my bonnie bird, gie us 
 something heartsome." 
 
 It was a genuine Scottish March night, wild as in win- 
 ter. There had been a keen frost all day, and the wind 
 had almost amounted to a hurricane. It had, with the 
 fall of darkness, become more fitful ; and, there being a 
 sort of thaw, a thin, wet snow shower had, for hours, 
 been whirling about the glens. Only the week before, 
 and there had been many gentle appearances of spring. 
 The gooseberry bushes were green in all the gardens — 
 the hawthorn hedges had begun to bud — here and there 
 the early willows had put out a few yellow blossoms to 
 the chance bee — the forenoon sun had wakened the in- 
 sect world — and the angler had been seen walking down 
 the stream. But now the waters were again sheeted with 
 ice — both rivulet and tarn ; and the pale aspect of the 
 skies had foretold that the shepherds would soon have 
 work to do up among the hills. The noise without doors 
 had made all silent within; but Lucy, always ready to 
 waken from her short reveries, dropped her knitting at 
 Aunt Isobel's request, and, laying her folded hands on 
 her lap, and fixing her large soft hazel eyes on the floor, 
 with her head and all its clustering ringlets tenderly in- 
 clined towards her father, who roused himself from his 
 half slumber, and turned his face upon his child, smiling 
 even as if he really saw her beauty brightening in the 
 blaze of the kindled fire, she hummed a few low, sweet, 
 uncertain notes, and then, richly and simply as the gray 
 linnet, warbled one of her father's favorite ballads, the 
 " Gaberlunzie Man " — 
 
 " The wind blaws cauld from Donought Head." 
 
 The small audience sat mute for a few moments at the 
 close of the air, and Lucy had again taken up her work, 
 when Michael said — "I hear a foot at the door — no
 
 104 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Gaberlunzie man, I warrant ; for, now-a-days, they keep 
 better under cover on wild nights, and the beggar takes 
 his supper comfortably by the ingle in the small wayside 
 public house, if no cottar has taken him in. It will be 
 one of the Raeshaw shepherds that have been down at 
 the fords looking after the early lambs. Has he gone by 
 without stepping in ? No; that's a stranger's rap, and 
 it sounds as from a feeble hand." Lucy sprang from her 
 stool by her father's knees, but Aunt Isobel was before 
 her. " Stand out o' the drift o' the door, ye delicate 
 thing ;" and then she opened the door but a little, for the 
 blast came down the glen in a very tempest. " Pity me, 
 who are you that faces such a hurricane? Come in — 
 come in ;" and a figure in a tattered dress, covered with 
 cranreuch and icicles, but in no haste to enter, came at 
 last reluctantly forward on the floor ; while Aunt Isobel 
 shut the door against the snow that had been drifting into 
 the middle of the room. He muttered a i'ew indistinct 
 words to Isobel's reiterated questions, who and what he 
 was ; and seemed as if he was not altogether in his right 
 mind — although, perhaps, it was only the inclemency of 
 the night that had benumbed his senses. 
 
 But Michael, the blind man, whose ear was finer than 
 the mole's, rose from his chair and advanced towards the 
 stranger. "What! are you an auld man, said ye ? " — 
 " Aulder in sin and iniquity than in years." — " It is my 
 brother Abel — as God liveth and dealeth mercifully — it 
 is my brother Abel." The staff fell from the frozen hand, 
 and Abel was upon his brother's bosom. Agnes and 
 Isobel gazed upon the wretched man, but for a while they 
 recognised him not — that ghost-like being could not be 
 the laughing and blithe Abel of Dovenest! But Michael 
 feared not that it was his brother whom he held to his 
 heart — for faint, broken, and feeble as that voice sound- 
 ed, it was still the same voice that he had heard for so 
 many years in that quiet garden. Lucy, who now and 
 then had heard her uncle's name, but pronounced as the 
 name of one assuredly in his grave, looked on the figure 
 before her almost with fear, like one risen from the dead ; 
 but, as she touched his withered hand, cold as the ice,
 
 THE FORESTERS. 105 
 
 love and pity arose within her for her father's brother. 
 Never before had Lucy seen her father weep ; and in his 
 tears there was sometiiing so awful to her young heart, 
 that she shed none herself, but stood in perfect silence, a 
 little aloof from that meeting. 
 
 They now saw through his utter wretchedness all that 
 remained of the Abel of other happy days. Though he 
 was cold to the touch, and quite frozen, yet he never 
 shivered. His body was forgotten by him; and his mind, 
 that mind once so quick and bright, so full of fancies for 
 the young and feelings for the old, overflowing with re- 
 sources for every season, it was now manifestly worn out, 
 impaired, and shattered. He scarcely returned his broth- 
 er's embrace : his eyes looked around bewildered and 
 mistrustful; and he said — "Are not you Michael For- 
 ester, that lived once at Dovenest ? If so, then hear me, 
 Michael ; for I am your brother Abel, who ruined you all 
 by forgery ; yet turn me not out of your door till the 
 storm is over. Where is the old man, our father; for I 
 see him not, and perhaps he is dead 1 " 
 
 A bed was soon made by the fireside, and the wander- 
 er's head was on the pillow. Long had it been, no doubt, 
 since the squalid beggar had lain on such a place of rest. 
 Many years were at last over of houseless want that now 
 had no record even in his own darkened memory. But 
 there he now lay apparently in peace, with the snow 
 white sheets carefully folded round him, that had been 
 woven from their own few flax ridges, and spun by old 
 and young hands in the long merry winter nights, when, 
 alas ! Abel was wandering far oflT and unknown! Four- 
 teen years and more had passed since he had parted from 
 them, in fear and danger, at Dovenest. And who, thought 
 Michael, can count the agonies, the diseases, and the 
 despair of all the hours, days, weeks, and months, that 
 crowd themselves into so many unbefriended and home- 
 less years ? 
 
 "O Michael! what means that look about your eyes? 
 What is it that I heard about you at a house near the 
 mouth of the glen?" — "I lost my sight by lightning 
 four years ago, brother ; but I feel small loss of my eyes
 
 106 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 now — yet would that for a little while I could see my 
 Abel's face once more." Remembrances of old times 
 now seemed to be crowding in upon his mind, but every 
 word he spoke shewed how indistinct and confused they 
 all were ; while, of what he saw, or of anything connected 
 with the present condition of the family, he asked not a 
 single question, just as if his powerless understanding 
 had submitted itself entirely to a dream. Much they 
 wondered how he had found his way hither — where he 
 had heard of theui — and, above all, from what region 
 had the wanderer come. Some instinct seemed to have 
 led him, unawares, to Bracken Braes; for it was plain, 
 from his wandering looks and unconnected words, that 
 Abel knew not, for any continued length of time, in what 
 quarter of the world he now was, nor whose fireside it 
 was at which Providence had given him that bed of rest. 
 Perhaps there had been times, when anger had entered 
 into Michael's heart, thinking on all the ruin which his 
 brother had brought upon him — times too, when all an- 
 ger had utterly ceased — when he had not only reconcil- 
 ed himself to the belief of Abel's death, but felt that it 
 was better so, and that he did not even wish that he were 
 in the land of the living. Then had come years almost 
 of forgetfulness, and the blank of oblivion. Michael had 
 never ceased, not, perhaps, even for a week, to think of 
 Dovenest, and his father, and his brother. But that was 
 the real living, innocent, and happy Abel ; the brother of 
 these latter years was nothing else but the image of a dim 
 and disturbed dream. But now, from lands, perhaps, 
 beyond the seas, and at the expiration of so many years 
 of rueful banishment, had come the brother, whom he 
 had so tenderly loved, to all appearance a dying man. 
 Well was it for Michael that he did not see his brother; 
 for, although yet a young man, his hair was quite gray, 
 and all his features shrunk and fallen, like the face of old 
 age. That voice told a mournful tale to the blind man's 
 heart; but still he could not image before him such a 
 sight as Agnes, Tsobel, and Lucy now beheld lying on 
 that bed. He thought of Abel, changed, wearied, and
 
 THE FORESTERS. 107 
 
 worn ; but they saw the very ghost of Abel, swathed, as 
 it might seem, in its winding sheet. 
 
 Abel refused all sustenance, and lay, almost without 
 speaking a word, quite motionless on the bed. But 
 warmth and rest were sustenance to him, and sleep was 
 coming to his aid. The psalm was sung in a lower key, 
 not to disturb him ; but he was yet awake ; and the voice 
 of Lucy, like that of an angel from heaven, was singing 
 to his ear forgiveness and peace. Laden with guilt, as 
 was the wretched man, yet in our Father's house there 
 are many mansions, all of them happier and more blessed 
 than the most untroubled recesses of any earthly house- 
 hold. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 All anger, grief, hope, and despair, regarding his 
 brother Abel, had long passed away from the heart of 
 Michael Forester. And now, after fourteen years' ab- 
 sence, which had been looked on as the separation of the 
 grave, the two brothers, who had always loved one ano- 
 ther so well, slept with only a thin partition between their 
 beds. Michael could hear his brother's disturbed breath 
 during midnight. They sat again at the same board; 
 but Abel's mirth and merriment had long been at an end ; 
 he scarcely ever opened his lips. Ingenious had he been 
 with his cunning hands at all manner of work, out or in 
 doors, making his very amusements contribute to his toil ; 
 and then, in hours of perfect leisure, no musical instru- 
 ment had ever come wrong to him ; he made them all 
 discourse, and acquired skill was put to shame by native 
 genius. But all tliese accomplishments, that had enlivened 
 Dovenest for so many years, had long deserted their mas- 
 ter ; the very remembrance of them no more abided in 
 his brain ; all was weakened in his mind, or utterly de- 
 cayed ; and it was plain to every one, thai if Abel sur-
 
 108 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 vived, nothing could restore the powers of his memory 
 and intellect. But let Providence spare him even thus, 
 and an asylum was prepared for him in his brother's house 
 at Bracken Braes. 
 
 During the whole of April, and on towards the middle 
 of May, Abel lost and regained strength of body every 
 twenty-four hours. " Had he come a year earlier to 
 us," often said Michael, " we could have saved his life." 
 Nature within him struggled to survive, for the heart and 
 the mind of the unfortunate man felt the change that had 
 come over him, and would fain have remained among so 
 many images of peace and repose, after such weary and 
 rueful wanderings. Sometimes, now decently and com- 
 fortably clothed, he wandered by himself into the fields, 
 with eyes still watching him, and sitting down on some 
 sunny bank, remained for hours motionless, like a shep- 
 herd watching his flock. When in the warm afternoons 
 the family took their meal beneath the plane tree, there 
 Abel was seated among the rest ; and, to a stranger's 
 eye, his face betokened nothing distressing, nothing but 
 a placid melancholy, for the features were still remarka- 
 bly handsome, and preserved an expression of intelligence 
 which was no longer within the mind. More than once 
 since May-day, on which there had been a small festival, 
 he had been observed to weep ; and Agnes thought that 
 „a good symptom, for the tears seemed to flow on account 
 of something that was fast coming more distinctly into 
 his memory. And true it was, that Abel's mind gradually 
 became less and less obscure. But as his faculties grew 
 stronger, his bodily frame grew weaker and weaker ; and 
 finally, he asked leave to remain in his bed, saying, that 
 he had heard a voice calling upon him from the other 
 world, and that he wished to prepare himself for de- 
 parture. 
 
 When it was seen that the bed on which Abel lay was 
 soon to be a death-bed, there was not around it much 
 outward demonstration of grief. It even seemed best 
 that it should be so, for he had run his race, and sorely 
 wearied indeed was he, now that he had reached the goal. 
 Little — nothing could be done by skill — every thing he
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 109 
 
 desired by affection. The neighbors knew his state, and 
 came no farther than the door. Mr. Kennedy alone 
 crossed the threshold. Abel lingered in this way, suffer- 
 ing no sort of pain, but smitten motionless for several 
 days, during which Michael never left his bedside. He 
 gathered up each sentence — each word that the dying 
 man articulated often at long intervals — and bound them 
 together into affecting meanings. Both brothers were 
 grateful to God for the wonderfid restoration of Abel to 
 his sound mind. It was impossible for any mortal man 
 to be more truly penitent and contrite ; and seeing around 
 him nothing but countenances full of love and forgive- 
 ness, he could not but believe in the mercy of his Maker. 
 All his knowledge of the Bible revived with his restored 
 power of memory; and he was told, that, great as had 
 been his sins, he might hope for the salvation Heaven 
 offered to all believers. He seemed to hold his eyes 
 fixed for a long time on Lucy, and then life left his lips so 
 quietly, that it was not till his brother lifted up his hand 
 that they perceived Abel was among them no longer. 
 The silence of the house was rather more hushed than 
 before — that was all — and they who had loved him .so 
 well, dried up their tears. Abel had been in foreign 
 countries, and driven about the wide world by land and sea. 
 They buried him in a quiet nook of the kirkyard of Holy- 
 lee; and, before the next Sabbath, there was a stone at 
 his head inscribed with his name and age. Rumors there 
 had perhaps been among the firesides about the character 
 of the dead man ; but fifteen years bring oblivion even of 
 great deeds and noble triumphs ; and, except his own 
 family, there was not one at Abel Forester's funeral who 
 knew what he had either done or suffered. 
 
 10
 
 110 THE l-OIltbTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 In Jihout :i wru^k aflor tlic f"iiiif;r;il, Michael received n 
 letter iroin I'liii^l.iiid, llie contents of which he iniiric<]i- 
 ately cornrrninicated to the liiinily. Abel liad told him, 
 a lew days before liis deatli, tliat lie had joined his wife, 
 Julia Mau.sell, at Ambleside, soon after he had left Dove- 
 uest; that she had died there in childbed ; and that Jie, 
 alarmed by the hue and cry that had pursued him even 
 to that retired village, had fled to Liverpool, whence he 
 had escaped as a soldier in a transport then sailing for 
 the West Indies. 'J'his child, of whom he had never 
 since heard, he left a hw days old in the Poor House. 
 Michael Forester had written to Mr. Colinson, the vicar 
 of I'illesmere, whom Mr. Kennedy slightly knew, iiujuiring 
 if anything could be heard of such an infant; and he had 
 now received an answer, that " Scotch Martha," as she 
 had been always called, was living, and servant to a cot- 
 ter in his parish. 
 
 Nothing was ever done hastily, or without due pre- 
 meditation, at Ijracken Braes. Some cc)mmunication, 
 however, there must be made, and that right speedily, 
 with this orphan girl. As the servant of a small cotter 
 in the north of England, no doubt, "Scotch Martha" 
 might very probably be, and continue to be very happy; 
 but it was Micliael Forester's duty, and his strong desire 
 too, to know exactly the condition and character of his 
 new found niece, and then to judge what ought to be 
 done for her in future. What is there, thought Michael 
 within himself, to prevent me from going to Ellesmere, 
 and ascertaining y)recisely from Mr. Colinson, the vicar, 
 what is my line of duty on this occasion. 'J'he resolution 
 was no sooner suggested than formed. " I will take 
 Agnes with me," exultingly said the blind husband aloud, 
 " and see if, in all the houses of Westmoreland, Lanca- 
 sliire, or Cundjerland, be they the houses of cotter, tenant, 
 statesman, vicar, or esquire, there be any maid, wife, or 
 widow to be compared with my own Agnes Hay."
 
 THE FORESTERS. Ill 
 
 When this plan was first laid before Aunt Isobel, she 
 declared, most explicitly, that both Michael Forester and 
 Agnes Hay were mad, and that such would be the opinion 
 of the whole parish, if they were seen carrying it into 
 effect. " You without your sight, my dear Michael, and 
 my daughter there, delicate as a house lamb, to think of 
 venturing by yourselves away into the woods, and lakes, 
 and mountains, and wildernesses of a strange land ! 
 Order the lassie to come down here to Bracken Braes. 
 Are not you her uncle, and has not the power of her dead 
 father devolved into your hands ? Order Scotch Martha 
 down." But, ere long. Aunt Isobel began to see the 
 matter in a somewhat different light, and to speak with 
 less decision. " Why, my dear Aunt," said Michael, 
 " would you grudge Agnes Hay one single marriage 
 jaunt in fifteen years ? I took her with me, on our mar- 
 riage day from Sprinkeld to Dovenest — not a quarter of 
 a mile, as you know — and from Dovenest I brought her 
 to Bracken Braes, not very unlike a soldier's wife on a 
 baggage-wagon — not above three or four times has my 
 Agnes been as far as Lasswade to see her old friends 
 there, for they have been good enough to visit me here — 
 and you know how she has remained like a shadow by 
 my side since that day in the Hirst Wood. Well, then, 
 do you grudge her a jaunt to the land of the English 
 lakes, which people say are so beautiful, and of which 
 Agnes Hay has a soul to see the beauty — ay, to see it 
 and feel it too, although she may use but few words, and 
 these of a calm kind?" — "But, pity me, Michael, it's 
 a long, long journey, my son ; and are you sure our Agnes 
 is able to bear it? If you think so, and if you will both 
 be happy travelling together into merry England, then, 
 Michael, all I say is, go — go, and God be with you till 
 you come back to Bracken Braes." 
 
 Preparations were busily set a-going for their depar- 
 ture. Lucy had, at first, longed to accompany her parents 
 into England. To the imagination of one wiio had never 
 been more than eight or ten miles from home, that long 
 travel seemed like an adventure in a tale. Fain would 
 she have flown away from Bracken Braes, to that far off
 
 112 THE FOKESTF.KS. 
 
 country, on the wings of youth and joy, to return again, 
 ere long, like a bird that, at evening, conies back i'rom 
 the cultivated valley to its moorland nest. But neither 
 her father nor her mother had said a word about taking 
 her with them ; and besides, her heart told her that she 
 must remain with Aunt Isobel. Reconciled, therefore, 
 without one murmuring thought, to what could not well be 
 called a disappointment, Lucy set herself, with all her 
 heart and soul, to get every thing ready for the journey. 
 Her needle had no rest from morning till night. Up with 
 the lark was Lucy, and never down till after the night- 
 hawk. Aunt Isobel was busier than any bee ; while 
 Agnes herself, who, in her gentleness and composure, 
 seemed idle to unobserving eyes, sometimes was acknowl- 
 edged, at the close of day, to have put through her quiet 
 hands fully as much work as both together. For Aunt 
 Isobel's fingers were but feeble, cheerful as was the old 
 lady's talk ; and Lucy was off her seat a hundred times 
 a-day, looking for that which was not lost, undoing or 
 doing over again what was already done, and, in the con- 
 fusion of her happiness, making progress by many little 
 circuitous paths, followed because they seemed to be 
 so much shorter, so that sometimes she could not help 
 laughing at her own mistakes, and, throwing down her 
 work, would trip out into the sunshine, and observe 
 whether the skies looked settled for fine weather during 
 the journey to England. 
 
 Michael Forester had held several consultations with 
 William Laidlaw, Mr. Kennedy, and Jacob Mayne, on 
 all that was to be done about the farm during his absence. 
 For, even to Michael, the prospect of being away perhaps 
 a fortnight, or three weeks, was accompanied with some 
 little anxiety. He had always considered himself abso- 
 lutely necessary to ail their ongoings about Bracken 
 Braes. The very crops he almost feared would not grow 
 after his departure ; and he thought the sheep and lambs 
 on the hill side would miss the blind man who used to 
 walk quietly amongst them with his staff. But all these 
 iinportant arrangements were made; all orders, oral or 
 written, delivered and understood ; and now, by sunrise,
 
 THE FORESTERS, 113 
 
 on a beautiful June morning, Mr. Kennedy's taxed cart 
 was at the door, drawn too by his strong sober steed, and 
 driven by Alexander Ainslie, one of the sons of the sol- 
 dier's widow — an urchin who had been about horses 
 from tlie time he could crawl, and although only fifteen, 
 nevertheless an expert and cautious Jehu. 
 
 Lucy and Aunt Isobel accompanied the travellers to 
 the very end of their own valley. As they passed the 
 Manse, there were Mr. and Miss Kennedy to wish them, 
 for the twentieth and last time, a happy parting and re- 
 turn ; while the latter handed up to Agnes a basket full 
 of choice viands, lest provisions should be scarce in the 
 barren parts of England, through which she understood 
 they were to pass ; and Edward Ellis, who was going to 
 angle, as he said, at any rate, down the stream, leapt up 
 into the vehicle beside Lucy ; and away drove Alexander 
 the Great in his pride, amidst many gazing villagers. At 
 Broomyside toll there was a parting, with a few tears and 
 many smiles ; Michael, Agnes, and Alexander, to distant 
 Ambleside; Aunt Isobel, Lucy, and Edward Ellis, to 
 near Bracken Braes. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Not a single adventure befell the humble travellers all 
 the way from Bracken Braes to EUesmere. The country 
 through which they passed had not much beauty of any 
 kind to boast of; yet Agnes, seated by the side of her 
 husband, thought it often exceedingly beautiful, and de- 
 scribed to him all she saw with affectionate animation. 
 Michael Forester had, more than once, been in the north 
 of England, and a few words from Agnes made him un- 
 derstand clearly where he was between stage and stage. 
 He often turned his face towards the different scenes, in 
 the vividness of recollection, and seemed just as much as 
 10*
 
 114 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Agnes to enjoy the calm bright weather of June. There 
 were several friends' houses by the way, where they re- 
 ceived all due hospitality ; and, after crossing the Border, 
 the neat wayside inn, with its front white as snow, and 
 sign hancritig, perhaps, from the branch of an old elm tree, 
 that stood in the circle before the porch, was cheerfully 
 entered at the close of evening, and found to exhibit in 
 its interior almost all the comfort, quietness, and regular- 
 ity of a private dwelling. The equipage of our Scottish 
 travellers was far from contemptible, to say nothing of 
 their own appearance, which was such as to ensure re- 
 spect everywhere ; while their driver became more dex- 
 terous and dignified as they advanced into England ; and 
 would fain, on various occasions, have entered into com- 
 petition with gigs and post chaises, which he could not 
 see splashing by, without a flourish of his whip, betoken- 
 ing a sense of conscious superiority, were he to put 
 Sampson on his mettle. The object of their journey 
 was a right pleasant one, and they had left their home 
 strong in its guarded innocence ; so that there was some- 
 thing delightful to them both, thus to be at a distance 
 from it, and their spirits rose almost to the level of those 
 more youthful emotions of happiness that they had expe- 
 rienced at[Dovenest, when not a cloud had passed over 
 their wedded life, and when every sunrise had brought a 
 new day of brighter or deeper enjoyment. 
 
 " Oh, beautiful indeed ! " exclaimed Agnes, moved 
 beyond her ordinary composure; "most beautiful!" 
 when, from the hill of Orresthead, she beheld Winder- 
 mere, and all her sylvan isles, lying, without one breath 
 of air, beneath the sunlight and the blue marble firma- 
 ment! What a depth of peace in that resplendent water ! 
 What quiet pastures encircling the small retired bays ! 
 Never before had her eyes fallen on such, verdure as 
 crowned these hanging groves, and woods that seemed to 
 cover the hills even to their very summits ! The houses, 
 too, how sweetly hidden in hollows, or revealed on emi- 
 nences rising over the little valleys, with here and there 
 an old noble tree flinging a wide shadow over the open 
 ground that lay covered with sunshine; all, apparently,
 
 THE FOUESTERS. 115 
 
 the dwellings of comfort and independence. Agnes then 
 thought of Bracken Braes, and its solitary pastoral val- 
 ley, where she knew almost every single bush, and every 
 linn that mtirnuired over its shelving rocks — the few 
 houses too, front Raeshaw down to the Manse. Plolylee 
 seemed to be a reality — the scene before her a vision 
 and a dream. But now a beautiful girl, about Lucy's 
 age, passed by with a cheerful salutation, and the heart 
 of Agnes leaped within her; for she knew that, at this 
 very hour, Lucy and Isobel were sitting, according to 
 their tryst, under the plane tree. 
 
 Michael Forester had long been perfectly happy in his 
 blindness, and no more wished that he could see, than 
 any other person wished to discern objects beyond the 
 horizon ; while Agnes, knowing his complete resignation, 
 seldom or never felt very unhappy now for his sake. But, 
 as they proceeded along the banks of Windermere, she 
 could not help shedding a few tears for her husband. 
 The beauty was of such a delightful kind, that as it en- 
 tered into her spirit, she wept to know that it existed not 
 for her Michael. Why should she gaze on that heavenly 
 region in selfish and unpartaken delight? But her hus- 
 band turned towards her with a smile and said — "Tell 
 me when the lake is hidden by a wood, not unlike the 
 Hirst, and with, here and there, a grove of larches, now, 
 doubtless, grown into good trees since I saw them plant- 
 ed twenty years ago ; for that is Calgarth, the abode of 
 Watson, the defender of Christianity against the Infidel, 
 and a name, therefore, venerated by the firesides over all 
 our own Scotland. Humble people, like us, my Agnes, 
 who pass by his gates, may well give a blessing on his 
 venerable head, for he has secured to many a poor man 
 his belief in his Bible, and that is bestowing charity on 
 the human race." Agnes wiped away the idle and tran- 
 sient tear ; for what mattered it that woods, rocks, and 
 lakes were all veiled from her husband's eyes, since, at all 
 times, his soul could commune with solemn or cheerful 
 thoughts ; and, although deprived of the sight of men's 
 earthly habitations, knew how to meditate on their im- 
 mortal destinies !
 
 116 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 As their journey was drawing near a close, Michael 
 and Agnes began to feel a stronger interest in its object, 
 and to converse earnestly about their orphan niece, to 
 whom they were about to become parents. In that con- 
 versation, even Windermere had entirely escaped the no- 
 tice of Agnes, and, on looking towards it once more, it 
 was gone ; and Alexander Ainslie had dismounted at the 
 foot of a steep rocky hill, up which, he observed, it would 
 be prudent for them all to walk. On descending the 
 other side, they found themselves in a glen, and Agnes 
 said to Michael that she suspected they were within half 
 a mile of the Vicarage of Ellesmere. 
 
 The party from Scotland had been expected at the Vi- 
 carage the night before, and the vicar had now sauntered 
 down the lane with his daughter Ruth, somewhat impa- 
 tient for their arrival. He knew their character from 
 Mr. Kennedy ; but now that he beheld them, he could 
 not help being struck with a feeling, even stronger than 
 that of respect, on their very first appearance. There 
 was an humble dignity in the demeanor of the blind man, 
 that almost impressed Mr. Colinson with awe ; while the 
 beauty of his wife, which was no way impaired, only 
 softened and shaded by years, and the perfectly lady like 
 gentleness of her manner, came upon him altogether by 
 surprise, for of that he had heard nothing from the good 
 minister of Holylee. Greetings were interchanged; and, 
 in a few minutes, Michael Forester and Agnes were in- 
 troduced in due form to Mrs. Colinson, and seated in the 
 Vicarage. What was its external appearance — how 
 many windows it had in front — whether it were thatched 
 or slated — had it a porch or no porch — whether it were 
 sheltered by trees, or gave its roof to the sunshine — Ag- 
 nes had been too attentive to their kind host to observe; 
 only she thought there were high hawthorn hedges, with 
 hollies intermixed all the way from the gate to the house, 
 and that she had seen, close at hand, an enormous tree, 
 which, from its barkless and involuted trunk, must surely 
 be a yew of many centuries. 
 
 The best preparation had been made for mutual regard 
 between those, who, in a very few hours, felt for one an-
 
 THE FOEESTEKS. 
 
 117 
 
 other what may well be called friendship. It is not easy 
 to tell what qualities of conversation are most winning or 
 impressive iti early intercourse, or why they are so — a 
 few sentences often giving us a higiier opinion of the 
 speaker's moral and intellectual powers, than any senti- 
 ment contained in them would seem altogether to justify; 
 while frequently most excellent talk fails to make us es- 
 teem very highly the person exhibiting himself, and leaves 
 us in the belief of his being, after all, but an ordinary, 
 and in no way very delightlul character. Long before 
 sunset, all hearts within the Vicarage were touched with 
 the kindest impressions, and Michael felt proud in the 
 conviction that his Agnes was already loved and admired 
 by the whole family. Of himself he did not think; but 
 Mr. Colinson, who was merely a sensible and good man, 
 without any pretensions to scholarship or talents, was 
 much affected by the blind man's superior character, and 
 listened with more than respect to the plain eloquence of 
 his speech, for it deserved no other name, and to the 
 strength and soundness of all the thoughts that came from 
 him, with that easy and natural flow peculiar to minds 
 familiarized to early habits of reflection. The vicar had 
 a son, too, just arrived from Cambridge, where he was a 
 student of two years' standing; and the intelligent and 
 well informed youth perceived that, even in his own 
 scholastic acquirements, he might not be greatly superior 
 to this Scottish peasant. But this was not Michael's 
 thought, for he lightly esteemed the little knowledge he 
 had been able to acquire in youth, and to retain without 
 loss in his blind years; and he doubted not that, in a few 
 days, he would teceive much instruction from the Cam- 
 bridge scholar. 
 
 Just before twilight, " Scotch Martha," who had been 
 sent for to a cottage about two miles distant, came to the 
 Vicarage. Agnes saw in a moment that her features 
 bore a certain resemblance to those of Abel. The great- 
 est kindness was shewn to the orphan, but there was no 
 extravagant display of feeling; for Martha seemed cheer- 
 ful and contented enough — was apparently in good health 
 — and did not exhibit much emotion in her first interview
 
 118 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 with her relations. Her manner, however, was simple 
 and pretty enough as she dropped Agnes a courtesy — a 
 smile was in her eyes that shone with something of the 
 same keen light that had belonged to her father's — and 
 although her dialect was not wholly intelligible at first, 
 either to Michael or Agnes, yet there was a kindliness in 
 the tone of her voice that was pleasant, and seemed to 
 bespeak a character of cheerfulness, alacrity, and con- 
 tentment. To the question, if she thought she would 
 like to go to Scotland, Martha answered instantly, with 
 little or no thought, that she would like it very well — 
 for the young creature had no very strong or tender ties 
 to bind her to her present place, and was plainly not only 
 willing, but eager to go any where, however far off, with 
 those who addressed her so affectionately, and whose very 
 appearance assured her, inexperienced and ignorant as 
 she was, that they were good people. Besides, had they 
 not come from a distant country merely to see her — a 
 poor orphan? And was not she about to have a father 
 and a mother ? 
 
 Never, during all their fifteen years of wedded life, 
 had Michael Forester and his Agnes lain down to rest 
 more perfectly happy than they did this night at the Vi- 
 carage of Ellesmere. 
 
 CHAPTER XXH 
 
 The vicar and his wife soon made their visiters ac- 
 quainted with the history of their niece. Poor Scotch 
 Martha had passed the first eight years of her life in the 
 Poor House of Ambleside; a miserable establishment in- 
 deed, where little attention was paid either to the bodily 
 or mental wants of the paupers, and where idleness, vice, 
 and disease were seen in their most squalid and loathsome 
 union. The child had been removed from all this wretch-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 119 
 
 edness into a cotton mill, where she was bound an ap- 
 prentice ; but tlie bankruptcy of the proprietor liberated 
 her, along with many other pining pale-faced creatures, 
 after two years' imprisonment; and Scotch Martha then 
 became the sole servant of a very poor couple, carriers 
 between Ambleside and Hawkshead. In that hard but 
 healthy service she had now been four years, with very 
 small wages, no doubt, and scanty fare ; yet the pure 
 airs of heaven had been constantly blowing about her ; 
 and the orphan, for whom few or none greatly cared, 
 had, notwitlistanding, been happy in the quick and strong 
 spirit of youth, which is in itself happiness, and so tena- 
 cious of life, that it will not be stifled but in the very 
 grave. To have been reduced to such a condition as that 
 of poor Martha, would have broken the heart of many a 
 child; but Martha had never known a better, and was 
 reconciled to all its hardships and privations. She had 
 been always accustomed to much indifference or neglect, 
 for she was alone in the little world in which she lived ; 
 and while every one else had brothers, or sisters, or near 
 relations, Martha had none; and also knew indistinctly, 
 although without pain, that there was meanness or shame 
 in her birth. Yet nature had not suffered her heart to 
 be very sorely depressed. Some kind attentions she met 
 with occasionally, and these she treasured up in her 
 memory with a keenness of gratitude proportioned to the 
 rarity of their occurrence, often repaying the slightest 
 civilities by the warmest affection, and looking on those 
 as her friends who had only perhaps spoken kindly to 
 the orphan on the road, or on the footpaths, as she was 
 bringing fuel frdin the wood or moss. The old couple, 
 in whose service she lived, were extremely poor, and 
 wholly uneducated. Their sole endeavor of mind and 
 body, in this world, was to subsist. They were by no 
 means without religion ; but it was a religion received 
 passively — its usages observed decently from long cus- 
 tom, and even so observed not without a blessing — while 
 their knowledge of the Bible, as neither of them could 
 read, was imperfect and confused, and had been, previ- 
 ous to the time Martha came to live with them, acquired
 
 120 '' THE FORESTERS, 
 
 entirely from the church service. Martha herself had 
 been at the free school for a month at a time, now and 
 then, when she could be spared from her work ; but her 
 education had been small indeed, and, in that slavish 
 condition, there was no time for reading any book. Yet 
 on the Sundays, when dressed in coarse clean garments, 
 and mingling with decent people at church, the hard 
 working and neglected orphan, no doubt, felt something of 
 the sacred influence of Divine worship ; and every month, 
 as she was growing up to womanhood, had learned un- 
 consciously more and more of her duly to her Maker. 
 The misery and vice which her eyes had been made to 
 witness during too long a childhood, were all utterly for- 
 gotten ; and narrow as the sphere now was of her thoughts 
 and feelings, Scotch Martha was at least a harmless crea- 
 ture, and, under such tendance as she was now about to 
 receive, likely enough to turn out an amiable and intelli- 
 gent young woman. 
 
 Michael Forester lost no time in settling njatters with 
 the cotter in whose service Martha lived ; and it was 
 agreed that, after their small harvest, which would be 
 over iti a week or so, and a few other trifling matters, 
 she should accompany her relations to Scotland. So 
 Martha continued, without any unnecessary visits of in- 
 terruption, at her usual toils, the severest of which were 
 now light in the foreknowledge of a speedy termination 
 to her servitude. She was already quite a changed crea- 
 ture — bolder and more free in all her looks, smiles, and 
 motions — the chains she now wore galled not at all, for 
 in a few days they were to be thrown aside, and she 
 herself to betaken as a daughter into her uncle's family. 
 Yet long habit had attached her even to that severe and 
 solitary life, and she now and then could almost have 
 sighed to tliink that she and the old people were in a 
 few days to part probably for ever. Cheerfulness and 
 joy, however, were Martha's chief companions now — 
 and she longed to be in Scotland, of which she had read 
 in those songs and ballads that spread through adjacent 
 countries a certain knowledge of each other's customs 
 and character, and, true as they often are to nature, are
 
 THE FORESTERS. 121 
 
 felt and understood among all the varieties and differ- 
 ences of provincial life. It was soon known too that 
 Scotch Martha was come of a respectable family; and 
 all the neighbors round were pleased that so industrious 
 and harmless a girl should have been so providentially 
 rescued from the uncertain evils of an orphan condition. 
 Martha had not many leisure hours during any season, 
 and this was with her, perhaps, the busyest time of all 
 the year. Yet, now that she and the old people were to 
 part, she must leave them a few keepsakes, that the sight 
 of the trifles might sometimes recall to their minds her 
 who had shared their poverty. Out of her " sair won 
 penny fee," she purchased a few articles of wearing ap- 
 parel, and sat up an hour or two longer after her work to 
 leave them fit for use at her departure. On looking back 
 over the four years she had lived in their hut, nothing 
 rose to her recollection but their small kindnesses, and 
 her own most cheerful hours — their anger, or neglect, 
 or severity, were all forgotten. They were both too 
 exceedingly old — not much less than fourscore — and, 
 perhaps, their next servant would not be so attentive to 
 them as she had been, and leave more hardships on their 
 age. Martha knew that she was going to live with her 
 own relations, and could want nothing ; and, therefore, 
 besides those keepsakes, she determined to give the old 
 people back her last half year's wages. As her necessi- 
 ties disappeared, the orphan felt her nature becoming 
 every day more kindly ; and she began to do what she 
 had never done before, to look with the pleasure of hope 
 into the years yet to come, and to feel that Providence, 
 perhaps, intended her for a life of happiness. 
 
 II
 
 122 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Michael and Agnes were now positively domesticated 
 at the Vicarage. They had become perfectly acquainted 
 with the ways of the family ; and quiet, regular, indus- 
 trious, and not inelegant ways they were, admirably 
 adapted to preserve that competence which the inmates 
 knew so well how to enjoy. Agnes described to her 
 husband, when they were alone, all the beauties of the 
 habitation ; its slate roof, with so many irregularities, 
 which were all seen, on the slightest attention, to have 
 each a meaning, use, and character of its own ; the tall 
 round chimneys, surmounted with the blast-breaking 
 slate flags, and rising up almost fantastically through 
 embowering trees; the porch, itself a parlor, with its 
 niche seats, and outwardly overgrown with roses and 
 jessamines ; the hollies and laurels, glittering among the 
 other shrubs, whose beauty lay more in their flowers than 
 leaves ; the smooth-shorn circular lawn in front, with its 
 central dial-stone; that prodigious yew, under whose 
 shadow the kine were milked; the stately elm grove, 
 with its rookery — a pleasant din ; the tops of woods, 
 seen in the distance, and the soft blue misty light, float- 
 ing all between the meadows belonging to the Vicarage, 
 and the rocky, or verdant mountains, that encircled the 
 glen, and shewed a different outline, under the changes 
 of the atmosphere, many hundred times between the 
 morning and evening sun. Michael knew the scene, 
 from his wife's description, almost as well as if he saw it ; 
 and, with a smile, said, he hoped Agnes would not forget 
 Bracken Braes. 
 
 They were not allowed to forget any one thing they 
 had left, for Lucy, although she had never written a 
 letter in her life before, now sent them long despatches, 
 full of news, about all that was stirring in the parish." 
 These epistles, written in the true conversational style, 
 when read to Michael, brought Lucy close to his side ; 
 and as they contained no secrets, they were given to the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 123 
 
 perusal of the whole family, one after the other ; for 
 Agnes was proud of her Lucy's accomplishments as a 
 penwoman, nor had she any reason to be ashamed of the 
 natural strain of sentiment that ran through them from 
 beginning to end. " Our Lucy, Mrs. Colinson, had the 
 best education, I may say, from the time she could speak, 
 for her father taught her everything himself, before it had 
 pleased God to take away his sight ; and ever since syne 
 she has been constantly about his knees ; so you may all 
 ken what advantage our Lucy has had above any other 
 girl of her age." 
 
 Only a fortnight or three weeks ago, and those now 
 so affectionately disposed towards one another, and so 
 happy in each other's society, had been mutually igno- 
 rant of the existence of the two families ! Why need 
 friendship, although a sacred plant, be of slow growth 1 
 No doubt its flowers are not all disclosed, but under the 
 influence of tears, which are to it like the evening dews; 
 and if tears were all that were wanting to the friendship 
 of the Foresters and Colinsons, they were soon supplied; 
 for Agnes had been unwell for a couple of days — hav- 
 ing exposed herself, it was thought, too much to the mid- 
 day sun, observing the merry work in the hay field — 
 and now lay in a low but oppressive fever, of which the 
 symptoms became daily more alarming, till her medical 
 attendant, Mr. lanson, at last pronounced her to be in 
 imminent danger. 
 
 At the beginning of his wife's illness, Michael Forester 
 had behaved with that calmness and composure accor- 
 dant with his character. But no sooner had Mr. Colinson 
 intimated to him something of the truth, than it seemed as 
 if he had spoken to a different man. That grave and re- 
 signed demeanor was in a moment changed into the 
 wildest distraction. While his features grew rigid in his 
 agony, he clasped his hands together, and, turning his 
 sightless countenance towards heaven, he uttered a short 
 prayer for mercy. The big tears rolled down his cheeks, 
 and he groaned aloud without any restraint. It was not 
 possible for any human heart but his own to know what 
 his love was to his Agnes. It had pleased God to destroy
 
 124 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 his eyesight, but even the first troubled days of that 
 affliction had been calmed by the piety of his wife. Love, 
 affection, gratitude, and reverence towards her, had 
 been accumulating in his heart for several dark years, till 
 now Agnes was to him the being that kept in care its 
 very pulses, and without whom it would cease to beat. 
 Was Agnes indeed to die? "Dreadful are thy judg- 
 ments,. O Lord ! " And the strong man fell down upon 
 his face, deprived of sense and speech. When he awoke 
 to a sense of the condition of Agnes, that fit of passion 
 was in no [degree abated. Religion itself gave him no 
 power over his misery, and he confessed to them all that 
 his spirit was in rebellion against God, and could not 
 submit to his terrible decrees. Where, now, was the 
 merit of all his previous resignation ? Joy and delight 
 had been graciously infused with all its former trials; 
 and no wonder that he had borne them without much 
 murmuring or impatience. But now it was to be tried, 
 whether or not Michael Forester, with all his virtue and 
 all his faith, was willing to acknowledge the supremacy 
 of his Maker, or to lift up a brow of despair, which is 
 only another word for helpless anger, towards the heav- 
 ens, now black with mortal judgment ! At that hour his 
 soul was weighed in the balance, and found wanting; for 
 he thought that he might now take the evil advice offered 
 to the man of Uz — curse God and die. Unhappy mor- 
 tals ! whose best affections lead to disobedience of the 
 commands of Him who gave them for a blessing in this 
 vale of tears ! Happy mortals ! who may come to know 
 that even into the deepest wounds those affections can 
 suffer, there is a divine hand that can pour a balm that 
 flows in the fountains of heaven !
 
 THE FORESTERS. 1"26 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Cheerfulness and tranquillity had reigned in and 
 about the house of Bracken Braes during the whole month 
 of June. The spirit of Michael Forester had seemed to 
 preside during his absence; and for the first week after 
 the departure of her parents, not unfrequently had Lucy 
 looked up when a shadow came to the door, half forgetful 
 that her father was away, and expecting to see him enter 
 and lay down his staff. Loud and merry was the murmur 
 of the plane tree, where the hill and the hive bees met in 
 multitudes, regardless of each other among the honey 
 dew ; and Aunt Isobel and Lucy, according to agreement, 
 sat below it at slated times every day, that Michael and 
 Agnes, when far off, might think they beheld them in 
 that pleasant shadow. Oftener, perhaps, than usual did 
 Edward Ellis come now to the house ; at least so thought 
 Aunt Isobel ; and, indeed, he could not otherwise see 
 Lucy, for many were the injunctions her mother had 
 given her never to leave the old lady long by herself, and 
 the affectionate creature never cared to go out of the gate 
 at the end of the avenue. 
 
 " You never go now to the linn, my dear Lucy; per- 
 haps, for anything you know, the howlet's nest is gone. 
 What would you say to find the old yew destroyed, and 
 all its bright ivy ? Do, sweet Lucy, take a walk down 
 there to-morrow evening; you can easily make an errand 
 to the Manse; nay, 1 will tell a white lie, and say to 
 Aunt Isobel that Miss Kennedy wishes you to drink tea 
 there. Mind now, my beloved Lucy — do not make me 
 unhappy — I will not leave the linn till the first star. 
 But there comes that everlasting Aunt Isobel " Slight 
 as was the fault of that stealthy assignation — which, 
 indeed, Lucy had not, except by her silence, agreed to hold; 
 she felt as if detected in doing something wrong when 
 Aunt Isobel looked into her face, and, no doubt, saw its 
 beauty overspread with many innocent blushes. Edward 
 11*
 
 126 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 Ellis felt he had spoken a little disrespectfully of the good 
 old lady, and set himself to made amends by his pleasantest 
 courtesies. There was a charm in the graceful boy's 
 manners, which were never lost on any one, young or 
 old, below that roof ; and when he rose to go, Aunt Iso- 
 bel .even pressed his stay. But Edward, giving one anxious 
 and hopeful look to Lucy, took his fishing rod, and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 When to-morrow evening came, great was the struggle 
 in Lucy's mind whether to go or not to go to the linn. 
 She remembered the serious injunctions of both her pa- 
 rents never to leave Aunt Isobel in the house by herself; 
 but the white lie had been told; the long summer even- 
 ing was wavering by, dewy and calm ; that sun, which 
 in another hour or so would be setting, was indeed a 
 golden sun, and so were the clouds that lay over the 
 golden sky ; the stream, as it went gliding on tovi'ards 
 the linn, seemed to murmur on her to accompany the 
 music along its banks; and she thought of Edward Ellis, 
 leaning, perhaps, at that very moment against the yew 
 tree, and almost angry at her non-arrival. " Surely there 
 can be no great harm," thought Lucy, " in my just going 
 to tell him not to wait any longer, and singing to him, 
 *Auld Langsyne,' or the ' Flowers o' the Forest.' " So 
 ,Lucy put on her bonnet, feeling, notwithstanding her 
 slight disobedience, that while she loved Edward Ellis, 
 her affection would only be for a month or a year, when 
 he would be gone for ever ; but that she belonged, indeed, 
 to her father and her mother, and would live with them, 
 contented and happy, all the days of her life. 
 
 She was standing at the door, looking at the sun, that 
 now shone right over the Cairn Craig, when, to her sur- 
 prise, there were Mr. Kennedy and Edward Ellis coming 
 up the avenue. They bade her good evening, with more 
 serious looks than she had ever observed before ; and her 
 heart sunk, she knew not why, in an indistinct foreboding 
 of some evil. Mr. Kennedy immediately began to speek 
 to Aunt Isobel about their distant friends, and, opening 
 a letter which he said he had just received from Mr. 
 Colinson, informed them that Agnes was far from being
 
 THE FOKESTEKS. 1^ 
 
 well ; indeed, that she had a fever, and that her husband, 
 not without reason, was unhappy for her sake. He then 
 read the letter aloud ; and Lucy could not but know that 
 the life of her mother was in danger. She heard it with 
 a pang of conscience ; and in spite of Mr. Kennedy's 
 calm voice, and hopeful expression of countenance, wept 
 in a fit of fear, pity, and grief " Nay, nay, Lucy, do 
 not weep so," said Edward Ellis, with a cheering tone ; 
 " the fevers in that country are sharp and severe, but not 
 dangerous — not often fatal. Your mother is in God's 
 hands ; and do not fear, Lucy, but that she will recover." 
 But every comfort was wasted upon the terrified child ; 
 and she looked in vain for encouragement to Aunt Isobel, 
 whose face had undergone a dark change. Mr. Kennedy 
 and Edward remained about an hour in the house; and 
 Lucy, who accompanied them a little way down the vale, 
 whispered to the latter, with a sob — " O Mr. Ellis, Mr. 
 Ellis ! can you meet me to-night, at twelve o'clock — ay, 
 at midnight — at the linn ?" and she retired weeping to 
 the house. 
 
 Aunt Isobel did all that affection and pity could do to 
 comfort Lucy, but all in vain : they were able, indeed, 
 to say the evening prayer, but it was with sore distress ; 
 and they at last retired to their beds. " You had better 
 sleep with me to-night, my dear bairn ; " but Lucy said 
 she would rather lie in her mother's bed, as she had done 
 since they went away ; and that Aunt Isobel need not 
 come to her during the night, unless she called upon her; 
 so, by the dim summer light, each went to her own room. 
 But no sooner was everything still in Aunt Isobel'sroom, 
 than Lucy, who had never undressed herself, rose silently 
 as a ghost, and, taking a few garments in her basket, 
 stole out of the house. 
 
 Truer than any maiden to the trysting hour was Lucy 
 at the linn ; but there Edward Ellis was before her, and 
 received the weeping girl with all the soothing fondness 
 of a brother. " Oh ! now, the time has come, Mr. Ellis, 
 when you can prove if you have any kindness for poor 
 Lucy Forester. My mother is dying far away, and my 
 blind father is at her death-bed. Ever good to us all
 
 128 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 have you been ; and now, I beseech you, in the name of 
 the great merciful God, and the Son of God, that you 
 will help me to get to the place where my parents are, 
 far off although it be — mair, indeed, they say than a 
 hundred miles." Edward stood in amazement and said 
 nothing. " O sir I if your ain father were dying, you 
 wouldna long be here ; and, puir ignorant creature as I 
 am, you cannot love your parents better than I do mine; 
 so, tell me — tell me how to get to England, and I will 
 pray for you to Heaven, morning and night, as long as I 
 am in life." And Lucy dropped upon her knees, and 
 held up to him her clasped hands in an agony of suppli- 
 cation. 
 
 Edward Ellis tried to raise her gently from her kneel- 
 ing posture; but Lucy seemed rooted to the ground. 
 Then, lifting her eyes to heaven, she said, with a calmer 
 and clearer voice — " O Thou that dwellest far above 
 the moon and stars, take pity on me, and save my mother 
 from death ! " and, in the hush of the great heavens, it 
 seemed as if the child heard a merciful response given to 
 her prayer. 
 
 " There will be no darkness to-night, Lucy ; for to-day 
 was the longest day in all the year, and the morning will 
 soon come upon the moon and stars. Cheer up, my 
 sweetest one ; and brother and sister as we are, we two 
 will travel southwards together through the openings 
 between the hills." Away they went, side by side, over 
 bank and brae ; and Edward Ellis, who, as a sportsman, 
 knew all the hill country well, to the very English Bor- 
 der, determined to lead Lucy to the point where he knew, 
 at a stated hour, a conveyance would be found for her to 
 Penrith. No weariness affected her limbs; the passion 
 of grief carried her lightly over the hags in the moss — 
 over the stony torrents — and the steep heathery hills ; 
 no more tired than a fawn feeding during the night hours ; 
 and, at sunrise, many a clouded mountain lay between 
 her and Bracken Braes. She, poor fugitive, felt now 
 that she had made her escape from Aunt Isobel, who 
 never would have suffered her to go, and that she was 
 indeed on the way to her dying mother. Even hope
 
 THE FORESTERS. 129 
 
 began to rise with the bright morning light; and as her 
 feet brushed yet unfaltering over the dews, she faintly 
 smiled in the face of her guide; and, in her gratitude to 
 him, felt almost an assurance that her mother would yet 
 recover. 
 
 They sat down together on the turf, beside a hill-side 
 spring; and Lucy needed no other refreshment than a 
 little of that purest water. But Edward left her for a few 
 minutes, and, running to a hut on the edge of a birk cop- 
 pice, came back with some barley bread. " You may 
 rest yourself here, Lucy, for an hour or two, or even 
 three, if you choose, for we shall even then be in good 
 time at the inn, on the great north road; and I will not 
 leave you till I see you in safe hands." Lucy put her 
 trust in him, just as if he had been an angel whom she 
 had seen come down from the sky. Her plaid had been 
 brought with her ; the noble-hearted boy folded her up 
 in it with gentle hands, and made her lie down by his 
 side below the shadow of a gray mossy rock, that, like a 
 canopy, covered a bed of smoothest herbage. Lucy, 
 although she had not known it, was wearied with her 
 flight of more than twenty long Scottish miles, and fell 
 asleep with her hand laid in its innocence almost upon 
 her benefactor's breast. Edward put aside the golden 
 ringlets and kissed her forehead, and then he too fell into 
 a slumber, but still conscious that his arm was over Lucy 
 Forester. 
 
 In an hour or two Lucy awoke, and, starting to her 
 feet, looked round as in a dream. But the thought of 
 her mother made all plain at once : over moss and muir 
 they again pursued their journey, and in good time reached 
 the place where their walk was to terminate. Lucy 
 received her instructions from Edward, who knew well 
 — boy as he was — all the lake land; and she put his 
 memorandum book into her bosom. "I will get back to 
 the Manse before night, Lucy, if I should have to hire a 
 horse out of the work field. What will the good people 
 at Holylee and Bracken Braes be thinking has become 
 of us ? " — "I left a slip of paper in Aunt Isobel's Bible, 
 telling what I intended to do, and begging her forgive-
 
 130 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 ness ; and there she would be sure to find it at six o'clock 
 this morning." 
 
 No less magnificent a vehicle than his Majesty's mail 
 now drove up in style ; and while the horses were baiting, 
 Edward Ellis looked in, and beheld two persons asleep, 
 and two half awake. He opened the door, and, without 
 ceremony, lifted Lucy up ; but strong opposition was de- 
 clared by the most pompous of the somnolent gentlemen, 
 thus disturbed, in his ideal world, by the intrusion of a 
 human face like that of Lucy Forester. An old-maidenish 
 lady, with a somewhat sour expression, seemed disposed 
 to join the leader of the opposition ; but first looking at 
 Edward Ellis, and then at Lucy, her features relaxed into 
 a benevolent smile, and she seemed willing to endeavor 
 to make room for them both. A young man, in a naval 
 uniform, stopped the fat's whig's mouth with a harmless 
 nautical oath; and Edward Ellis committed Lucy to his 
 care. "Ay — ay — young gentleman — I will see her 
 safe to harbor, whether sister or sweetheart." Edward 
 knew Lucy was safe, and had just time to shake hands 
 with the tar, who bore bravery and kindness in his weather- 
 beaten countenance, when the guard sounded his bugle ; 
 and off flew Lucy Forester of Bracken Braes, in a car- 
 riage drawn by four blood horses. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Lucy had been committed to the charge of a man who 
 would have gone through fire and water — nay, who had 
 done so — nor thought anything of danger, to save the 
 life of a human creature in jeopardy. Mr. Marshall was 
 a lieutenant in the navy, and his ship having come into 
 Leith Harbor, for repair of damages sustained in a gale 
 in the North Seas, he had taken the opportunity of wheel- 
 ing off for a week to his father's house on the banks of 
 Ullswater. He soon heard poor Lucy's story ; and having
 
 TUB FORESTERS. 131 
 
 learned the value of home feelings on the great deep, he 
 felt the strongest compassion -icir his pretty little friend, 
 and did all he could to assuage her affliction. Lucy felt 
 as if the whole world were kind to her, and allowed her- 
 self to believe in the offered comfort. In a few hours she 
 could even listen with interest to Mr. Marshall's stories 
 about the sea; and, once or twice, almost joined in the 
 laughter of the other passengers, when the jolly tar became 
 amusing in his anecdotes. Old maids do not in general 
 stand high in public estimation, on the score either of 
 urbanity or tender-heartedness; but this may be a popular 
 delusion, and certainly, in the present case, Lucy had 
 good cause to love the sisterhood ; for this elderly Preston 
 spinstress was as tender towards her as if she herself had 
 been the happy mother of many children ; and on part- 
 ing with her at Penrith, late in the evening, when Lucy 
 was to leave the coach, gave her the present of an English 
 Prayer Book, inscribed hastily with both their names — 
 " Laelitia Bairstovv, to Lucy Forester : God have her al- 
 ways in his holy keeping." 
 
 Lucy showed Mr. Marshall the instructions she had 
 received from Edward Ellis. "All right — all right — 
 my bonny lassie; but you are not afraid, are you, to trust 
 yourself with me?" — " No, sir ; I will trust myself en- 
 tirely to so good a man. You know where I am going, 
 and from where I have come. Oh sir ! you ken that my 
 heart is fu' o' grief, and that I want sair to see my moth- 
 er — can you contrive to send me on to Ellesmere, and 
 my father will be sure to pay the expense, for I am awa' 
 without siller, and neither did Mr. Ellis remember." The 
 lieutenant put his hand kindly on her shoulder, and Lucy 
 was silent. In a couple of hours Lucy Forester found 
 herself in Seathwaite Hall — an old mansion on the banks 
 of Ullswater — in a drawing-room, surrounded by young 
 ladies, who, after embracing joyfully their gallant brother, 
 bestowed their wondering and admiring kindness upon 
 his beautiful charge. It was late inthenighl; and ex- 
 cept those three hours' slumber by the spring on the hill 
 side in Scotland Lucy had had no sleep since the early 
 morn of yesterday. She was conducted to the prettiest
 
 132 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 bed, in the prettiest room she had ever seen, by "a young 
 Jady only a little older than herself, and who kissed her 
 on saying good-night ; and before Lieutenant Marshall 
 had been able to satisfy the curiosity of his sisters about 
 the beautiful Scottish maiden, Lucy was in a profound 
 sleep. 
 
 Nature had given Lucy Forester into the arms of sleep, 
 but all the while the child lay dreaming, there was a res- 
 olution kept mysteriously within her heart, that she would 
 awake at sunrise ; for her filial sorrow was not dead in 
 that slumber, and it awoke her like a little knell at the 
 time her heart had fixed. She opened the shutter, and 
 looked timidly out upon a broad bright bay thai glittered 
 in the sunlight, shaded from the opposite shore by a 
 grove of huge forest trees. Lucy thought herself in an- 
 other world. Several men were standing beside a boat 
 — the first she had ever seen, except in pictures; and 
 there was Lientenant Marshall, whose loud cheerful 
 laugh was heard from the water side. As she stood con- 
 sidering how she could join the party, the pretty creature, 
 who had taken her to the bedroom last night, came in 
 dressed almost as plainly as herself, and conducted her to 
 the parlor. Breakfast over, Agatha Marshall accompa- 
 nied her down to the lake side, and leaped into the pin- 
 nace. Lucy followed in wonder ; but she saw the lieu- 
 tenant at the helm. The snow-white sail was hoisted 
 and unfurled, and a breeze coming with a rustle down 
 Giencoin, away went the Naiad of Ullswater, and, before 
 a word was spoken, had rounded the green point of the 
 bay, and was out of sight of her anchorage. 
 
 Agatha held Lucy by the hand ; and, as the Naiad 
 stooped her gunwale in the wreathed foam that flowed 
 like a waterfall away from her prow, told her, with a 
 smile, not to be afraid. Friends of an hour — there they 
 sat like sisters that had lived together from their birth. 
 Lucy, oppressed as her heart was, and sorely troubled, 
 could not help seeing, with the stealing delight of won- 
 der, the wooded cliffs that seemed to shoot across the 
 water and block up their way, and then slowly to recede, 
 leaving nothing but the merry multitude of waves. Were
 
 THE FORESTERS. 133 
 
 these rocks, she thought, or were they old castles and 
 churches hidden among the trees or the clouds? But 
 Lucy would then close her eyes, for she felt them filling 
 with tears, as she figured to herself the bed where her 
 blind father might be standing to witness her mother die. 
 " Let go the main-sheet," cried the lieutenant; and, after 
 a moment's bustle, they were all standing in a green mea- 
 dow, beside a bank of willows. " You are now at Pat- 
 terdale, Lucy; and here 1 and Agatha must bid you fare- 
 well. It is not often I see the old gentleman, and 1 must 
 not be away at the breakfast table the first morning I am 
 at home." Lucy would not hear of a guide. Mr. Mar- 
 shall knew there was no fear of her missing the way over 
 Kirkstone; the day was fine; so away danced the home- 
 ward-bound Naiad, with Agatha waving a signal from 
 the stern; and Lucy, after gazing a little while, turned 
 her towards the great mountains. 
 
 Lucy had never been one moment utterly alone since 
 she heard of her mother's illness. But now, in a short 
 time, there was no human being near her in the solitude. 
 House after house had disappeared, and now there was 
 nothing but rocks and sky. These were not like the 
 hills about Bracken Braes ; and the child felt awed in the 
 desert. She sat down on the ledge of a bridge, across a 
 small rivulet that crossed that wild road, and opened the 
 book given to her by that unknown lady. " God have 
 her always in his holy keeping." She lifted her eyes 
 from these words, and saw the lambs running races upon 
 the scanty green plrits among the rocks ; the air was filled 
 with murmuring insects; and a little bright bird, of a 
 kind she had never seen before, kept playing his pretty 
 gambols on the very ledge where she was sitting, as if for 
 her amusement, and then began to trim his yellow and 
 crimson plumage. Every creature seemed happy, and 
 why might not she at least hope? She read over and 
 over again all Edward Ellis' kind instructions, and hoped 
 that God would bless him all the days of his life. 
 
 The young pilgrim was just about to rise and pursue 
 her journey up the toilsome mountain, when two or three 
 12
 
 134 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 big drops of rain fell on the blue-slate coping^ of the 
 bridge, and the dust of the road seemed in an instant sul- 
 trier. That narrow desert place was darkened between 
 its fearful rocks ; and she knew, from the sudden grim- 
 ness of the heaven, that there was going to be a thunder- 
 storm. Ever since that fatal day in the Hirst wood, her 
 heart had quaked at the most distant growl of the ele- 
 ment. 
 
 A number of large stones, confusedly hanging over 
 each other, afforded various places of shelter ; and Lucy, 
 to avoid the rain that now came down in torrents, and to 
 lose sight of the flashes, crept into one of them, and en- 
 deavored to hide herself from the thunder. There she 
 lay with a quaking heart, while sometimes the thunder 
 crash seemed to shake the pillars of her prison. Looking 
 out with a hurried glance, during a cessation of the peals, 
 she saw the tall figure of a man indistinctly moving 
 through the mist ; and the sight of a human being in that 
 awful solitude brought her out from her concealment. 
 Pale and speechless, and trembling with fear, and the 
 coldness of that wet dungeon, Lucy stood before him in 
 the attitude of a suppliant. In a little while she told her 
 story; and the old shepherd, who had been descending 
 into Patterdale, turned back, and said he would see her 
 safe into the vale of Ambleside. The hurricane still con- 
 tinued ; but Lucy forgot all her fears, for the shepherd 
 wore a calm and cheerful countenance, and told her that, 
 in an hour at farthest, all would be peace and sunshine. 
 He had heard, too, of the Scotch people at the Vicarage 
 of EUesmere, and assured Lucy that her mother must 
 have been alive the night before, as he had been in a 
 house in that vale, and had heard the family talking of 
 her illness. At these words Lucy heard not the dying 
 voice of the thunder, nor observed the water courses that 
 were traversing the road down that mountain pass. She 
 kept close to the side of the old grave shepherd, whose 
 words were few, but every one of which sounded sweeter 
 than any music. " Noo, my li'le lass, that's Ammleside; 
 ye canna gae wrang ; so God be wi' you, and may ye find 
 your puir mother in life."
 
 THE FORESTERS. 135 
 
 Lucy was once more alone; but her guide had left her 
 with a strengthened heart, and in a place where it was 
 not possible to be very melancholy. For the short sum- 
 mer storm was over and gone, and the valley below her 
 literally swam in light, as the sun, no longer obscured by 
 the black clouds that were fading in every direction, il- 
 luminated the woods, and meadows, and the winding wa- 
 ters of the Rothay. The blue roofs of the village, em- 
 bowered in trees, sent a cheerful feeling into Lucy's heart 
 as she passed by the gate of a building, which, with its 
 dialled tower, she knew to be a church; and crowds of 
 haymakers seen returning into every field after the rain, 
 made her at once forget the solitary region, where she 
 had been overtaken in the storm. There was no danger 
 of loosing her way now ; and, with almost a spirit of 
 cheerfulness, Lucy dropped like a bird into the valley of 
 Ambleside. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 There had been a thunder storm for several hours 
 among the mountains of Coniston and Langdale, where 
 the clouds lay heaviest and blackest; and now Lt had 
 reached Ellesmere, and was raging above the Vicarage. 
 The windows of the room in which Agnes lay in her 
 fever had been left open, behind the half closed shutters, 
 that a wandering breath of air might haply come down 
 from some one of the little glens, to relieve the oppressive 
 sultriness of the atmosphere. As the thunder went rat- 
 tling over the roof, and the flashes of lightning gleamed 
 across the darkened room, Agnes was wholly insensible 
 to the strife, and, although not asleep, returned no answer 
 to the kind words of inquiry which now and then the 
 watchers by her bedside ventured to whisper in their 
 anxiety. In the intervals of silence, the many mountain
 
 136 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 torrents were heard sounding on all sides ; for there had 
 been a deluge of rain at their sources, and every hill side 
 shewed a number of cataracts. Michael Forester heard 
 none of these sounds. His wife's hand was between both 
 of his; and while at one time he seemed to be counting 
 the pulses, at another he listened to her breathing, as if 
 life or death were in each successive sigh He was ter- 
 rified lest those fitful pantings should all at once be mute, 
 and forever. So long as he heard that breath, to him all 
 the outward tumult was as silence. 
 
 The vicar, and indeed the whole family, had nearly 
 given up all hope of Mrs Forester's recovery. A fatal 
 crisis seemed to be at hand; and, as if each person read 
 in the other's eyes an intimation that they ought all to 
 leave the room, one by one they began to do so, and at 
 last none were left there with the dying person but Mr. 
 lanson and her husband. The family collected them- 
 selves together in the large room below, and there they 
 sat, not without sobbing and tears, fearing every moment 
 to see Mr. lanson coming down stairs, with a counte- 
 nance telling that all was over. And thus they had sat 
 nearly an hour — the storm was hushed — and sunshine 
 was again struggling through the gloom, and finding its 
 way through the lead latticed window to the floor of the 
 room where they had been sitting so dark and silent. 
 The swallows were beginning to twitter without, and na- 
 ture slowly to reassume her customary cheerfulness 'and 
 tranquillity. The door opened, and a stranger girl, step- 
 ping timidly across the floor, asked eagerly — "Is this 
 Mr. Colinson's, the vicar of Ellesmere? Oh sir, I am 
 the daughter of Michael Forester and Agnes Hay, and 
 my name is Lucy. Is my mother in the land o' the liv- 
 ing?" 
 
 Many kind tongues, and eyes, and hands, were soon 
 comforting the dutiful daughter ; but Lucy heard nothing 
 but that her mother was not dead. " Oh ! surely you 
 are not deceiving me ; and yet, why are you all weeping 
 so? Where is my father — perhaps he too is gone — 
 and God's judgments more terrible than I can bear ? 
 Here am I, a' the way frae Scotland, come to pray by my
 
 THE FORESTERS. 137 
 
 mother's bedside; and God has brought me here un- 
 harmed, by means o' the kind hands o' my fellow crea- 
 tures, who all helped me on towards this house, so far 
 away from Bracken Braes, where we live! O my bon- 
 nie lassie I tell me — tell me — if my mother is indeed 
 likely to live!" Ruth Colinson felt her own hopes 
 strengthened by the passionate earnestness of this appeal, 
 and said, with a faint smile, to Lucy, that her mother 
 jiad not been any worse since the morning, and that, 
 perhaps, the danger might be past. Just then Mr. Ian- 
 son came down stairs, and there was no fatal expression 
 in his countenance, so Ruth once more assured her that 
 there was hope. Then Lucy sat down and cried bitterly, 
 as if her heart would break. 
 
 At such a time there was no need of deception or 
 concealment. None knew how God was dealing with 
 her in the room above ; but here was the creature dear- 
 est to her on tliis earth, brought to her bedside as by a 
 prayer. So they led Lucy to the sick-room ; and in a 
 moment, with every sob hushed, she was on her knees, 
 at her mother's bedside, with her forehead resting upon 
 the hands of her father. 
 
 The mind of Agnes had been wandering for some 
 time; and the fever had caused many afflicting dreams. 
 " Poor Lucy ! drowned in that black marl pit. Merciful 
 God! see her — ^see her clinging to a branch! What 
 can a blind father do to save his child ? Oh, what 
 shrieks! what shrieks ! " Michael turned his sightless 
 countenance towards Mr. Linson, as if he looked for 
 comfort. In the agony of his despair, he believed that 
 in medical knowledge lay a foresight of futurity, and he 
 felt as if even the issues of life and of death were com- 
 mitted to his mortal hands. "O father, father! I your 
 daughter, Lucy, am here. Put your hand upon my head, 
 and know; my mother's face is not so changed as I 
 thought; and she will live — will live — and go back 
 with us, under the mercy of the Almighty, to Bracken 
 Braes." Michael Forester sat for a few moments mute 
 and motionless; and then he, too, knelt down by the 
 12*
 
 138 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bedside of Agnes, and laid his cheek on Lucy's head, 
 the touch of whose hair, wet as it was with the rains, 
 and sorely dishevelled, was familiar to the yearnings of 
 his inmost heart, and calmed in some measure the sever- 
 ity of his protracted passion. 
 
 Agnes started up in one of those sudden fits of dis- 
 ordered strength, that in a fever often come upon the 
 apparent prostration of all vital power, and opening her 
 eyes for the first time during twenty-four hours, fixed 
 them upon Lucy, who by this time had risen from her 
 knees, and was standing by the bedside. Perhaps the 
 sound of that voice had been recognised in the seeming 
 deafness of her spirit. Ever and anon she averted, and 
 then again cast her eyes, with a bewildered eagerness, 
 upon her daughter, till at last she stretched forth her 
 arms, and with a face expressing the most passionate 
 fondness, but nothing else, drew Lucy to her bosom, and 
 kissing her with a thousand kisses, fell back on her 
 pillow. Lucy, in that embrace, had crept into the lowly 
 bed ; and there she lay by her mother's side, both mute, 
 and, to all who looked upon them, beautiful as in the 
 happiest sleep. 
 
 Now that Michael had been permitted to reflect on 
 the wonderful appearance of Lucy at the Vicarage, and 
 then had been told by Mr. Colinson of the nature of her 
 journey, he could not help feeling that the mother of such 
 a child would he spared even for her sake. He had for 
 several days and nights past thought of Lucy as an or- 
 phan. In his dreams he had seen her weeping in sore 
 distress, and she would not be comforted. For in all 
 his dreams, Michael saw still the objects of his affection; 
 and indeed there was no blindness in that imaginary 
 world. Now God, and God only, had sent Lucy to 
 restore her mother to life. " Impossible, impossible, 
 that our child has been brought hither only to see her 
 mother die! Hush — hush: they have both fallen 
 asleep; and Agnes' breathing, methinks, is assuredly 
 more free and more composed." — "I am not asleep, 
 father, but my mother is; and, O, I beseech you all, 
 here let me lie till she awakes."
 
 THE FORESTERS. 139 
 
 The fever in which her mother lay might be infectious ; 
 but Lucy never thought of that, nor perhaps did any one 
 then present; for, in such extremities, prudence is not 
 known to love, and all fear is for the dying. Without 
 any clearly understood reason for it, every heart now be- 
 gan to hope. The vicar walked out into his orchard ; 
 Ruth looked after some little household duty with noise- 
 less steps; and Mrs. Colinson prepared some refreshment 
 for Mr. lanson, who now appeared in the lower room, 
 and said that there certainly seemed a decided change 
 for the better in the condition of his patient. Michael 
 Forester had followed him down stairs unperceived ; and, 
 on hearing these words, not meant for his ear, but mani- 
 festly addressed to another, he felt as if lifted up out of 
 the grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Had the load of misery under which Michael Forester 
 groaned been all at once removed, it is probable that his 
 mind would have given way, and reason itself been over- 
 thrown. He had often meditated upon all other evils 
 that might befall himself or Lucy ; but the death of Agnes 
 had never been suffered to steady itself before his imagina- 
 tion, as an event that might take place; and, as soon as 
 that horrid catastrophe was imminent, he abandoned him- 
 self, with headlong passion, to uttermost despair. But 
 now he was told — and he believed it — that Aimes 
 might recover — nay, was recovering; and his whole 
 frame of mind and body was shaken as by a convulsion. 
 He walked about the house, and then into the open air, 
 praying and clasping his hands, and sometimes, when 
 he thought himself unobserved, kneeling down and ask- 
 ing forgiveness of Heaven. All that night he continued 
 to sit by her bedside, as he had done for several nights 
 before, although he was assured that the crisis of the
 
 140 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 fever was past. Lucy had been removed into another 
 room — but she was in perfect health ; and her father, con- 
 tented with one single kiss of her closed eyes, seemed to 
 forget that she was in the house, and sat like an image 
 by his Agnes. Ruih Colinson, unknown to him, was in 
 the room, for one or other of the family had been by 
 that sick-bed all night long, ever since Agnes had been 
 swimming for her life. Voices were still low, and sad, 
 and whispering, and all the ordinary occupations of the 
 house carried on in silence. Michael longed to hear one 
 cheerful tone — any sound like a laugh — any motion 
 that might denote bustle or activity ; for he still gave a 
 rueful interpretation to everything he discerned in his 
 darkness, and shuddered lest the noiselessness of mid- 
 night might be a token of despair and death. 
 
 Another day and another night passed by, and Michael 
 Forester knew that his Agnes was to be restored. Far 
 was she from death now, according to the judgment of 
 man, as on the afternoon she arrived at Ellesmere. Their 
 usual gentle and steady light had returned to her eyes; 
 the few words she was able, in her weakness, to utter, 
 were composed and happy; she recognised every one 
 with a smile ; and two or three quiet tears trickled down 
 her pale cheeks when Michael told her the story of 
 Lucy's departure and journey from Bracken Braes. 
 Michael and Agnes were now left much alone ; and, 
 kind and skilful as Mr. lanson had been, what blessed- 
 ness to know that his presence was no longer needed in 
 their house. When he did come, it was only a visit of 
 congratulation ; and Michael Forester was even able to 
 enjoy his cheerful and jocular conversation ; for Mr. Ian- 
 son was something of a humorist, and had a store of anec- 
 dote, on which the club had drawn every Saturday night 
 for several years, without any visible diminution of the 
 charm of novelty. But, in a few days, the worthy Doc- 
 tor discontinued even such visits as these ; and Agnes, so 
 far from being disturbed, enjoyed the life and animation 
 that, somewhat restrained, were heard once more in 
 every apartment of the Vicarage. 
 
 But the joy and gratitude of Lucy exhibited them-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 141 
 
 selves in quite a different character. Hope and trust 
 had entered into her young and innocent heart long 
 before her father had dared to indulge them ; and, as 
 soon as she was told by Mr. lanson that her mother was 
 out of danger, a very flood of rapture overflowed her 
 vviiole spirit. She tried to keep down her joy — she 
 gazed on her mother's sunk cheeks, and wept — she went 
 by herself into the room, or along with Ruth Colinson, 
 and, kneeling down, poured forth the most beautiful 
 extemporaneous thanksgivings — she opened the Bible, 
 and read portions of our Saviour's history, his miracles 
 and crucifixion — she put her arms round Ruth Colinson's 
 neck and kissed her, for Ruth had comforted her day 
 and night — and then going into the fields or orchard 
 with that affectionate girl, she bounded along in her glee, 
 or, for an hour, joined in the work of the haymakers, 
 now housing the produce of the latest enclosure on the 
 hill side. If there were a flower on bank or in hedge-row, 
 Lucy's eyes were sure to detect it ; and she formed a 
 small garland, whose sweet smell, she said, would restore 
 her mother; for, " methinks, Ruth, that your English 
 flowers have a finer odor than even those at Bracken 
 Braes; and I must confess that they are richer in their 
 beautiful colors, for here there is mair shelter — ay, it is 
 lowner far than at Holylee." 
 
 There had been one Sabbath only since Lucy's arrival 
 at the Vicarage, and that was not a day on which it was 
 possible for the afflicted girl to go to the chapel. But 
 she now took Ruth's arm, who leaned on her brother 
 Miles, and they proceeded to the pbice of worsljip. For 
 awhile, Lucy heard the bell tinkling; but where, she 
 knew not; for still, at every turning of the path, as they 
 ascended or descended, the sound seemed to come from 
 a different spot. Then the head of the glen, which they 
 had now reached, was quite filled with little wooded em- 
 inences, some almost entirely rock, and others partly pas- 
 turage — rent, obviously, by some natural convulsion from 
 the sides of the mountains. Between these eminences 
 lay patches of meadow-ground, watered by almost invisible 
 runlets, proceeding from springs, or from the main stream 
 
 M
 
 142 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 that wound its increasing way down towards the Vicar- 
 age, and, finally, into Windermere. Here Lucy recog- 
 nised woodmen's huts such as she had known in the Hirst 
 wood, but no other habitation. Well dressed people, 
 however, were issuing from all the coppices ; and the 
 bell sounding close at hand, she lifted her eyes in that 
 direction, and there was the beautiful low-roofed chapel 
 of Ellesmere, with its white tower and churchyard, en- 
 circled with the murmur of that mountain torrent. As 
 the bell ceased to tinkle, the cry of the kite was heard in 
 the hollow heavens. 
 
 Lucy had never been in any public place of worship 
 but the kirk of Holylee. All that she now saw and heard 
 was in form very diiferent, but in spirit the same. This 
 small rural congregation had an organ whose music 
 sounded sweetly and solemnly in that lonesome chapel. 
 The psalm tunes were not the same Lucy had been accus- 
 tomed to ; but her fine ear taught her at once to accom- 
 pany Ruth, and, with a low and somewhat hesitating 
 voice, she joined in those beautiful hymns. Before the 
 worship was half over, Lucy gave to it the whole religion 
 of her heart. She thought of her mother rescued from 
 death ; of her father sitting at that hour by her bedside ; 
 of God's mercies to her, a helpless child ; and of the 
 kindness experienced from her fellow Christians at the 
 Vicarage; and, with a fervent voice, did the pious crea- 
 ture repeat every response throuahout the service. 
 
 An annual festival was now at hand, called the Rush 
 Bearing, for which all the maidens in the parish about 
 Lucy ao^ Ruth's age, and indeed much younger, had 
 been making preparations. The origin of this rite, evi- 
 dently of a religious nature, is not distinctly known ; but 
 its celebration is, with good reason, supposed to be a 
 thanksgiving for the hay harvest. It takes place in most 
 districts of Westmoreland, near the end of July, when 
 the hay fields are beginning to get green again with the 
 after grass, and a season almost of comparative inactivity 
 intervenes between it and the first week of September, 
 when the corn-fields are yellow for the sickle. Being a 
 sacred institution, the Rush Bearing, beautiful sight as
 
 THE FORESTERS. 143 
 
 it is, partakes of a somewhat solemn character ; and al- 
 though no prayers are said, no hymns are sung, but all is 
 silent, and the very meaning of the rite obscure, yet, 
 at its close, nothing like amusement or recreation occurs, 
 nothing to break the spirit of a ceremonial which piously 
 regards the gratitude of the creature, and the bounty of 
 the Creator. « 
 
 In the parish of Ellesmere, the Rush Bearing had, from 
 time immemorial, been observed with more than ordinary 
 attention. The good vicar — which is not usual in other 
 places — always took upon himself the arrangement of 
 the procession. The children all met at the Vicarage, 
 each provided with her flower garland, dressed in white, 
 and adorned with ribbands, whose colors gay, and some- 
 times even garish, were, notwithstanding, pleasant to be- 
 hold in that infant band. Nothing whatever was worn 
 on the head, but every ringlet flowed free and unconfined. 
 Ranked according to their height, the innocent creatures 
 walked two by two, with the flower garlands in their 
 hands; and thus the procession moved, silent as a dream, 
 towards the solitary chapel. Lucy and her cousin Martha 
 walked side by side; and it was upon this day that they 
 might be said to have begun to love one another with a 
 sisterly affection. Every heart was happy, it knew not 
 why, for every child that walked in that fair array felt the 
 beauty of that whole of which itself made part; and one 
 spirit of harmonious feeling pervaded the living chain, 
 from the two leading maidens now on the verge of wo- 
 manhood, to the last two small creatures of five summers, 
 who were often scarcely able to keep up with.ihe slow 
 pace of the procession. The birds kept flying from bough 
 to bough as the Rush Bearing past through the coppice 
 woods ; and in every quiet pa.sture the lambs frisked 
 among their knolls. The chapel door was open, and in 
 went the quiet sisterhood to deposit their flower garlands 
 on the pews, the pulpit, and the altar. 
 
 In a few minutes, the interior of the chapel, which, 
 with its dark oak furniture, stained walls, and low raftered 
 roof, was perhaps somewhat gloomy, glowed with a thou- 
 sand bright and gorgeous colors. Many of the garlands
 
 144 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 had been framed with much taste, of garden flowers both 
 rich and rare ; but indeed it is not possible to join to- 
 gether a muhitude of blossoms, and buds, and flowers, 
 and leaves, without the aggregate being most beautiful. 
 The Rush Bearers themselves — a name originating in 
 another custom, now disused — could not help eyeing, 
 with delighted wonder, the splendid show of their dis- 
 tributed garlands; and then arranged as before, they 
 reverently left the chapel, and, hand in hand, returned to 
 the Vicarage. 
 
 There, beneath the solemn shadow of that ancient yew 
 tree, the vicar's wife had set out tables of simple viands 
 — the same tables at which the merry haymakers had 
 taken their meals. The vicar blessed the bread and 
 fruit ; and when the repast was over, some of the elder 
 maidens sung a hymn. Ruth Colinson whispered to her 
 father, that Lucy would sing one of the psalms used in 
 the kirk at Holylee ; and a leaf would have been heard 
 to fall while she warbled, 
 
 " Plaintive martyrs, worthy of the name." 
 
 The sun was setting in all his glory ; and Agnes, who 
 was now strong enoutjh sometimes to leave her bed, had 
 been for a short time sitting at the window, of which 
 Michael ventured to open a few panes, just as Lucy began 
 to sing by herself — 
 
 " The Lord 's my shepherd, I '11 not want. 
 He makes me down to lie 
 . In piistuies green : he leadeth rae 
 The quiet waters by." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 There was now entire happiness within the Vicarage 
 of Ellesmere ; for all the shadows of death had disap-
 
 THE FOr.ESTERS. 145 
 
 peared, and Agnes, who had Iain so long wasted and 
 delirious in hopeless disease, had risen up in her pale re- 
 turning beauty, and had walked about the shaded pastures, 
 both in the morning and evening light. A deep religious 
 gratitude gave a still more delightful character to those 
 eyes, that never smiled without inspiring affection ; and 
 the awe left by the consciousness ofthe peril from which 
 she had been providentially saved, breathed a mournful 
 composure over a deportment that was at all times natu- 
 rally sedate, making even the tones of her speech sweeter 
 and more gentle. Her husband had not wholly recovered 
 his usual undisturbed demeanor; yet everything lie said 
 or did expressed, to Mr. Colinson, repentance for that 
 passion of grief that had so utterly overwhelmed him, 
 and shewed that, on another trial, his heart would proba- 
 bly be more humble and obedient. But where was Lucy 
 in her joy ? Tell how the linnet in spring passes every 
 hour in its vale of sunshine In the gray dawn, before 
 the yellow sunlight tinged the diadem of the elm grove, 
 or melted the veil of diamonds that lay over the dewy 
 sward, before the thrush had fed her brood, or the young 
 swallows looked out from their nests below the antique 
 cornice, while yet the kine were reposing, and the hare 
 sitting fearless at a distance from his shelter, lAicy was 
 out in the morning solitude, and forgetting her happiest 
 dreams in the still and shaded loveliness that was gradu- 
 ally brightening over heaven and earth. Sometimes, 
 even before Ruth Colinson was awake, had Lucy been 
 by herself all the way to the chapel, and received kind 
 words from the shepherds going to the mountains. The 
 long day glided by, she knew not how, in various delights ; 
 and often did she wonder, on looJcing at the sky, to see 
 that the sun was indeed setting among his golden clouds. 
 And was Bracken Braes forgotten 1 The green broomy 
 hills and treeless banks of Heriot Water — that one wood- 
 ed linn, the howlet's nest, and he whom her heart had 
 so often beat within her inmost bosom to meet there — 
 Edward Ellis ! No, no — all Lucy's affections were true 
 to the place of her birth ; and sad although she certainly 
 13
 
 146 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 would be when the day came — now near at hand — that 
 they must take tlieir departure from Ellesmere, yet her 
 heart yearned, at the forethought, towards sweet Scothind, 
 and there, among the banks and braes where she was 
 born, might she also live, die, and be buried. 
 
 But this is the morning of the most beautiful festival 
 that cheers the land of lakes, Windermere Regatta; and 
 Miles Colinson, with Lucy and Ruth, will join in his 
 pinnace that Mediterranean fleet. As for Martha, she 
 ■shewed her good sense and her good feeling in preferring 
 to accompany the people from whom she was about so 
 soon to part; and Alexander Ainslie, who had become a 
 prodigious favorite at the Vicarage, attended the nymphs 
 of the household in his Scotch bonnet, which he wore 
 with an air of pride, as if the object of universal observa- 
 tion. So bound to the Vicarage, by love and by fear, 
 had been the heart of the affectionate Lucy ever since 
 her arrival from Scotland, that she had never once left 
 the vale of Ellesmere — the chapel, and the rocks around 
 it, having been the boundary of her rambles. One glance 
 of Windermere was all that she had taken on that troubled 
 day, when she was flying to her mother ; and its beauty 
 was like a dim dream to her imagination. But now the 
 party winded joyously up the wooded hills, and below the 
 precipices that intervened between secluded Ellesmere and 
 the queen of the lakes; and Lucy promised not to turn 
 her eyes from the scenery immediately around her, till 
 Miles Colinson had conducted her to a natural watch- 
 tower at High Wray, built of rocks that no lever could 
 have stirred, and with a flight of steps that had been 
 hung in air by an earthquake. Miles Colinson then took 
 his gentle hand from Lucy's forehead, while he and Ruth 
 watched the expression of her countenance as Winder- 
 mere burst upon her view — water, woods, air, and sky, 
 all blended together in beautiful and magnificent repose. 
 
 The simple creature had never known any other world 
 than that of Holylee. That pastoral parish was to her 
 the image of the whole earth. After reading to her father 
 about other countries, all thought of them was laid aside 
 with the book, and she saw and heard only the scenery
 
 THE FORESTERS. 147 
 
 of her native vale. But now Lucy felt herself in heaven 
 — no dream, but a reality enduring in its delight. The 
 bliss of novelty, beyond all doubt or comparison, of every 
 bliss that the human soul can know, the most vivid, lu- 
 minous, and dazzling, now possessed her whole being as 
 she gazed and gazed ; a capacity of happiness adequate 
 to the beauty for the first time revealed, suddenly unfolded 
 itself within her nature, and in the midst of her wildered 
 and exulting happiness, she wept to know that her mother 
 had been saved from death, and that the Great Being who 
 stretched out the heavens and the earth, had looked with 
 an eye of mercy on her sick bed, had hearkened to the 
 prayers of her, a poor little child, and on his throne had 
 guarded the footsteps of her blind father. "O Ruth, 
 Ruth! this is by far the happiest day of all my life; and 
 I will think of it, dream of it, every day and every night, 
 as long as I live, when I am far, far away in Scotland." 
 But Ruth took her hand, without any reply, and bounding 
 together down the mossy steps, scattered the wild rose 
 leaves, but without startling the redbreast from its nest; 
 and then along the sloping hay fields and old flowery leas, 
 the two happy creatures stood breathless on a little pier 
 that jutted into a, bay, and there saluted Miles, whom they 
 had absolutely outrun, with a laugh of raillery, as he 
 handed them tripping into the boat, and then, with vigor- 
 ous arm. made the Antelope of Ellesmere glide, with her 
 broken shadow, under rock, and along level shore, till 
 she reached the middle of the lake, and pointed her prow 
 towards the place of rendezvous, Lowood Bay, with its 
 few sentinel pine trees, and wooded mountain, with all 
 its peaceful battlements. 
 
 Lucy remembered her voyage up Ullswater ; but the 
 wind had wafted the Naiad so swiftly along, that she 
 scarcely knew where she was, till again standing on the 
 shore. Grief and fear too had blinded and deafened her 
 to the beauty of that morning. But now life and joy 
 were one. The heaven smiled over her head; and as 
 she looked down, there also were the heavens, whenever 
 the oars rested, and the pinnace, with its gaudy flag yet 
 unfolded, floated with altnost imperceptible motion on the
 
 148 TUE FORESTERS. 
 
 air-like water. But for the little bells that went wavering 
 in myriads past the gunwale, and shewed that they were 
 on another element, Lucy could have thought herself 
 sailing through the very skies, and a sort of pleasing fear 
 subdued her gladness, when once more the Antelope re- 
 sumed her Hight, and brought them within hearing of the 
 merry music, becoming every moment more clear and 
 distinct from Lowood Bay. "Ay, there 's the Bowness 
 band!" exclaimed Ruth ; how sweet, Lucy, is the sound 
 of the clarionet and bugle, and does not the hollow sound 
 of the great drum fill the whole lake from Ecclerig- 
 Crag to Water Head ! " 
 
 Just behind a low pastoral point, that, running out 
 from a coppice wood, formed one of the horns of a small 
 bay, that to the careless eye was not observed to be a bay 
 at all, but thought to be merely part of the straight shore, 
 was anchored in shallow water, and within leap of the 
 silver sanded beach, the Antelope of Ellesmere. From 
 that station there was not only a view of Lowood Bay, 
 distant a few hundred yards, but of the lake down to 
 Belle Isle, and across to the undisturbed waters of Pool- 
 wyke, that seemed a lake of themselves, and almost sepa- 
 rated in their still seclusion, from the spiri.t of festivity now 
 breaking out all along the opposite shore. Like appari- 
 tions rising up from the depths of the lake — from whence 
 they came Lucy knew not nor could conjecture — many 
 a gaily painted pinnace now moved twinkling over the 
 broad bosom of Windermere, and the echoes answered to 
 shouts and laughter from the merry crews striving in 
 amicable contest. Lucy started to her feet at the first 
 signal gun, which she thought close to their anchorage ; 
 and the little carronade having been placed on a spot 
 commanding a multitudinous echo, it seemed as if, on 
 that cloudless sky, peals of thunder were rolling round 
 the whole circle of mountains, and more than once 
 reawakening, when all thought them over, died faint and 
 afar off, beyond the blue skies of Lnngdale Pikes — a 
 mountain thnt, look where you will, still forms part of the 
 Bcenery of Windermere. 
 
 Not one lazy straggler was now seen out upon the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 149 
 
 lake ; but the whole tiny fleet was moored around the 
 bay — a bright and gorgeous circle of flags and awnings- 
 The rowing boats now started for the prize, and all was 
 animation and enthusiasm. But Lucy was told to look 
 away from the race, towards Calgarth and Millar-ground 
 — for the sea had sent its southern breezes, and the sail- 
 boats, that had lain all morning becalmed in the bay of 
 Bowness, now loomed on the horizon, and stooping be- 
 neath the winds that they were bringing along with them 
 to the stilhiess of the airless water of Lo wood, soon shewed 
 the various splendor of their array, and proudly imparted 
 another character to the whole festival. " There goes 
 the flying schooner, the Victory," said Miles Colinson, 
 an enthusiastic and skilful fresh-water sailor, " and that 
 is the Endeavor, with its long white pendant, close upon 
 her stern, standing on the same tack. They are going 
 nearly before the wind now, and, methinks, the Endeavor 
 is about to run foul of the boom of her mainsail ; but we 
 shall see before evening which eats the other out of the 
 wind, when close hauled, and in the winds's eye, weather- 
 ing Seymour Crag. Look, Lucy, are they not beautiful t " 
 Beautiful, indeed, they appeared to her eyes ; but their 
 beauty was as that of living creatures, and their motion 
 as that of, life, while, with wings white as snow, and me- 
 teors attending their course, they held their undeviating 
 progress towards the mountains, and apparently without 
 any guidance but that of their own spirit, went gliding by 
 the hanging groves and woods. " 'Auld Langsyne,' as I 
 live!" exclaimed Lucy. And, as the cloud of sail car- 
 ried away that melancholy music, the Scottish maiden 
 was, for a moment, at Bracken Braes, sitting beneath the 
 plane tree, and the Heriot Water murmuring along the wil- 
 low haugh, down to the linn and the Manse of Holylee. 
 Apart from the bay and all its beautiful confusion, yet 
 near enotigh to enter into the spirit of the festival, the 
 crew of the Antelope remained with her during all the 
 boat races, at their quiet anchorage. But Miles Colin- 
 son now weighed anchor, and Lucy took her seat at the 
 stern, while Ruth relieved the flag from its staff, proud 
 13*
 
 150 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 of the emblazoning which their joint needlework had 
 formed during the long evenings below the yew tree. 
 " We must take our place in the grand aquatic proces- 
 sion," Slid Miles, with a smile ; " but I must take care 
 not to run down the Nil Timeo, the ten-oared barge of 
 the Windermere Sailing Club." Much brandishing and 
 splashing of oars there was, before both lines were formed, 
 and the " grand aquatic procession " moved in the sun- 
 shine over the dark blue waters, as if some doughty Doge 
 were about to wed the Lady of the Lake. Tiie crew of 
 each boat, doubtless, thought her the brightest star in 
 that moving constellation ; and so occupied were all the 
 rowers and their companies with their nice and difficult 
 duties, that it was only now and then that the sail-boats 
 attracted notice, when bearing down, with a freshened 
 breeze, upon the procession returning to its anchorage 
 in the form of a crescent. They tacked suddenly, just 
 when about to break the line, and bore away majestically 
 before the wind, with their bands playing " Rule Britan- 
 nia," or " God save the King." 
 
 " Ruth, Ruth," exclaimed Lucy, " there is bonny Aga- 
 tha Marshall, who was so kind to me at her father's house 
 on the banks of that other lake;" and tlie two boats 
 were now so close together that Lucy and Agatha shook 
 hands across their gunwales, and then again in a moment, 
 were separate<l by an oar length of foamy water. By this 
 time, Lucy had become quite a bold sailor : and, taking 
 off her bonnet, that she might behold the spectacle on all 
 sides, down fell her clustering ringlets in a shower of 
 sunbeams over her cheeks and neck ; and never had the 
 Cambridge scholar beheld in imagination so bright a 
 figure of an Hour, a Grace, or a Nereid, as that fair Scot- 
 tish sheplierde.'^s, now gazing on him with smiles of be- 
 wildered happiness. Like an hour, too, she was to pass 
 away ; and, although unforgotten, yet to return never, 
 never m<ire. But the horns of the crescent had touched 
 Lowood Bay — a hundred oars rose into the air — the 
 boats were again anchored or drawn up to the beach — 
 the whole fleet deserted by their crews — and the shores
 
 THE FORESTERS. 151 
 
 alive, from the water edge to the knolls below tiie wooded 
 Scaur where the hawks inhabit. 
 
 Lucy sought anxiously, through the moving crowd, for 
 Agatha Marshall ; and it was not long before they recog- 
 nised each other. The Colinsons and Marshalls were 
 not altogether strangers, and the two parties agreed to 
 retire from the stir and bustle of the scene, and have a 
 repast in some quiet glade within reach of the lake 
 breezes. Miles soon recollected a fit spot, half way be- 
 tween Lowood and Ecclerig ; and a crowd of remem- 
 brances came over Lucy's mind, when, in a few minutes, 
 they sat down upon the bank of a charcoal pit, within a 
 wood that had been thinned that very spring — so per- 
 fectly like the Hirst wood, where her father lost his sight 
 in that thunder storm. Agatha, Lucy, and Ruth, were 
 all intimate friends in a few minutes; and Lucy's eyes 
 beamed with joy to hear that the lieutenant had been 
 most prosperous in his late cruise, and was now quite a 
 rich man. " They say we are to have peace soon, and 
 then my brother will live with us at Seathwaite Hall, and 
 we shall get regattas of our own on Ullswater ; Lucy For- 
 ester will surely visit her friends again — and I do not 
 despair of seeing her with us long before — I am married." 
 
 Mirth and merriment soon grew general, but never 
 loud, over that sylvan saloon. In an hour or two, the 
 heron, that had been disturbed by uimsual clamor, was 
 seen returning from Rydal woods, with wings moving not 
 quicker than oars, and his flight gradually descending 
 nearer and nearer the water, as he kept approaching his 
 nest on Roiigh-holm, by the deserted bay of Ray-rigg. 
 The wind, too, was dying away, as the sun declined 
 westward ; and here and there a boat, with elderly people 
 and children taking an early farewell of the revelries, 
 crawled almost reluctantly homewards along the sleeping 
 lake, that was spread with deepening shadows. Inde- 
 pendently of the umbrage of the forest boughs, the air 
 was cooler, although calmer ; and the butterflies, that had 
 enjoyed tint day of light, had all settled down upon the 
 wild fl >wers. " Part we must not without some iScottish 
 music," was the feeling of all the party , and Lucy, who
 
 152 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 never in all her life had been asked twice to do anything 
 she could do, warbled the wildest and most mournful 
 spirit of the genius of her country. There were wet eyes 
 during some of those airs; for worthy, indeed, were they 
 of tears, sung as they now were by one to whom nature 
 had taught the music of the heart, in whose sorrow inno- 
 cence rejoices amidst the pauses of its gladness, and then 
 returns more happy to its own living world. It seemed, 
 as she sung, that the composure of the soul within her 
 almost sobered the golden gleam above her forehead, and 
 touched with paleness the roses of her cheek. Fair 
 moved the bosom of one not yet woman grown, while 
 those liquid murmurs left her lips apart in their beauty ; 
 and when, at the close of the tune, every tongue and eye 
 applauded, Lucy soon recovered all her gladsome smiles. 
 and lifted up from the sward eyes that looked as if they 
 could express no other emotion than that of rejoicing 
 happiness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The stay of the Foresters at the Vicarage of Elles- 
 mere had been protracted some time beyond the almost 
 perfect recovery of Agnes, by mutual friendship of a very 
 deep and endearing character. Distress and sympathy 
 had opened up and exhibited the recesses of each other's 
 hearts, and that two months' visit had made revelation of 
 feelings which might have lain concealed during a whole 
 life. But the day of parting had come at last. The vi- 
 car, his wife, and his son and daughters, had accompanied 
 their beloved guests as far as Seathwaite Hall, on Ulls- 
 water, and the final farewell had thus been less melan- 
 choly than if it had taken place at the door of their own 
 dwelling. Michael parted from a friend in Mr. Colinson 
 whom he held dearer than he supposed he could have 
 done any new acquaintance at his time of life, when the
 
 THE FOUESTERS. 153 
 
 heart is contented with affections of old standing, and is 
 slow to expand itself fully nnder the power of any fresh 
 attachment. The admirable character of the vicar — one 
 of the most modest, humble, and unassuming of men — 
 had betrayed itself unconsciously, in many simple traits, 
 almost every day after their friendship was a week old; 
 and Michael, — who, at first, scarcely understood how to 
 reconcile Mr. Colinson's zeal in secular concerns with 
 such a religious spirit as his sacred profession demanded, 
 and wondered a little at his manual labors in the hay field 
 and the barn — ere long discerned that the reconcilement 
 of custom can, without moral injury, blend together pur- 
 suits elsewhere deemed repugnant, and acknowledged 
 that the life of a good man ought not to be tried by any 
 other test than the consistency of its own condition. In 
 Scotland, Michael Forester was aware that no clergyman 
 could engage personally in rural toils, almost like a hind, 
 without loss of character and implied degradation of 
 mind; but, in Ellesmere, the spirit of the clerical life had 
 for ages been of this homely and primitive kind. Even 
 in dress, the vicar, he was told by Agnes, was but little 
 distinguished from the respectable householders around; 
 and, clad as he was, throughout the week, in gray, she 
 confessed that she had never completely felt that he was 
 a clergyman till the first Sabbath, when, walking to the 
 chapel, he appeared just like Mr. Kennedy at Holylee — 
 more dignified and impressive it might be, from the con- 
 trast of his usual homeliness of dress and manner ; but, 
 in good truth, pach member of the family at the Vicarage 
 was alike estimable. Although far inferior, both in men- 
 tal and corporeal gifts, to Agnes, yet Mrs. Colinson was 
 a woman without guile, and of a truly Christian spirit. 
 She had borne many afflictions, that had never fallen to 
 the lot of Agnes, with unrcpining resignation. No hu- 
 man being ever worshipped her Maker more, in spirit and 
 in truth, than did she, every Sabbath, in that little chapel. 
 Her charities were like the night dews — felt, not seen ; 
 and one good deed was by her forgotten in another; her 
 whole life being passed in a quiet succession of kind- 
 nesses towards her fellow creatures. Ruth, her sole sur
 
 154 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 viving daughter, was also the flower of all the flock, and 
 allowed to be the sweetest and the prettiest girl in Elles- 
 mere ; and Miles, who had already distinguished himself 
 at Cambridge, both in classical literature and science, 
 reminded the elder statesmen in the neighboring vales of 
 his uncle, Joshua Colinson, formerly curate of Wansfield, 
 whose fame as a mathematician and divine still survived 
 in those obscure and remote places, whither he had re- 
 tired in the prime of life, and where he had died, in igno- 
 ble but useful retirement, in a green old age. But the 
 Foresters were far away from the Vicarage now ; and had 
 returned, all safe and well, to Bracken Braes. 
 
 If tears had blinded Lucy's eyes as they stole a last 
 glance of Ellesmere, it is not to be thought that they 
 were dry when, once more, she beheld the spire of Holy- 
 lee kirk. As they passed the Manse, her heart beat wild- 
 ly ; for there was Edward Ellis, with a kindly smile, and 
 a look of rejoicing salutation. Aunt Isobel was on the 
 look-out for them below the plane tree; and, after the 
 first weeping embrace was over, and all had time to feel 
 that the roof of Bracken Braes was indeed over them 
 once more, Michael gave thanks to the Almighty for 
 bringing them all out of their late tribulation. Little or 
 no change was visible in the rooms; as far as their faith- 
 ful memory served, everything was in its usual place — 
 untouched, yet free from dust. The old clock, that had 
 rest while Aunt Isobel sojourned in the Manse, now tick- 
 ed with all its power ; a few books lay on the broad wood- 
 en chimney-piece, and Lucy remembered the very passage 
 she had been reading that day the letter came from Mr. 
 Colinson about her mother's illness; the barking glee of 
 the two sheplierd dogs was over, and the creatures sat 
 each at its own side of the fire, glad of the return; and 
 there was the speckle-breasted mavis, in his cheerful pris- 
 on, aware that it was Lucy's white hand that now ran its 
 fingers along the wicker-bars. The seasons at Bracken 
 Braes were not so early as at Ellesmere. It was not 
 above a week ago since the first swathe of grass had fall- 
 en before the scythe. " To-morrow," said William Laid- 
 law, " the rakers will be all in the haugh, and I am mis-
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 155 
 
 taen if ye hae seen or heard o' a heavier crop in ony part 
 o' Eiighind." — " Stupid creatures ! " quoth Isobel, " not 
 one o' you can speak a word o' Englisli ; ye hae a' the 
 Scottish accent sae strong that it is just perfectly vulgar. 
 Coukhia the vicar, as you call hiai,or his^son the student, 
 have taught you a mair refined discourse? You '11 be a' 
 Episcopals, 1 doubt not? And what '11 you think o' the 
 kirk o' Holylee, in comparison wi' that chapel o' Elles- 
 mere that Lucy wrote me so long a letter about, wi' its 
 organ, and hymns, and printed prayers?" But Aunt 
 Isobel now spoke to those who understood all her pecu- 
 liar modes of speech, and knew how rightly to interpret 
 its meanings. Every Sabbath had she, sitting in the kirk 
 of Holylee, thought of them in the chapel of Ellesmere ; 
 and, whatever differences there might be in their forms 
 of worship, and solemnly attached as she was to her own 
 simple form of faith, deeply did she feel that, wherever a 
 few were gathered together in sincerity, God would be in 
 the midst of them, and mercifully, as he thought fitting, 
 grant their prayers. 
 
 Aunt Isobel scrutinized Martha, the orphan, with 
 kind but keen eyes, and asked and answered a hundred 
 questions. She was much pleased with Martha's plain, 
 quiet, and sensible manners, and declared that she 
 would have known her to be her father's child had she 
 met her at Japan. " Ay, ay, my good Martha, you have 
 been a hard-working lassie, they tell me ; and hae worked, 
 too, a' your days, for them that were not o' your ain 
 blood ; but you'll lead a different life, my bairn, at 
 Bracken Braes, and we'll a' use you as kindly as we do 
 Lucy herself O Agnes ! don't you see the very glint 
 o' poor Abel's eye there ; and there, too, the self same 
 dimples that showed themselves in ilka cheek whenever 
 he laughed, which was often and often, in the shortest 
 day; for a merrier man than Abel Forester never saner 
 at his work beneath heaven's sunshine." 
 
 In a very few days, Martha was quite at home at 
 Bracken Braes. She felt, with gratitude, that the kind 
 promises that had been made to her before she left West- 
 moreland had been more than realized. At meals, at all
 
 156 THE FOEESTEKS. 
 
 their fireside work or leisure, at prayers, in bed, (for she 
 slept with Lucy,) the once neglected or oppressed orphan 
 now felt herself taken within the affection of many excel- 
 lent hearts, and gradually becoming familiar with thoughts 
 and feelings of whose existence she had formerly known 
 nothiniT, but that found out corresponding chords in her 
 own nature. Pleased with herself, thankful to her Maker, 
 every day more and more attached to all the family, and 
 naturally fond of work and averse to all idleness, Martha 
 was soon thought quite a treasure, and her character be- 
 gan to stand high in the parish. The hay harvest went 
 on apace; and Martha, although at first a little puzzled 
 with the Scotch fashion, soon distinguished herself by her 
 perseverance and activity. Jacob Mayne declared she 
 was worth her weight in gold, and held her up as a pat- 
 tern to his own daughters, who, it must be confessed, 
 were somewhat indolent, and afraid of the sun tanning 
 their skin, and hurting the delicacy of their complexion. 
 Good humor, contentment, and a willingness to do one's 
 best, are prime qualities in the character of a cottage 
 girl ; and, although Martha was no beauty, yet they gave 
 a pleasing expression to ordinary enough features; and, 
 except Lucy herself, no one, at the close of the week, 
 was more admired in the haugh. 
 
 Few states of life are more delightful than the calm 
 and tranquil return into old dear familiar habits, even 
 although they may have been interrupted by a change in 
 itself perfectly happy. Michael's feet knew well all the 
 ground about Bracken Braes, and, after the necessary 
 confinement of a new kind of scenery at Ellesmere, he 
 now felt an enlargement of mind in the greater freedom 
 of motion in all his limbs; again the day was subdivided 
 in a way that had long been habitual to him ; and all the 
 ongoings of his farm told him perpetuaJly where the sun 
 stood in heaven. Once more, too, he had taken his 
 place as an elder below the pulpit ; Mr. Kennedy's voice 
 was even pleasanter to his ear than before — no dispar- 
 agement to the reading of the good vicar ; and thorough- 
 ly as he had entered into the spirit of the service of the 
 Church of England, yet to him the sanctifying power of
 
 THE FORESTERS. 157 
 
 years lay upon his own form of worship. Agnes had 
 never lioped to see Bracken Braes more, and to her it 
 was dearer — more beautiful than ever; while Lucy, 
 convincino herself, with many a sitrh, that she must never 
 hope to be at Ellesmere again, except in a dream, cher- 
 ished the remembrance of all its loveliness, without losing 
 any of her attachment to the sweet place of her nativity. 
 Bare, naked, and bleak it was, no doubt, in comparison 
 with that English valley; but, in spring and in summer, 
 what place, in its own way, could be more beautiful than 
 the vale of Heriot Water, all the way down from Lady- 
 side to Holylee ? 
 
 CHAPTER X X V 1 1 1 . 
 
 There were two causes of distress to Lucy, soon after 
 her return from Westmoreland ; her two dearest friends 
 
 — the highest and the lowest — Emma Cranstoun of the 
 Hirst, and Mary Morrison of Ewebauk, were both ill in 
 health and depressed in spirit. Mary had only once been 
 over a\ Bracken Braes for a single hour, and Lucy had 
 but once visited her in return. Bolh times the poor 
 creature's eyes had seemed red with weeping; and when 
 a smile crossed her face, it was more woeful than any 
 other expression. She fixed her eyes on Lucy's, as if 
 she had some secret to reveal and confide to her affec- 
 tion ; but then would turn away in ghastly silence, and 
 even cover her face with her hands, or for a while dis- 
 appear. Lucy knew that she had a harsh father, but 
 there seemed now about Mary Morrison a deeper distress 
 than could arise from that cause, which had always ex- 
 isted the same, and Mary herself said — "I canna speak. 
 
 — I daurna speak — but my heart is broken, Lucy, and 
 before winter I may be in my grave, and my soul called 
 to judgment." Lucy breathed not a word to her parents 
 
 14
 
 158 , THE FORESTERS. 
 
 or Aunt Isobel of Mary's melancholy state of mind; but 
 determined to persuade her friend, whom she loved more 
 tenderly thnn ever, to tell her what secret misery was 
 preying upon her life. 
 
 On her visit to the Hirst, at the earnest request of 
 the Lady herself, Lucy was, if possible, even more dis- 
 tressed by her appearance than by that of Mary Morrison. 
 Emma Cranstoun, who, only a few weeks ago, leaped so 
 lightsomely from her palfrey at the cottage doors, was 
 lying on a couch so faint and languid, that she did not 
 rise up on Lucy's entrance into the room, but stretched 
 out her hand, which felt hot and feverish, as Lucy kissed 
 it with tears of aflection. " My old malady has come 
 back, my friend ; and I fear it must be called a consump- 
 tion. Yet I am not in that cheerful frame of mind which 
 it is said consumptive persons go with to the very grave. 
 No, my sweet Lucy, my heart is disquieted within me, 
 and I fear to die. Much have I longed for your return: 
 yet now that I see you, I am too weak both in mind and 
 body to enjoy your presence as I always used to do. But 
 sit still — do not go away." 
 
 Lucy Forester loved Mary Morrison, as two innocent 
 and humble creatures love each other, in equal condition 
 of lowliness. But with her love for the Lady of the 
 Hirst was blended that admiration — that reverence with 
 which a guileless child of poor estate will naturally re- 
 gard a high-born and beautiful benefactress. From her 
 father's cottage had she come with all humility into the 
 drawing-room of that old hail. Surrounded with all the 
 elegancies — even splendors of rank — little as she was 
 known to value them — now lay with a deep hectic flush 
 upon her cheeks, and with eyes of a brilliancy that 
 pained Lucy's heart she knew not why, the lady whom 
 all the country loved. For Mary Morrison Lucy would 
 have watched night after night — for her would she fear- 
 lessly have walked over mountains and moors, in the frost 
 and snow of winter midnights ; but for the Lady of the 
 Hirst, she felt that she was ready to die on a moment's 
 warning — willing to leave father, and mother, and all, 
 so that she might purchase life for Emma Cranstoun.
 
 THE FORESTKUS. 159 
 
 That one so good, so pure, so beautiful bej'ond compare, 
 so charitable, and so relirrioiis, and so far superior in all 
 her looks, words, and motions, to everybody else she had 
 ever seen — that such a being should die, was a thought 
 too dreadful to be endured — even although Lucy well 
 knew that, were it to be so, it would be an instant change 
 from earth to heaven. # 
 
 " Lucy, I have more comfort in your presence even 
 than in Mr. Kennedy's, excellent Christian as he is, and 
 kind to me, as if 1 were his own daughter. Oh! sweet — 
 heavenly sweet were the sounds of that psalm, the first 
 evening I ever was at Bracken Braes ! 1 must get you 
 to sing it to me on my death-bed." Lucy laid her head 
 on the couch and wept ; but suddenly a cheering comfort 
 came, she knew not whence, into her heart. " I will 
 sing you every psalm, every hymn T know — but not on 
 your death-bed, lady — for you will recover, and ride 
 about the braes as you used to do, blessing the houses of 
 the poor!" — "Read these letters, Lucy, and tell me 
 what you thmk ; remember the eye of God is at all times 
 on his creatures, and speak the truth." 
 
 Little did Lucy Forester know of this world — little of 
 its awful or its mean mysteries — but these miserable let- 
 ters altogether shocked and baffled her reason. In them 
 the weak or wicked writer told Emma Cranstoun that 
 she was assuredly dying — that her mother and sisters had 
 all died of consumption, which was hereditary in the 
 family — that Mr. Kennedy knew nothing of the spirit of 
 the Gospel promises, and that she ought to call in to the 
 aid of her soul some very different minister of Christ, 
 before it was too late, for that after death cometh judg- 
 ment ! Lucy felt an indiscribable horror of such a cruel 
 and merciless communication ; and, weak and ignorant 
 child as she was, there was a power in her unperverted 
 conscience that appealed, in a few simple words, to the 
 quaking heart of her benefactress. " Oh ! best of all 
 ladies that ever brought the blessing of their presence 
 across the threshold of the poor, what sins and iniquities 
 can you have to repent of — what evil thought did your 
 bosom ever conceive — what evil word did your lips ever
 
 160 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 Utter — what evil deed did your hands ever perform? 
 Can my father, and my mother, and Mr. Kennedy, and 
 all the rest of the people in the parish, be in the wrong, 
 who all bless your name, and count them happy days 
 since you came to live at the Hirst? No doubt we are 
 all frail, all fallen, all corrupt. The Bible tells us that — 
 but the Bible tells us that ijjjere is a Savior; and if you 
 will let me, 1 will read you some chapters that will set 
 your heart at rest." 
 
 Who may be a wiser interpreter of many of the doc- 
 trines of Christianity than an innocent and guileless 
 maiden, who has been brought up at the knee of a father 
 whom religion had reconciled to a sore distress ? May 
 such a one not explain the spirit of those passages, whose 
 celestial beauty has brought heaven upon her midnight 
 dreams? Meanings perhaps too fine and pure for the 
 comprehension of strongest minds, polluted or deadened 
 by worldly pursuits, may become familiarly known to 
 such a reader in her simplicity, and flow in eloquence 
 from her lips, when her heart is touched at once with 
 devotion to her Maker, and love for a fallen creature 
 united to her in congenial innocence. The eye of such 
 a meek and humble one falls, as if by a sacred instinct, 
 on the promises of redeeming mercy. If fear and awe 
 mingle with her love, it is but to chasten it into a solemn 
 holiness. The affection she bears to her father on earth 
 is transferred to her Father in heaven, but more tender, 
 still more overpowering, more full of trust — now indeed 
 piety ! Then the Word of God ex|)Iains itself — there is 
 light upon every page ; and the young Christian, indeed, 
 enjoys a revelation ! 
 
 Emma Cranstoun, in the despondency of disease, and 
 the solitariness of that old mansion, had kept those per- 
 nicious letters below her pillow, and read them so often, 
 that a belief began to settle in her heart that their con- 
 tents were full of fearful truths, and that they might, 
 perhaps, have been written by a truly religious spirit, in 
 pity of her lost state. But the sound of Lucy's voice — 
 so earnest in her affection and simplicity — dispelled the 
 horrid dream; she allowed herself to be persuaded that
 
 THE FOREStERS. 161 
 
 Mr. Kennedy knew what Christianity was far better than 
 the writer of such letters ; and having got the better of 
 worse fears, she began to hope tiiat perhaps the fear of 
 death might be premature, and that God would yet spare 
 her Jife for a few years. 
 
 For how could life be otlierwise than dear to Emma 
 Cranstoun — young, good,y)eautifuI, and rich, both in 
 natural endowments and the gifts of fortune? She had 
 an eye to see the loveliness of earth and heaven — feel- 
 ing, fancy, and imagination to enjoy and to create enjoy- 
 ment. Whatever happiness a human being might derive 
 from this world, and its allowed affections, she might 
 well hope to share ; and to shut her eyes for ever upon 
 it all, was a rueful thought, and hard to be borne. But 
 she wished still more earnestly to live, that she might do 
 good, and practice the precepts of her faith. All these 
 desires blended together in her prayers; and although 
 sometimes she upbraided herself with too worldly a love 
 of life, at other seasons she felt assured that her yearning 
 after the good of her fellow creatures was sincere — and 
 sincere too, in as far as the frailty of her nature could allow 
 her conviction that there was no virtue but in obedience 
 to the will of God. Sickness, such as her's, sometimes 
 elevates and sometimes depresses the spirit; but it needs 
 the comfort of human love ; and that, in her case, was 
 found in Lucy Forester. '' I never sleep, Lucy, at least 
 seldom two hours together, and the nitrhts are weary long ! 
 but if I had you in the room, methinks 1 should have 
 pleasant slumbers." — "Me in the room, my beloved 
 lady! My mother is well now; and I have a cousin, you 
 know, at Bracken Braes, to take my place in the house. 
 I beseech you, let me lie beside you, or on the floor close 
 to your bed ; a whisper will awake me ; and, in a short 
 time — in a week or a month at the longest — you will 
 be as well as ever ; for, O lady, what mortal creature can 
 do without sleep, and not faint both in body and in soul 1" 
 
 Some slight opposition was made to the arrangement 
 by an old lady, a relation of Emma's, who had been a 
 sort of guardian to her since her father's death — not the 
 14*
 
 162 THE FOKESTERS. 
 
 most judiciously chosen in tlie world ; but it was at once 
 overruled ; and a bed being n)ade for Lucy, by that of 
 her gracious mistress, it was fixed, by a message to 
 Bracken Braes, that she should remain a month at the 
 Hirst, the friend of Enmia Cranstoun — so said the lady 
 herself; but Lucy called herself by another name — not 
 even companion, but servant ; and in that name she re- 
 joiced with an humble pride. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The duties which Lucy now daily and hourly discharg- 
 ed, were to her so truly delightful, and so entirely occu- 
 pied her whole capacity of alTection, that it may almost 
 be said her heart was away from Bracken Braes, and 
 bound to the Hirst by a spirit of homefelt happiness. 
 Her love to her parents was so vital, that, like the beat- 
 ings of that heart, it went on unconsciously ; nor was the 
 innocent creature afraid or ashamed even occasionally to 
 forget tlipm, knowing well that they were dearer to her 
 than all the rest of the world. From infancy she had 
 loved, honored, and obeyed them; and, since their re- 
 turn from Westm(^reland, she felt that their affection for 
 her had, if possible, increased. More than once they 
 had alluded to her flight to Ellesmere, and in such a way 
 as told Lucy how proud they were of their dutiful daugh- 
 ter. Aunt Isohel had long ceased to scold her on ac- 
 count of that wild adventure, and had even told her, 
 when they two were alone, that she had blessed her on 
 her knees the very hour her flight was known, from the 
 little paper in the Bible. " Yes, my bonny bairn, I 
 thocht o' the fifth commandinent' — 'Honor thy father 
 and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land 
 which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'" With Emma 
 Cran.stoun, therefore, she could reside without being
 
 THE FORESTERS. 163 
 
 guilty of any neglect of home; and there was nothing to 
 restrain the flow of all her tenderest and warmest feelings 
 towards her benefactress. 
 
 In that feeble and languid frame, both of body and 
 mind, into which the Lady of the Hirst had gradually 
 sunk, the perpetual presence of a creature so blithe and 
 joyful, yet, at the same time, so quiet and humble as 
 Lucy, worked like a very charm, and brought back to 
 her beautiful countenance some of those smiles that had 
 been familiar there for several years of renovated health. 
 The spirit of the invalid, when relapsing into melanchol- 
 ly or frightful trains of thought, was arrested by the mo- 
 tions, the words, or the eyes of her devoted attendant, 
 and brought back to the contemplation of this cheerful 
 world. Lucy narrated to her all that she knew of the 
 histories of the families in the parish ; and her know- 
 ledge was confined to their good qualities, their enjoy- 
 ments, or their misfortunes. Her little pictures of life 
 were drawn from what she had seen by humble hearths; 
 but they were drawn with animation and delight, since 
 the lady was desirous to know from her what thoughts 
 and feelings were familiar at the firesides of the poor. 
 The interest which she took in all such representations, 
 made Lucy believe more and more that her own lowly 
 condition was the very happiest that Providence could 
 have bestowed on her ; while, on the other hand, Emma 
 Cranstoun drew, from all the tales and stories of the 
 simple girl, a stronger and stronger trust in the. power of 
 resignation and faith to support the soul in all extremi- 
 ties. " Let me believe as all these poor cottagers be- 
 lieve, and my Maker may forgive all my sins, and recon- 
 cile me, if it be his will, to an early death." 
 
 Lucy had never been at any reading school, but had 
 been taught to read by her father, and mother, and Aunt 
 Isobel. Ever since the time of her father's blindness, 
 she had read to him two or three hours daily on an aver- 
 age, and, during the dead of winter, much more than 
 that ; and as her understanding and feelings expanded, 
 nature had taught Lucy her own elocution. She always 
 remembered for whose sake she was performing that
 
 1C4 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 pleasant task, and filial love and reverence had inspired 
 intonations most touching and expressive. The books, 
 too, that Lucy iiad read, were such as gave her, day after 
 day, insights into that nature to which she belonged; 
 and she had learned to think on it with awe, although 
 yet, in her innocence, almost ignorant of its evil. Little, 
 therefore, as Lucy Forester had seen or suffered, in that 
 little quiet world, where joy was steady as the daylight, 
 and grief like the mere flitting clouds, she had thoughts 
 and feelings within her heart that rose up to meet what- 
 ever was congenial to them, whether offered in conver- 
 sation of the old, or in the religious books that formed 
 the chief part of her father's library. Emma Cranstoun 
 could not but listen with delighted surprise to many of 
 the young creature's sentiments ; and never did she weary 
 of hearing her silver voice reading portions of her favor- 
 ite authors, with an accent unrefined, no doubt, and with 
 a pronunciation that might have offended very fastidious 
 ears, but with a pathos or an intelligence alternating 
 beautifully with the various meanings of every passage. 
 While Lucy thus cheered the soul of her benefactress, 
 and, by sweet, solemn, or sacred compositions, brought 
 the dim hush of evening imperceptibly on the daylight 
 that was often nearly gone before the sun had been ob- 
 served by them to be sinking westwards, she at the same 
 time was enlightening her own mind by these labors of 
 love, and gradually coming to know more and more of 
 herself, her fellow creatures, and her Creator. 
 
 Where now were all Emma Cranstoun's elegant and 
 graceful accomplishments, the fruit of a consummate 
 education successfully pursued ? Vain, indeed, did she 
 now hold them all — more vain, perhaps, than they really 
 were ; fo • they were intended to adorn the rejoicing 
 days of health, not to support the despondency of sick- 
 ness. Her lute, her guitar, and her harp, were now all 
 silent; and the pencil refused to obey her feeble fingers. 
 Yet Lucy, who had in other days often listened in rap- 
 ture to the witchery of those stringed instruments, echo- 
 ing through the saloons of that old hall, or in some secret 
 covert in the huge armed woods, and had gazed on the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 165 
 
 lady Avho toadied them as on a creature almost too 
 beautitVd for this world, could not join in the dispraise 
 or censure of endowments that, when the soul was not 
 sick, could dispense such pure delight. " In a few weeks, 
 my beloved lady, your hands will again be equal to 
 your nmsic and your drawing; and harm surely there 
 can be none in such gifts as these ! Never hearkened I 
 to your singing to the touch of the harp, without think- 
 ing of hallelujahs in heaven ; and sure enough that is the 
 figure of an angel you gave me last summer, drawn by 
 your own hand, with a face hidden in adoration of the 
 Great God, by the foldings of the immortal creature's 
 wings." 
 
 Emma Cranstoun possessed much genius, and it was 
 apparent in every trifling work of her hands. She touched 
 nothing, whether it was an article of dress or furniture, 
 or the disposition of a flower stand, or the arrangement 
 of a rose bed, or border of carnations or lilies, without 
 producing an effect unattainable by common hands. 
 Lucy was not long in catching something of this spirit of 
 beautiful invention. Above all things, she had ever loved, 
 studied, and understood, flowering plants and shrubs, 
 such as, in our cold northern climate, flourished only 
 under shelter. This lore her father had taught her; for 
 Michael Forester, a botanist and a florist, had come at 
 last to know every plant by the touch of its leaves or its 
 flowers; and many rare specimens had been collected 
 at Bracken Braes, some of the finest of which were now 
 sent over to the Hirst, for the lady's own domestic green- 
 house, between her parlor and her bedroom. Such were 
 the occupations in which Lucy's hours glided away; and 
 when occasionally visiters came to the Hirst, and the 
 lady was well enough to receive them, Lucy, who knew 
 her own place and office, soon retired modestly from the 
 room, but seldom or never without causing many a ques- 
 tion to be asked concerning one so beautiful in her hu- 
 mility. 
 
 The Lady of the Hirst had now recovered so much 
 strength, that, of her own accord, she allowed Lucy to 
 return home. "I shall be dull without you, Lucy, and
 
 166 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 my parlor will soon miss your hands. What will become 
 of" our green-house when you arc gone ? But you must 
 try to visit me once a-week, if possible; for to you it is 
 but a trip across the braes. I would fain walk with you 
 to the beeches, but I must not leave the temperature of 
 my sick-room. Perhaps I may be feebler — worse — 
 nearer death — when you come to see me again ; but, 
 sweet Lucy, the same love will be in my heart." And, 
 as she kissed Lucy's cheek, although her own was dry, 
 the kiss touched a gush of tears that were not to be with- 
 held or hidden. " Oh I that you would let me be your 
 servant all the winter; for, if you would, it is certain, 
 with the blessing of God, that you would be quite well in 
 the spring! " This proposal was a pleasant one indeed 
 to Emma Cranstoun ; and ii was arranged, that, if Lucy 
 could leave Bracken Braes during the winter, without 
 any distress to her parents, she was to be an inmate at 
 the Hirst. 
 
 As the old towers of the Hirst disappeared in the 
 woods, and then the woods themselves in the airy dis- 
 tance, Lucy ceased to reflect, for the present, on the life 
 she had been leading there, and began to think of Mary 
 Morrison and Evvebank. From those pictured walls and 
 hanging curtains, couches, and vases, and all the splendid 
 elegancies which to her eyes still wore a charm shed over 
 them by her own young imagination, she turned, without 
 the slightest abatement of love and delight, into that low 
 and somewhat gloomy hut. There Mary was sitting at her 
 wheel, and her father in his chair by the hearth. Lucy's 
 heart always sunk in his presence, for his aspect wore a 
 settled sternness, and his voice wanted that cordial tone, 
 without which even the kindest words are felt to want 
 their most essential charm. Mary's face was even paler 
 and more mournful than ever; and as soon as her eye 
 met Lucy's, it was overspread with a disordered flush far 
 from betokening happiness. " So you have been staying 
 for a month bygone at the Hirst, Miss Lucy," said Abra- 
 ham, rather ungraciously, and without rising from his 
 chair. " I wish you may not forget your auld friends 
 among sic fine folk. For my ain part, I think Mary there
 
 THE FOKESTEKS. 167 
 
 better at liame." Lucy felt that she did not deserve such 
 a reproof, and replied, somevviiat eagerly, that siie would 
 always be happy to visit at any friend's house where she 
 got a warm welcome. Perhaps she might have said some- 
 thing stronger; but on looking towards Mary, who was 
 stooping down her head, as if busy with disentangling her 
 threads, she observed the tears fast falling; and in a mo- 
 ment changed her voice and her face into her usual sweet- 
 ness. "No, no, Mr. Morrison; I love your daughter 
 Mary better, if indeed that be possible, even than the 
 Lady of the Hirst. We two are equal in condition, al- 
 though I am somewhat younger in years; and if you, sir, 
 would be glad to see me here, I will come over to Ewe- 
 bank every week." The perfect simplicity and sincerity 
 of these words touched Abraham's self-tormenting and 
 discontented spirit ; and he told Lucy to sit down, for that 
 she was, he verily believed, the best girl in the parishes 
 either of Ferns or of Holylee. Already, by this time, 
 were Mary's tears wiped away, and there was something 
 almost like cheerfulness in the house. 
 
 Mary Morrison said that she would accompany Lucy 
 part of the way to Bracken Braes, and they walked on in 
 silence. But just as Mary turned about to communicate 
 some sorrow, Edward Ellis was seen bounding down the 
 hill ; so she hastily wrung Lucy's hand, and, with a face 
 of deep melancholy, returned to Ewebank. 
 
 It was not possible for Lucy's heart not to throw off 
 much of its sadness, whether for her oVvn sake or that of 
 others, on this sudden appearance of Edward Ellis. Cir- 
 cumstances had prevented her from seeing much of him 
 since lier return from Ellesmere, and she had never been 
 alone in his company since that midnight journey among 
 the mountains. The many affecting thoughts that had 
 almost ever since possessed her heart, had by no means 
 excluded his image; but they had certainly hindered it 
 from occupying her waking and her sleeping dreams so 
 fully as it had once done, and had subdued her affection 
 down to what might now, with some truth, perhaps, have 
 been called the affection of a sister. Serene in her sense 
 of duty towards her parents and her friends, Lucy met
 
 168 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 his approach with a countenance sparkling with uncon- 
 cealed happiness ; and she expressed, in words that came 
 from the very heart, her deligiit at this unexpected meet- 
 ing. ** I never liked, Mr. Ellis, to say all I thought be- 
 fore people, even before my father and my mother them- 
 selves ; but now that we are alone, I pray to Heaven to 
 bless you and yours, in your own country or in foreign 
 parts, all your life. Your goodness to me has been be- 
 yond all gratitude; and sometimes, remember, sir, on the 
 Sabbaths, that there is ane praying for you in the kirk o' 
 Holylee." 
 
 Edward Ellis was little more exi)erienced in this life 
 than Lucy Forester herself; and as he ventured to kiss 
 those soft blue eyes that, as they smiled upon him, swam 
 with misty tears, he felt that she was dearer to him than 
 he knew in her simplicity, and not to be parted from for- 
 ever, without an indefinite despondency and distress. It 
 seemed to him as if Lucy had grown nearer to woman's 
 height and form since the night he had met her at the 
 linn : that her countenance had lost something of its more 
 childish prettiness, but had gained unspeakably in the 
 expression of intelligence and feeling; and that even her 
 voice was tuned to a deeper softness, that thrilled to his 
 very heart. Neither had that month's residence at the 
 Hirst been thrown away upon one so quick to perceive 
 and learn : an unconscious air of grace, beyond what is 
 native to the cottage, was visible over her demeanor; 
 and in her dress — still suitable to the Shepherdess of 
 Bracken Braes — the name by which he had loved to call 
 her, there was a rustic elegance, no doubt finely imitated, 
 or rather inspired, from that of Emma Cranstoun. Like 
 a bird, too, escaped from a happy confinement, which it 
 had no wish to leave, but still rejoicing in its new found 
 liberty, Lucy once more felt elated in the open air of the 
 braes, and now hounded along the heather, not so lightly 
 indeed as not to bend down the purple fruit stalks — for 
 that is done by the leveret and the lapwing — but so 
 lightly and so quickly too, that it was not without some 
 effort that Edward Ellis, who was esteemed active even
 
 THE FORESTERS. 169 
 
 among the hill-side shepherds, kept pace with her glad- 
 some career. 
 
 But they, stood together by a little spring, known only 
 to hunters and shepherds, overshadowed by a rock, whose 
 base was covered with briar, broom, and bracken, and 
 from whose cleft summit grew one solitary drooping 
 birch tree. " Lucy, I am about to leave Holylee ; 1 
 know not if for ever. No — no — not for ever; yet it 
 may be years before I return to visit Mr. Kennedy and 
 your fiither. A change has been suddenly made in the 
 plan of my education, and to-morrow I go away. Will 
 you accept a few keepsakes ? Never again shall I meet 
 with so sweet a maiden as Lucy Forester, nor one whom 
 I love so well." Lucy had scarcely power to reply ; but, 
 with a faltering voice and trembling hand, she accepted 
 them, and, after a few inarticulate words of affection, put 
 them, without looking at what they were, into her bosom. 
 
 Edward Ellis knew not what was the nature of his 
 feelings, nor what ought now to be his conduct. His 
 boyish passion, at least delightful affection for Lucy For- 
 ester had, for nearly a year past, been growing with his 
 growth ; and now that he had even expressed it, he felt 
 as if Lucy were betrothed to him by her kind acceptance 
 of his love gifts. But what could that word " betrothed " 
 mean, between him, a mere boy, and the daughter, still 
 younger, of a man in Michael Forester's humble situa- 
 tion of life? Again he fixed his gazing eyes upon her, 
 and her beauty was more and more irresistible. " When 
 I return, Lucy, after a few years, I shall find you mar- 
 ried to Isaac Mayne, the f^amous scholar." — "Never, 
 never." And Lucy, unrestrained by shame or pride, 
 now wept bitterly ; for thoughts over which she had no 
 power came in a tumult into her heart, and almost stopped 
 its beatings, quick and strong as they had for some mo- 
 ments been in that sudden colloquy. There had been a 
 dream enveloping her, which yet she had not known to be 
 a dream, till now she saw it dissolving with all its en- 
 chantments. Now had she the first agonizing insight into 
 her own heart, and into many feelings that lay couched 
 15
 
 170 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 there, strong as life itself — feelings that had been rising 
 there in rapid growth every hour since that travel, side 
 by side with Edward Ellis, beneath the moon and stars. 
 A sudden gladness was breathing over her soul — an inti- 
 mation given that grief is a guest in every human breast 
 — a voice whispering that she must forbid that glee in 
 which she had revelled from the first morning light — 
 that she must tame the fairy flight of those footsteps over 
 the daisied green — that the laughter indulged to child- 
 hood must be now restrained — and that tears, or a calm- 
 ness more sorrowful than tears, must often now subdue 
 the smiles that had hidden her eyes, as it were, in their 
 own kindling light. Something was to be removed soon, 
 sudden, and for ever, that, unknown to herself, had been 
 the chief bliss of life. Her brother, Edward, was no 
 more to visit Bracken Braes ! yet, even in that fit of 
 grief, her heart acknowledged him to be her brother ; 
 for what affection could be more sisterly, pure, and. irre- 
 proachable? What although a few sobs were heard! 
 Yet was that affection not to cease — not to be utterly 
 extirpated — but by absence and separation kept down 
 within the heart, till reason and religion should overmas- 
 ter it, before affection became love, and love trouble, and 
 then the whole of life, by night and by day, in the lone- 
 some glen, or the crowded House of God, infested by 
 one dream never to be broken — stronger even than piety 
 or superstition, and coloring all the humblest incidents 
 of life with one hue, till the soul, formerly free in its 
 wandering innocence, should be enslaved at last beneath 
 the bondage of one unrelenting passion. 
 
 A shepherd came up, unperceived, to the Hawkstane 
 Spring; and, relieved by this interruption, Edward and 
 Lucy accompanied him down to the Heriot Water. The 
 presence of an indifferent person soon .calms even the 
 strongest emotion, and, before they reached Bracken 
 Braes, the brother and sister, or, if it must be so, the 
 youthful lovers, were, if not cheerful, almost again 
 happy. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy had been there only an hour before, and 
 had acquainted them with Mr. Ellis' intended departure
 
 THE FORESTERS. 171 
 
 next morning. Every one was, if possible, kinder and 
 more tenderly respectful to the noble youth than they 
 had ever intentionally been before; and when, at last, he 
 reluctantly rose to go, not without a choked voice and 
 tears in his eyes, Michael Forester stood up and blessed 
 him with a fervent voice. As for the rest, they were 
 unable to speak ; and, when they found that Edward El- 
 lis was indeed gone, they wondered how they could have 
 suffered him to depart without expressions of greater 
 affection. 
 
 Agnes said to Lucy that she seemed fatigued with her 
 walk, and desired her to retire to rest. She was fain to 
 escape to her little lonely room, and weep there unob- 
 served. The Lady of the Hirst, as some thought, in a 
 dying state — Mary Morrison unhappy — and Edward 
 Ellis gone away forever ! But her prayers calmed her 
 heart; and, in little more than an hour, when Aunt Iso- 
 bel slipped into her room to give her the usual farewell 
 kiss for the night, Lucy Forester was asleep, and her face 
 as tranquil as that of a child in its cradle. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The morning on which Lucy was to leave home for a 
 whole winter, rose bright and beautiful, and all the fam- 
 ily assembled cheerfully under the plane tree to bid her 
 a happy farewell. Her parents were the proudest people 
 in the whole world; but their's was a pride indulged in 
 profoundest gratitude to the Giver of all Mercies. Their 
 child was beloved over all the parish, and in every house 
 she had friends; but she was now going to become the 
 chosen companion of her whose very smiles were a bless- 
 ing; and they felt that, in case of their own death, Lucy 
 would have an asylum at the Hirst, where the orphan 
 could well repay her benefactress for the protection of
 
 172 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 her innocence. Therefore, so far from its looking like 
 a pariing scene, every face kindled with pleasure as at a 
 return. Michael stood with his calm countenance in the 
 morning light, turned affectionately towards his child, as 
 happy a?^ any man in existence. Agnes had herself as- 
 sisted Lucv in dressing, and regarded her with a mother's 
 admiring eyes, as her beauty shone with a more joyful 
 lustre, in the consciousness of her neatly ordered array, 
 and the anticipation of Enmia Cranstoun's embrace. 
 Aunt Isobel said, that she now loved Martha so well, that 
 she would never miss Lucy ; but reminded her, at the 
 same time, with a hand fondly laid on her bosom, that 
 once a-week had she promised to see them all at Bracken 
 Braes, and never to miss a single Sabbath at the kirk of 
 Holylee. Martha was sincerely happy at her kind cou- 
 sin's good fortune, and expressed her happiness in her 
 usual homely language. So away danced Lucy across 
 the hills — her last kiss, and her last whisper — perhaps 
 a tear — having been given as his due to her blind father. 
 
 " Where now is Edward Ellis?" thought Lucy, with 
 a sigh, ns she glided up and down the solitary places — 
 the rocks and braes, the mosses and the coppice woods, 
 through which he had accompanied her but a few weeks 
 ago. With something like pain and reluctance, she 
 turned aside to the little shaded spring, on whose mossy 
 brink they had sat and conversed so affectionately, like 
 brother and sister. That pleasant dream was vanished ; 
 the same blue unclouded sky was reflected in the water; 
 but a dead silence lay around ; and that delightful voice, 
 and those beaming eyes, w^ere gone, and forever. Lucy 
 took from her bosom some of the small memorials of his 
 affection, which, for reasons she scarcely knew, she had 
 alvvays concealed from every eye, and unconsciously put 
 them to her lips. "God bless him all his days," was the 
 prayer she breathed, as she returned the trifles to the fair 
 warmth of her breast, which, in a few minutes, beat with 
 all its wonted tranquillity. 
 
 It was a clear October day, the sky perfectly settled, 
 the air pure as pure might be, and a slight frost, beautiful 
 as dew, lying yet unmelted, over the discolored heather.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 173 
 
 Lucy looked back to the happy parting below the plane 
 tree, and forwards to the Hirst, and all sad thoughts cither 
 faded away, or were tinged with the joyfulness of a hope- 
 ful spirit. " Why sit singing there, sweet robin-redbreast, 
 on a briary stone pillar in the moors? The summer days 
 are all over and gone, and in another month may be com- 
 ing the snow. Away, sweet robin-redbreast! — away to 
 Bracken Braes, and trill that bit short merry sang o' thine 
 frae the roof o' the barn, till not a leaf is left on our 
 plane tree ; and then keep hopping about the door, and 
 in and out of the window, as you have done for seven 
 winters." 
 
 Lucy was now nearly half way to the Hirst; for she 
 was standing on a small eminence, called the Gowan 
 Green, where Mary Morrison and she had often sat to- 
 gether for hours in their plaids, both in gloom and in 
 sunshine. Here they had often waited for each other, 
 on those days when it was known that Lucy was going 
 to the Hirst; and, when not lucky enough to meet, each 
 betokened her disappointment by a bunch of heather or 
 wild flowers laid on the middle of that platform. It was 
 not easy to imagine a place more solitary. No streamlets 
 here murmured along the bases of the hills that came 
 close together, without any intervening valleys, however 
 narrow; but, just below the eminence, lay a little lake 
 or tarn, not much larger than a pond, self-fed, and black 
 with its moorland water. The long heather quite sur- 
 rounded it, except on the side of the Gowan Green, 
 which sloped away down to the margin, with its short 
 smooth pasture. ' A number of large loose stones — for 
 they could hardly be called rocks — lay here and there 
 upon the water edge, and a few birch trees were sprink- 
 led among the stunted hazles. There were no features 
 belonging to the scene that could be called beautiful ; yet, 
 on a fine day, the lonesome place was pleasant in its si- 
 lence, and, in spring or early summer, there was constant- 
 ly here the sweet fragrance of whins, broom, and briar, 
 with which was intermingled that of many unnoticed wild 
 flowers, as well as that of the lady fern, and of the birches, 
 15*
 
 174 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 some of which, eaten down by the sheep, were not 
 much taller than that graceful plant. Lucy and Mary 
 had once passed a whole summer Sabbath here, without 
 any interruption, from morning to night. It so happened, 
 that there had been no Divine service, either at Holylee 
 or the Ferns; and here the two happy creatures had 
 agreed to pass the whole day, reading their Bibles, sing- 
 ing hymns in the wilderness, and talking over all the con- 
 cerns ol their young and innocent life. 
 
 Ewebank, the house of Mary Morrison, was not very 
 far off; and Lucy, knowing how early in the morning it 
 yet was, resolved to surprise her by a visit before, per- 
 haps, her hearth was kindled. Looking down upon the 
 tarn, behold, upon the stony edge of the water, she saw 
 a female figure, with her face covered with her hands, 
 and a man standing beside her, apparently in great agi- 
 tation. The figure lifted up its face for a moment, and 
 she knew that it was Mary Morrison. The man paced 
 to and fro, a short distance, and ever and anon stood 
 close beside Mary, with violent gesticulations, and atti- 
 tudes bespeaking rage and hatred. At length he seized 
 Mary by the hair, who fell down on her knees, and clasp- 
 ed her hands together in supplication. In his right hand 
 there seemed to be a large stone, picked up from the edge 
 of the tarn ; and all at once Lucy knew that he was about 
 to be a murderer. The dead silence of the lonesome 
 place, and the furious looks of the ruffian, quailed Lucy's 
 heart within her, and her first impulse was to fly back tow- 
 ards Bracken Braes, or sink down where she stood, in 
 concealment among the heather ; but her love for meek 
 Mary Morrison, the first and best friend of her youth, 
 prevailed, and, uttering a wild cry, she flew down the hill 
 side towards the tarn, and in a few moments was at her 
 side. Mary fixed her eyes upon her friend with a wild 
 look, and then upon him whose hand had suddenly let go 
 its grasp of the wretched creature's hair, and said, quak- 
 ingly — " O Mark ThornhUl ! Mark Thornhill ! have pity 
 upon us — murder us not; for we are baith young, and, 
 as for me, sair need hae I o' repentance." The stone 
 fell from his right hand — the paleness of fear seemed to
 
 THE FORESTERS, 175 
 
 pass over the deadly scowl of wrath — and his knees 
 knocked against each other, in the sudden remorse of an 
 unacted crime. But still an evil demon kept whispering 
 in his ear, that Mary and Lucy were yet in the power of 
 the criminal. Mary Morrison, who had felt that her last 
 hour was come, had not strength to rise up from her knees, 
 but sunk down altogether, and lay insensible among the 
 hard flints of the beach. For a short time, not a word 
 was uttered ; but all was silent in the fear of death that 
 still overshadowed that solitary place. 
 
 Lucy knew nothing of the dreadful mystery in which 
 she had all at once been involved ; but her courage did 
 not desert her, and she beseeched Mark Thornhill — for 
 she caught his name in Mary's indistinct supplications — 
 •to look upon them both without anger, and that God 
 would forgive and reward him for his pity. That hand 
 which had been clenched to do a deed of death, could 
 not now have hurt a hair of Mary Morrison's head : it 
 was quelled by the sudden beauty of that fearless inno- 
 cence coming upon him, as if from heaven, to save him 
 from perdition. He had received a reprieve from crime. 
 Mary ventured to lift up her face from the sand, and saw 
 that he was not relentless. "Swear — swear that you 
 are not my wife — and that you will never claim me as 
 your husband." — "I swear it," said Mary, and again 
 bowed down her head. Her betrayer moved slowly and 
 sullenly away — and, disappearing over the Gowan Green, 
 left Mary and Lucy alone on the brink of the Ouzel 
 Loch. 
 
 Guilt and its miseries had hitherto been to Lucy 
 Forester like the words of a strange tongue. And now 
 nothinrr distinct — nothing that could be borne to be 
 thought of, had entered her mind. But there lay meek 
 Mary Morrison, ashamed to look her in the face, and 
 uttering no words but these — "This will break my 
 father's heart — this will break my father's heart. O 
 Lucy ! gang away to the Hirst, and leave me here to die ; 
 for when you ken what I am now, your eyes will smile 
 on me never mair ; and yet I surely think they will 
 weep for me when I am dead and buried in sin, and
 
 176 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 shame, and sorrow ! " Lucy was weeping for her al- 
 ready; nor had these dismal words any power to deaden 
 her affection. She assisted Mary to rise from that cruel 
 bed, and in a little while was sitting with an arm round 
 her neck, where they had so often sat and sang in their 
 joy — on a knoll in the centre of the Gowan Green. 
 
 There was for a long time sobbing and sighing, and 
 then dead silence. Lucy was the first to speak. " Mary, 
 Mary, will you hear me ? Well, then, here before our 
 Father which is in heaven, and Him who died for us, 
 do I upon my knees say unto you, that I will never 
 forsake you — that 1 will not only pity you, and pray 
 for you night and day, but I will love you better, far 
 better than ever : let others do as they may, I at least 
 will be the same to you as ever : yes, Mary, I will love 
 you beyond all living creatures but my father and 
 mother. If I do not, may the gates of yonder blue 
 skies never be opened to me by the hands of God's holy 
 angels ! " 
 
 Mary Morrison was yet too young to be sick of life. 
 Solitary and, but for Lucy, friendless as that life had 
 been, still it had too much sunshine to be exchanged, 
 without dismay, for the darkness of the grave. Even 
 shame, she began to think, might be borne, if Lucy 
 would but continue to look on her with unaverted and 
 unchanged eyes in her disgrace. " Perhaps even my 
 father may be brought to forgive me ! " But that was a 
 transient thought ; for, although she loved her father, 
 she feared that forgiveness was not in his nature for such 
 a crime. Suddenly her heart burned within her, and, 
 kneeling down beside Lucy, who was still on her knees, 
 she exclaimed — "God will bless you, Lucy, for this! 
 but hear me now, and believe me when I say that I am 
 not so guilty as people will think. I will keep my oath, 
 Lucy, for you heard me swear ; but to you who saw so 
 much, I may speak without being foresworn. Guilty as 
 I am, yet in the sight of Heaven am I his wife, and Mark 
 Thornhill is my husband ! Yes, Lucy, we were married 
 before two witnesses, and Mark gave me a paper, saying 
 I was his wife; but, waes me! he does not care fot me
 
 THE FORESTERS. 177 
 
 now — he has sent the witnesses out of the way ; and, as 
 for the writing, he tore it out of my bosom this dreadful 
 mortiing, and it is destroyed for ever. Naebndy will 
 ever believe now that we were married; and, Oh! how 
 can I face my father ? " 
 
 In a few hours — for hours indeed passed by, and the 
 sun was high in heaven — Mary Morrison had told Lucy 
 her history over and over again many, many times, and 
 she began to feel even some relief from her conscience 
 in her friend's unabated affection. She even ventured 
 to think it possible that Lucy's father and mother would 
 not altogether forsake her in her shame — for shame 
 there was indeed to be, worse than all other evils except 
 death. But then she thought of her own father, and 
 her heart died within her ; for she knew too well that, as 
 soon as she confessed to him, never again would she be 
 allowed to darken the door of Ewebank. 
 
 At last they parted — Mary to her father's, and Lucy 
 (for one night, and one night only) to the Hirst; for 
 she was determined to tell everything she durst to her 
 father, and beseech him to go over in the morning to 
 Ewebank. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Lucy left the Hirst before morning had entirely dimmed 
 the stars, and had to tap for admission into the house, at 
 the window of her fiither's room, for sleep yet held all 
 the family at Bracken Braes. The story she had to tell 
 about Mary Morrison greatly disturbed her parents and 
 Aunt Isobel ; and, for a while, Lucy feared that her 
 unhappy friend was to be deserted in her misery. Michael, 
 Agnes, and Isobel were all too sensible of their own 
 failings, and frailties, and too religiously impressed with 
 an habitual sense of the utter weakness of human nature, 
 to judge and condemn sternly the errors or sins of their
 
 178 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 fellow Christians. But this was a case that it was nec- 
 essary to understand perfectly before they could decide 
 what was their duty. They were bound by love, nature, 
 and religion, to protect their daughter from all stain of 
 pollution, and to sever her inexorably from her tenderest 
 friendships, rather than suffer her to incur any danger, 
 however slight, of being contaminated by evil example. 
 They all loved Mary Morrison, and could not easily 
 believe in her guilt; but they knew how many shades of 
 sin darken the actions of us mortal creatures, and per- 
 haps that poor girl, although more the object of pity than 
 blame, had, nevertheless, greivously erred. From Lucy's 
 story, they saw enough to determine them all to give 
 Mary their compassion, their condolence, and their sup- 
 port in the agony of her affliction, in so far as that could 
 be done, without violating the awful sanctity of the moral 
 law, and thereby tainting, perhaps, the very atmosphere 
 in which their own Lucy breathed. They all remember- 
 ed Mary's meekness and modesty — her unrepining gen- 
 tleness under the severities of a cruel parent — her grate- 
 ful disposition — indeed almost too grateful — to them 
 at Bracken Braes ; for even the commonest courtesies 
 and kindnesses, and that deep sense of religion, which 
 more constantly than with any one they knew, influenced 
 her whole conduct and demeanor, and made her, without 
 excepting even their own Lucy, the most perfect model 
 of a Christian daughter. 
 
 Lucy was altogether overcome by the thought that 
 her father and mother might be about to leave Mary 
 Morrison to her fate. True to her promise to that un- 
 fortunate creature, she had not disclosed all she knew, 
 and thus her pleadings for her beloved friend had been 
 in their most passionate earnestness, perplexing and im- 
 perfect. At last she hinted that there was a secret that 
 must not be revealed, and by degrees her father came to 
 understand something of its nature, and of the obligation 
 Lucy had come under to observe silence. The clear and 
 high understanding of Michael Forester was not to be 
 deceived by the sophistry which fear and shame had 
 whispered to the hearts of his daughter and her friend.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 179 
 
 The truth must be told, tlie whole truth, and nothing 
 but the truth, else God, the Searcher and Judge of all 
 hearts, would not be well pleased. Promises and oaths, 
 by whomsoever extorted, under such circumstances, must 
 be given to the winds, and a full confession made before 
 God and man of the sin, and of the aggravating or pal- 
 liating circumstances with which it might have been 
 attended. There was no speck, no dimness on the eye of 
 Michael Forester's mind, and he saw that here there was 
 selfish, and licentious, and cruel guilt, trampling upon 
 abused and terrified innocence. " This," said the blind 
 man, " with the blessing of God, must not be, and I 
 feel myself called upon to be the minister of his Eternal 
 Justice." 
 
 What tears poured down the pale face of Agnes, and 
 what fear quaked within her heart, when Lucy narrated 
 all that had happened at the Ouzel Loch ! "Manifestly 
 the arm of mercy was over our child, Michael, else had 
 that bonnie head of her's been laid cruelly in the dust." 
 Lucy was too anxious about Mary Morrison to hear even 
 the just commendation of herself, although coming from 
 the lips of those whom it was the sole object of her life 
 to make happy, and she only exclaimed — " You will not 
 forsake Mary now, fiither, should she be driven from 
 Evvebank ? O will you — say that you will receive her 
 into our ain house ; for, unless we do so, her heart will 
 break, and, before the end of the week, Mary Morrison 
 will be in her grave." — " Yes, my Lucy, if she needs it, 
 the door of Bracken Braes shall be open to her ; nor do 
 I fear although her head should even lie on the same pil- 
 low with that of my own child." 
 
 Michael and Lucy were not long in setting out for 
 Ewebank. Few words were spoken as they crossed the 
 solitary hills and valleys, for Michael was settling in his 
 own mind all that ought to be said to the father of Mary 
 Morrison. On reaching Ewebank, Lucy saw him walk- 
 ing about distractedly, with his gray head uncovered, in 
 a small garden close to the hut. A frown was settled on 
 his forehead and all about his eyes as firmly as if it had 
 been their constant expression — his cheeks seemed rigid.
 
 180 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 and his white lips quivered as in convulsions. In a low 
 voice, Lucy described to her father his agitated state. 
 " This is, indeed, a distressing affliction, Abraham, and 
 I feel for you ; for I, too, have but an only child. I 
 have ventured over to pray with you — to comfort you in 
 any way one Christian may comfort another ; and es- 
 pecially, my worthy friend, to inform you of something 
 that goes far to prove your daughter's innocence." — 
 "May the curse of God cleave to her — the wages of sin 
 are death ! " and he again paced to and fro with clenched 
 hands, and eyes uplifted to heaven in savage supplication. 
 " May I ask where she is, Abraham ? but I beseech you, 
 by Him who died for us on the Tree, not to curse the 
 daughter of Alice Gray ! " That name rooted the angry 
 sufferer to tlie ground ; but, again, he tore himself away, 
 and cried aloud — " Yes — I curse her, and may she be 
 cursed, for she has covered these white hairs with shame ; " 
 and he flung down a handful of his long silvery locks, 
 and trampled upon them with his feet. Lucy was ter- 
 rified at the sight, and, retiring to a little distance, sat 
 down upon a bank. " Where is your daughter, Abra- 
 ham 1 for I feel as if God sent me here to reconcile you 
 unto her." — "Call her not my daughter, for daughter 
 she is none of mine ; neither know I where the prostitute 
 has hidden herself from my wrath — in the moor, or in 
 the mosses, or the Ouzel Loch. Never again may these 
 eyes behold her in life." And at these words he burst 
 out into hideous laughter, all drenched in a flood of tears, 
 and fell down with great violence to the earth. 
 
 Michael heard the fall, and Lucy was coming to his 
 assistance, when, issuing silently as a ghost from the 
 birch wood, the edge of which came almost close upon 
 the garden, Mary Morrison was already on her knees, 
 with her father's head supported on her bosom. " This 
 is my doing, Mr. Forester — all my wicked doing : you 
 had far better leave me to my death, after you have re- 
 covered my father. O that he could be taken over to 
 Bracken Braes, and comforted back again into his reason. 
 As for me, it is but just that I should die. But see — 
 see, Lucy, his eyes are opening, and now he shuts them
 
 THE FonESTERS. 181 
 
 upon nie, for I am hateful in my sin, and most loathsome 
 to my father's soul. I must hide myself again in the 
 thicket among the briars : if I touch him, perhaps he 
 will kill me. O, Mr. Forester ! invite him over to Bracken 
 Braes, and tell him that I have fled out of the parish, to 
 pollute his eyes never mair on this side o' the grave." 
 Mary Morrison then started up, and disappeared. 
 
 That paroxysm had in some measure allayed the passion 
 in Abraham Morrison's spirit, by the weakness which it 
 induced over his entire frame. He almost seemed as if 
 a palsy had stricken him ; but, by and by, he revived, 
 and in a sort of stupor walked into the house, followed 
 by Michael and Lucy. Unconscious of his actions, he 
 sat down as usual in his chair by the hearth side, on 
 which no fire was burning, and his hand falling violently 
 upon that book which speaks only of mercy and forgive- 
 ness, he again uttered an indistinct curse upon his child. 
 It appeared that he had been reading the Bible ; but 
 some evil spirit had turned over the leaves, and the balm of 
 consolation was to him poison, bitter and mortal. Lucy 
 stood trembling behind her father, and then said in a 
 whisper — " I will go to Mary in the. wood." 
 
 Perhaps Abraham Morrison knew not that any one 
 was in the room, for now his words seemed to be uttered 
 as if to himself in solitude. " If ever I forgive her, may 
 I be unforgiven ! If she dies in childbirth, and I shed a 
 tear, may it sink like a spark of hell into my heart!" 
 Then gazing on Michael Forester, he started up, and 
 cried with a loud voice — " What brought you hither, Mr. 
 Forester? Go home and watch your own child — for 
 young as she is, and with a smile upon her face, how 
 know you that she may not be a sinner, and up to the 
 lips in pollution?" — "Abraham Morrison," said the 
 blind man, standing like a prophet, with his outstretched 
 arm, and tall figure straight and still in its majesty of 
 command — "Abraham Morrison, remember that you are 
 a father, and that none other but tlie hand of the Almighty 
 can break that bond that ties you, all the days of your 
 life, to your child. Be she even guilty, the voice of the 
 16
 
 182 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Great God commands you to forgive her; for, in his 
 sight, you are far guiltier than she. Yes, Abraham Mor- 
 rison, your sins have been many, and they have been done 
 under tlie shadow of gray hairs : her's have been few, 
 and this — 1 know it well — this is the poor creature's 
 birthday, and she is but seventeen years! But hearken 
 unto me, Abraham, I command you to hearken unto me 
 — your daughter's heart is unpolluted, and if her father 
 deserts her, then, this very night, shall she sleep in my 
 own Lucy's arms. Grant, O God I thy blessing on this 
 afflicted house." And Michael Forester stood a little 
 while with his head gently bowed, and his hands uplifted 
 in the attitude of prayer. 
 
 It is in the power of a strong and stubborn heart, not 
 only to harden itself against all natural affection, but to 
 triumph in what it strives within itself to consider in the 
 light of a sacrifice. So was it now with Abraham Mor- 
 rison. He knew well — it was not possible to keep that 
 knowledge from his conscience — that he had denied his 
 daughter all the harmless amusements and pastimes of 
 youth; that he had closed his heart against her in all his 
 domestic hours, finding at last a sullen satisfaction in 
 tyrannizing over the gentle, and obedient, and unrepining 
 creature, whom he could not but love ; that he had often 
 left her quite alone in that solitary hut for long days to- 
 gether, and uncared for and unguarded among the hills ; 
 and now that evil had befallen her innocence, instead of 
 looking into his own unfalherly conduct, he steeled him- 
 self against her in his very remorse, and took refuge in 
 the excommunication of his own flesh and blood from the 
 privileges of nature. It was all in vain for Michael For- 
 ester to exculpate her, or palliate her transgression. She 
 herself had, the night before, told her own pitiable story; 
 but, under the terror of that oath, had said not a word 
 against her betrayer and her murderer. The stern old man 
 adhered cruelly to her own confession, and all Michael's 
 words rebounded back as if from a rock. He too who 
 thus unmercifully judged his daughter's transgression, 
 thought far more of himself, and the shame that had fallen 
 upon him, than of her guilt in the eyes of her Maker, or
 
 THE FORESTERS. 183 
 
 even of the Eternal's goodness to his fallen creatures. 
 The eyes and the tongues of men were to him not en- 
 durable in their scorn and condemnation ; and his pride 
 wished that, rather than this disgrace, his daughter had 
 been drowned, or had perished in fire. He had borne ill 
 his many worldly misfortunes, and although his integrity 
 had been unimpeached, he repined in iiis poverty. His 
 crops had been oftener withered or blasted, he tiaought, 
 than those of his neighbors; diseases came among his 
 cattle more frequently than among theirs ; and nothing 
 prospered about Ewebank ever since he had been its 
 tenant. There had always been an evil eye upon the 
 place, and now the whole phials of wrath had been poured 
 out, and he was ready to curse God and die. " Go home, 
 Mr. Forester — go home with your daughter, and leave 
 me in my misery. As for her, if she cross my threshold 
 again, may she drop down dead upon the tloor." 
 
 Lucy came into the room, and, taking her father's 
 hand to lead him out, they left the hut unnoticed by the 
 wretched man, who sat with his eyes sullenly fixed upon 
 the dead ashes on the hearth. They entered the birch 
 wood by a small glade, and there Mary Morrison was 
 lying upon the ground. *' O father!" said Lucy, " we 
 must take Mary with us, for she has been all night long 
 in this very place, afraid even of her life, so fiercely did 
 her fiither rage against her; and if left here, she will 
 surely die." Michael took her into his .'.rms, and kissed 
 her cheek, but he could not see, what Lucy wept to be- 
 hold, the mark of violence upon her face, no doubt from 
 her father's hand, although Mary had said not a word of 
 that cruelty, and beseeched them both to forgive him, for 
 that her misconduct had driven him to distraction. 
 
 They once more passed near the door of the hut, but 
 nothing stirred within; and Mary, who was almost help- 
 less from her suiferiugs, permitted herself to be taken 
 away from Ewebank, and, without speaking a single word 
 all the way, found herself at Bracken Braes.
 
 184 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 Lucy's visit to the Hirst was necessarily delayed, at 
 least for a few days, till the mental agonies of Mary Mor- 
 rison might be assuaged by the tenderest sympathies of 
 those who seemed indeed now to be her only Iriends on 
 earth. Not a word of forgiveness came from her own 
 unrelenting father, and she was indeed an orphan. Few 
 friends had she ever had to cheer her solitary life, and 
 those few deserted her in her disgrace. Abraham Mor- 
 rison was but a poor man, and therefore people, whom his 
 disagreeable character had repelled from Ewebank, had 
 no selfish inducement now to offer any comfort in his 
 affliction. He became an object of blame rather than of 
 pity, although both feelings might well have been enter- 
 tained towards him ; and his daughter's fall was, at every 
 fireside, laid to the charge of his austerity or indifference. 
 This Abraham knew, and, while his heart acknowledged 
 that the charge was true, yet he sullenly regarded those 
 by whom it was made, and his conscience hardened itself 
 in pride against those haunting visitations that come upon 
 the lonely hours of every man that forgets or violates any 
 of the great natural duties. He continued obdurate in 
 his unrelenting misery within the gloom of his hut, and 
 not one of the few neighbors who had gone to see him 
 repeated the visit, for they saw that their interference 
 only served to embitter the poison on which he fed. He 
 took an old pauper into his house, stricken with many of 
 the infirmities of age, but who, silent in her deafness and 
 indifference to life, could yet bring water from the well, 
 dig up vegetables from the garden, prepare his meals, 
 which now he scarcely asked God to bless, and make that 
 bed on which he had lain with open eyes ever since his 
 daughter had sunk into sin and shame ; for from these 
 words he would not depart, and dwelt upon them till his 
 whole mind was exclusively filled with hideous and dread- 
 ful images 
 
 Meanwhile, various judgments were passed on the un-
 
 THE FORESTERS. ISH 
 
 fortunate girl and her friends at Bracken Braes. It would 
 sometimes seem as if the human heart, even in a state of 
 comparative innocence and simplicity, found a pleasure 
 in the worst distresses that can befall our common na- 
 ture ; and eyes that ought to overflow with compassion, 
 are often averted from suffering with a coldness that is 
 indeed absolute cruelty. The young feared to pity Mary 
 Morrison, lest their own purity might be suspected ; and 
 the old lost, in their anxiety for the virtue of their owa 
 children, the common feelings of humanity for her whr> 
 had deviated from its paths. The censure was generally 
 loud, the pity in a whisper ; and when, in a week or two, 
 gentler judgments and feelings arose, people were begin- 
 ning to lose an interest in what did not immediately con- 
 cern themselves; and Mary Morrison's name, if not for- 
 gotten, was unpronounced, as if by general agreement. 
 Neither was the conduct of Michael Forester and his 
 wife allowed to pass without many comments — some of 
 them by no means favorable; but his commanding char- 
 acter silenced open blame, and Michael was not a man 
 to heed the opinions of the timid or uninformed, in a case 
 where his duty shone clearly before him, and where na- 
 ture and religion alike bade him shelter the orphan 
 head. He did by no means despise the opinions of his 
 fellow-creatures ; but his conscience was his monitor, and 
 a monitor enlightened by the Bible. Therefore, no mis- 
 givings assailed the constancy of his protecting affection 
 towards poor Mary Morrison ; and he determined to see 
 her vindicated before the eyes of men, as he believed her 
 to be nearly so in the eyes of God. 
 
 The intensity of Lucy's love for Mary Morrison ren- 
 dered her wholly indifferent to any painful rumors acci- 
 dently overheard ; and she also reposed a perfect reliance 
 on the judgment of her parents and Aunt Isobel, which 
 would always have reconciled her conscience to anything 
 they approved. But when she was given to understand 
 that the Lady of the Hirst no longer desired her attend- 
 ance, then indeed a pang pierced her heart, and she wept 
 sorely over the loss of such friendship. Emma Cranstoun 
 16*
 
 186 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 was the very soul of candor, intelligence, and pity; but, 
 to one in her situation, the knowledge of what is trans- 
 acting in the houses of the poor must often come in bane- 
 ful whispers, and, in cases of error or misfortune, can 
 scarcely fail of being perplexing and imperfect. Lucy 
 herself she had not seen ; and with one so very young it 
 would not have been possible to converse on such a sub- 
 ject. Emma Cranstoun, therefore, heard the truth with 
 every accompaniment of falsehood, even from those who 
 did not mean either to deceive or traduce. The unhap- 
 py girl's stay at Bracken Braes she felt to place an insu- 
 perable impediment in the way of her friendship with 
 Lucy Forester; and while she still continued to think 
 with affection and gratitude of all her services, and with 
 almost unimpaired admiration of her character, neverthe- 
 less a necessity was imposed upon her to release Lucy 
 from her engagement at the Hirst.- Such another atten- 
 dant on her sick-bed she well knew was nowhere to be 
 found ; but she could not in this matter run counter, not 
 only to the determined resohition of Mrs. Ramsay, but 
 to the implied advice and open remonstrances of all her 
 other friends. 
 
 The loss of the lady's love was to Lucy like the dark- 
 ening of the daylight. For several years she had felt her 
 own nature elevated by constant communion with such a 
 perfect being as, in her enthusiasm, she not very errone- 
 ously considered Emma Cranstoun ; and to be not only 
 severed from that connTiunidn, but thought no longer 
 worthy of it, sunk Lucy in her own esteem ; and, depriv- 
 ed of that stay, she seemed to sink away back into an 
 inferior condition, such as had contented her childhood 
 before that beautiful and beneficent creature had ever 
 been seen at Bracken Braes. But for whose sake had 
 she sustained this great loss ? For meek Mary Morrison, 
 with whom she had never had one unkind word — with 
 whom she liad sat in the same |>laid a hundred times be- 
 fore she ever knew that the Lady of the Hirst was in ex- 
 istence — whom she had called her sister, and, indeed, 
 loved as if they had lain in one cradle — and towards 
 whom, at all times, profoundest pity had mingled an in-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 187 
 
 expressibic charm with the joyfuhiess of affection. Lucy 
 now turned back her heart to the past, and remembered 
 many, many words and looks, during several years, which 
 she had but little attended to; but which now affected her 
 with the knowledge of unhappiness borne uncomplaining- 
 ly by the poor girl whose mother was dead, and whose 
 father was little disposed to supply her loss. She won- 
 dered how she could ever have been so blind as not to 
 see Mary's wretchedness at home, and thought now how 
 much better it would have been to have wept along with 
 her than to have talked merrily and laughed too in the 
 sunshine of bygone summer days. But now amends will 
 be made for all such oversight — and sooner will the bird 
 forget its nest, than Lucy to supply hourly comfort to 
 her sister. Mary Morrison had never- spoken much even 
 in her happier days — for gentle smiles and affectionate 
 eyes filled up the pauses of their artless talk ; but now not 
 a smile was seen — those eyes, as it was fitting they 
 should do, rested on the ground, and shunned the sun- 
 shine — and her pale lips were mute, except when a sigh 
 would have its utterance, and her bosom heaved in agony 
 to think that one human being could have had the heart 
 to use another as Mark Thornhill had used her, without 
 pity or repentance, and yet knowing all the time that 
 there was a God in heaven ! 
 
 But it was not her own loss alone that affected Lucy, 
 when she thought of the Lady of the Hirst. " For what 
 hands can tend her so carefully as mine would have done? 
 — what eyes will open at midnight so readily as mine did 
 at the slightest whisper, or whenever iny beloved bene- 
 fiictress moved her head upon the pillow ? No — not one 
 in ail Scotland could serve her like me; or, like me, go 
 with her, if she chose, to the uttermost parts of the 
 earth!" Then, something like pride — a stirring of that 
 elevated spirit which virtue breathes into the simplest and 
 humblest heart, and which may prostrate itself wholly 
 before Him alone from whose throne it comes — rose to 
 Lucy's support, and made her lift up her head undepress- 
 ed, with all its golden ringlets, till again the lady lying lan- 
 guid, and faint, and feverish on her couch — perhaps all
 
 188 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 alone in that vast and solitary hall — appeared before her; 
 and then fain would Lucy have knelt before that image, 
 and beseeched her once more to restore to favor the ser- 
 vant once beloved, and now more devoted than ever, 
 although the light of that countenance was, alas, with- 
 drawn ! 
 
 In a month's time, the heart of Mary Morrison, in 
 some degree, revived. Nothing but guilt need be per- 
 manently miserable; and that faith which she had learnt 
 from her infancy, and which, with all his other lamentable 
 faults, her father had venerated, outwardly at least, before 
 his daughter, was not found a cold and barren creed, now 
 that she read her Testament with eyes that dropped tears 
 on every page. Truly parental tenderness now met her 
 on every occasion, however small, on which it could be 
 shewn. So much affection, she thought, surely could 
 not thus be felt by the good for her, if she were quite 
 worthless. No restraint was laid on her intercourse with 
 Lucy; and, above all things else, that thought would 
 comfort her even on the bed of death. '* Michael and 
 Agnes Forester let their innocent child sleep in my bo- 
 som : and, O merciful God ! forgive him, and inspire 
 with another heart, who has fixed upon it a stain of pol- 
 lution ; for I thought that I was his wife, and my sin was 
 more in ignorance than from a corrupted heart ; so, at 
 least, I humbly hope to be judged at the great day." 
 
 The unprincipled man who had thus betrayed the un- 
 suspecting and unprotected innocence of Mary Morrison, 
 had left the country, and no one knew where he had gone ; 
 but Michael Forester communicated all her case to Mr. 
 Kennedy, and they did not doubt that it would be in their 
 power some day to establish proofs of her marriage. 
 Meanwhile, Mary accompanied the family to church; 
 and, although on the first Sabbath the trial was terrible, 
 and she would fain have sunk and disappeared down 
 among the bones, and skulls, and rotten coffins of the 
 grave, when she felt hundreds of eyes, all dreadfully daz- 
 zling, upon her face, and searching pitilessly into her 
 soul; yet that coarse curiosity could not sustain itself 
 against one so perfectly humbled in contrition, and sitting
 
 THE FORESTERS. 189 
 
 between such friends as Agnes and Lucy. On the fourth 
 Sabbath, the few looks that sought her out, were of the 
 most compassionate character, and sufficient to shew that 
 innocence will ultimately triumph, even in this world, 
 dark and disastrous as may be its days of sufferings. Her 
 father lielonged to another congregation ; but he was 
 never out of Mary's sight during the whole time of ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Although Emma Cranstoun did not ask Lucy to come 
 to her at the Hirst, yet she knew too thoroughly the 
 characters of all at Bracken Braes, to treat them with 
 neglect or displeasure. Many kind inquiries still came, 
 and Lucy had even received two or three letters, ex- 
 pressed almost with her former free affection. Lucy 
 could not but look forward, in her hopeful nature, to 
 being restored some day to the place she had left in her 
 bosom, and beside her bed; and, "perhaps, even when 
 the whole truth is brought to light, my conduct may be 
 approved, and Mary Morrison forgiven." But the most 
 alarming rumors respecting the lady's health were now 
 prevalent over the whole parish. Mr. Kennedy, evident- 
 ly, spoke as if his fears were greatly increased ; and 
 Lucy often awoke in the middle of the night, shrieking 
 out that the Lady of the Hirst was dying or dead. 
 More than once, too, had she dreamed of recovery and 
 reconcilement ; and, on awaking, felt heaven, with all 
 its ecstacy, changed in a moment into this mournful 
 earth. 
 
 Unable to endure all this fear and all this love, Lucy 
 resolved to go to the Hirst, and find entrance to that 
 room which she had so often decked to please her mis- 
 tress' eyes, and never in vain. She knew that her in- 
 trusion would cause no disturbance, and that, if turned 
 away from the gate, her tears would drop to the ground 
 in silence. No angry frown, she felt assured, would fall 
 upon one who had so often sung, in Emma Cranstoun's 
 hearing, hymns in praise of their God ; and the gracious 
 lady who had so often smiled upon her dutiful Lucy, 
 and held her hand, when together they knelt down in 
 prayer — the daughter of a long line of illustrious an-
 
 190 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 cestry, and the child of a peasant, whose forefathers had 
 all been dwellers beneath straw roofs — such a one 
 would remember their pleasant devotion, and, for the 
 sake of their common hopes of heaven, perhaps not re- 
 fuse once more to take her back to her bosom. " Then, 
 too," thought Lucy, " I can judge for myself, if there be 
 any change on her cheek for better or worse ; but hope 
 I will never resign, till I am forced to look at her 
 grave ! " 
 
 There was no unfilial disobedience in stealing away, 
 one fine winter morning, with a hesitating hint that she 
 was going to Ladyside, and directing her steps, as soon 
 as she was out of sight, toward the Hirst. She soon 
 found herself on one of those beautiful winding walks 
 through the woods, where she had so often accompanied 
 the lady farther and farther on into the solitude of the 
 waterfalls. Winter had stripped the most of the trees, 
 and the withered leaves rustled mournfully beneath her 
 feet. But still there was sunshine ; and, looking to- 
 wards the hall, every window seemed on fire with its 
 cheerful illumination. There she distinctly saw the 
 plants at the window of the greenhouse ; and they were 
 bright, even at that distance, with a thousand blossoms. 
 Nothing was there to hint of decay or death; and Lucy's 
 heart leaped within her, in the belief that many happy 
 years might yet be in store for Emma Cranstoun. 
 
 Fearful as if she had been doing a thing that was 
 wrong, Lucy glided up the steps that connected the 
 greenhouse with the southern lawn, and opened the 
 door, which she had often unfolded to the beams of the 
 morning sunshine. She wasted not a look — or, if she 
 did, it was hurried and indistinct — on the plants she had 
 tended and trained ; but, with a beating heart, ventured 
 into the room where Emma Cranstoun used to have her 
 couch; and there indeed was the lady lying as before, 
 but with half shut eyes, that opened as the shadow fell 
 on them ; for Lucy's feet were without a sound. Lucy 
 stood trembling in the smile of recognition, bright, 
 beaming, and benign as it ever had been, and, to the 
 heart now relieved from fear, even more perfectly beauti-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 191 
 
 fu! in its forgiveness. " Come hither, my lovely and 
 loving Lucy, come hither to my heart." And, although 
 nothing filled her outstretched arms, the soft white hand 
 fell upon Lucy's head, that leaned upon the couch, as 
 the grateful creature knelt down and sobhed in her hap- 
 piness, too mournful to be endured. 
 
 Emma Cranstoun gave orders that no one, not even 
 Mrs. Ramsay, should disturb her; and listened, with the 
 deepest interest, to Lucy's simple and innocent eloquence, 
 when telling all she knew of the wickedness that had be- 
 trayed Mary Morrison. The power of truth was in every 
 word, and Emma Cranstoun asked Lucy Forester's for- 
 giveness. That request was something too overpower- 
 ingly affecting to a heart that looked up to her as to a 
 superior being ; and Lucy beseeched her to recall such 
 words, for that it was impossible for her to do wrong, and 
 that every one at Bracken Braes had all along said that, 
 till Mary's character was cleared, no one from the family 
 could ever dare to shew their face at the Hirst. " But 
 last night I had a foretaste of this happiness in a dream, 
 and will henceforth believe that dreams are sent from 
 heaven." 
 
 Lucy knew that her benefactress must not be allowed 
 to speak much in her exhausted condition, and feared 
 that she had sorely wearied her by exciting too many 
 feelings for Mary Morrison. " Say not so, my Lucy, 
 for you have placed my pillow so, that the most delight- 
 ful rest is over my whole frame, and that voice of thine 
 is the best of all restoratives." All apprehension of dis- 
 pleasure now wore away, and Lucy kept her seat by the 
 side of the couch, or obeyed the lady's bidding at word 
 or sign, in all the little arrangements about the room, 
 with the same noiseless alacrity that she had learned 
 long ago, when first her father had been stricken blind; 
 and that made her, indeed, in sober truth, a ministering 
 angel at a sick-bed. 
 
 It was, however, impossible for Lucy not to see that 
 the frame of her mistress was weaker and more emaciated 
 than before, and that her voice had a ftiinter, almost a 
 hollow, sound. Alive as she \vas to hope in all sorrow,
 
 192 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 yet she never foolishly shut her eyes to the truth, merely 
 because it was distressing; and the truth now too plainly 
 was, that Emma Cranstoun was not so well as she had 
 been a few weeks ago. Lucy, therefore, did not wait to 
 be asked to reniain at the Hirst, but implored permis- 
 sion. " If Mrs. Ramsay dislikes me, and still objects, 
 on Mary's account, to my being here, O send for Mr. 
 Kennedy, and ask his advice as to the propriety of your 
 Lucy being again allowed to be your servant. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Ramsay will not dislike or condemn it, if Mr. Ken- 
 nedy says it is not wrong. Then my cousin Martha is 
 one of the best-hearted, most obliging girls that ever was 
 known, and, indeed, is far more useful about the house 
 than I am, do what 1 will. They will miss me now less 
 than ever ; and, Oh I what a relief to poor Mary Morri- 
 son's heart to know that the Lady of the Hirst has taken 
 me into her service once more, in spite of all that ever 
 was said against her in her affliction and her innocence." 
 The snow was falling thickly, and the afternoon had 
 become full of gusts — the tree-tops bending low, and 
 their red leaves careering in eddies. Lucy wrote a letter, 
 with her own hand, to her father ; for she had always ad- 
 dressed him in her correspondence since she could write 
 at all, telling, in a few words, that the Lady of the Hirst 
 had forgiven them, even Mary Morrison herself; and, al- 
 thoucrh Mrs. Ramsay's natural temper was not the best 
 in the world, and her judgments not a little warped, yet 
 her intentions were good, and, before night, she had 
 brought herself to regard Lucy with not a little kindness. 
 A good share of trouble, too, was about to be taken off 
 her own hands ; although, to do the good lady justice, 
 she never grudged trouble, fond as she was of descanting 
 on her meritorious services; and, having the sincerest 
 affection for Emma, who, without sacrificing any of her 
 own independence, always treated the old lady with re- 
 spect, she was even happy to think that there was now a 
 young person whom Emma loved constantly with her ; 
 so that she gave orders, with a pleasant countenance, 
 about Lucy's bed, that had been removed,- but was now 
 soon wheeled, with its pretty curtains, into its niche in
 
 THE FORESTERS. 193 
 
 the wall, and, to Emma's eye, gave the whole room an 
 instant look of cheerfulness that already, in some meas- 
 ure, restored her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER ^XXIII. 
 
 As soon as it was known that the Lady of the Hirst 
 had restored Lucy Forester to her favor, and thereby de- 
 clared her approbation of her father's conduct in the 
 melancholy affair of Mary Morrison, that unfortunate 
 creature's situation was regarded in a very different light 
 by all the firesides in the parish. Innocence will be vin- 
 dicated at last, and every heart that has been conscious 
 of cruelty or injustice to a fellow creature, is afterwards 
 fain to make amends by additional tenderness and com- 
 rniseration. Mary was not long of discerning a decided 
 change in the expression of almost all countenances; and 
 life, that had for some time been a burden, was not only 
 lightened, but a stealing sense of happiness came over 
 her worn-out heart, and her eyes were able once more, 
 not only to endure, but to enjoy the sunshine. 
 
 Michael Forester did not proceed rashly in his deter- 
 mination to establish proofs of Mary's marriage with 
 Mark Thornhill, but he allowed the truth gradually to be 
 brought out almost of its own accord. One of the wit- 
 nesses, he found, had gone beyond seas; but the other, 
 a woman of indifferent character, he had traced to Edin- 
 burgh ; and there was a certainty of his bringing the 
 nefarious conspiracy to light, when the hand of Provi- 
 dence itself was stretched out in the cause of the inno- 
 cent. Mark Thornhill was stopped short in his wicked- 
 ness by a mortal fever; and, on his, dying bed, remorse 
 urged him to a full confession, Mary Morrison he ac- 
 knowledged to be his lawful wife; and, in a few days 
 afterwards, she was a widow. 
 17
 
 194 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Released from ignominy and disgrace, Mary now 
 yielded herseli up to the deepest grief; for, in spite of all 
 his merciless barbarity, she felt that she had still con- 
 tinued to love Mark Thornhill. His death-bed repent- 
 ance, whatever others might think of its severity, was 
 accepted of by her as far more than an atonement for all 
 the sins he had committed against her peace ; and had it 
 pleased God to spare his life, she would have been willing 
 to have been taken to his bosom, and to have shewn how 
 perfect could be the forgiveness of a Christian wife. The 
 time surely once was when he had loved her, nor could 
 anything ever efface from her remembrance the impres- 
 sions of his tenderness to her in the first season of their 
 love, when, probably, he designed no evil, and spoke the 
 truth, when he said that he loved her for her modesty and 
 her innocence. A dreadful change had, indeed, ensued ; 
 and she had become the victim of a wickedness that he 
 himself had not known to be in his heart, till gradually it 
 had risen up in greater and greater power, and driven 
 him, at last, to the very verge of inexpiable crime. Mary 
 Morrison had been taught, and truly taught, by the stern 
 Calvinism of her own father, that the human heart is 
 desperately wicked ; and, now that her husband was dead, 
 she judged him in the light of that awful doctrine, and 
 saw, in his miserable guilt, that of fallen and corrupted 
 naturer Above all other considerations, he had now been 
 called to judgment ; and she humbly hoped, not without 
 many inevitable, although, perhaps, unavailing prayers, 
 that as great sinners as he may have been ransomed into 
 the mercy of the Eternal. 
 
 But gracious nature would not suffer Mary to remain 
 long utterly disconsolate. The calm of the grave — so 
 very profound — soon began to inspire her with a con- 
 genial tranquillity ; and the melancholy creature, not yet 
 eighteen years of age, walked about the quiet retirement 
 of Bracken Braes, in her widow's weeds, with a compo- 
 sure that promised a life of sufficient happiness to one so 
 contented and resigned. Her early youth had suffered 
 the sorrows that belong to advanced age ; but, although 
 the light of joy had been sorely darkened, it was not for-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 195 
 
 ever eclipsed, and might yet shine upon her steadily, if 
 not briglitly, at Ewebank, in her father's house, if that 
 door was again to be opened to one who ought never to 
 have been driven from its shelter. 
 
 Abraham Morrison had shewn himself to be what every- 
 body now called an unnatural father. But had he been 
 really so, an<i had God frowned at all times upon his gray 
 head since that evening when he cursed his child away 
 from the hut in which she had been born? In tliat dark 
 and disturbed tumult of many passions, He who formed 
 the heart may have seen what was hidden from human 
 eye, for he alone judges aright, in his omniscience, the 
 secrets that wring the souls of the children of men. That 
 unforgiving father had not been altogether deserted in 
 his childless hut. Many a thousand times in the dark- 
 ness of midnight, or the worse darkness of the unvisited 
 day, had every shadow of anger left his wrinkled face, 
 and every feeling of anger flown far away from his heart. 
 
 Tossed had his exhausted frame been in such solitary 
 seasons, like a bark upon the sea, when every living thing 
 has left the wreck. Often and often had he risen up, 
 like one walking in his sleep, and implored God to send 
 him back his child ; kissed the pillow on which her once 
 innocent cheek had lain, and recalled every curse he had 
 ever imprecated against her, with tenfold destruction on 
 his own unhappy head. But then evil v.hisperings came 
 close by his ear from every corner of the dark dwelling; 
 fingers pointed at him scornfully ; and the eyes of the 
 whole congregation, as they sat in God's own house, 
 turned upon him, the father of her who had sold herself to 
 sin and to shame. In his half waking dreams there was 
 a hissing as of serpents; and a hand writing on the lowly 
 walls, instigated him in his delirium to keep this outcast 
 sinner under the pursuing vengeance of a father's ban. 
 Then the long habits of an unindulgent, indeed an unfor- 
 giving spirit, strengthened the power of all these phan- 
 tasms; and thus fighting against all the most sacred emo- 
 tions and instincts, which were often victorious, and as 
 often overcome, he had sunk into a sort of insanity, which 
 is the more dreadful, because its victim believes himself
 
 196 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 to be obeying, not only the law of nature, but the com- 
 mand of a superior and inexorable power. 
 
 Michael Forester knew the character of Mary's father 
 well, and had not forgotten the la.st parting scene at Ewe- 
 bank. Therefore, after her complete vindication, by the 
 side of her husband's death-bed, he still advised her to 
 remain with them at Bracken Braes till a fit time might 
 come for reconciliation. Neighbors were told to step in 
 upon Abraham now and then at Ewebank, and by their 
 more free and cheerful manner of talking, to shew that a 
 change was taking place in the opinions of all re.specting 
 his daughter. Ere long, something like the full truth 
 was revealed to him by successive glimpses ; and Michael 
 at last ventured to send a message to him by a person 
 whom he greatly respected, that he would, in a few days, 
 come over to Ewebank, and he trusted not to leave it 
 till he had convinced his friend that Mary, who had 
 surely been a wife, and was now a widow, ought to be 
 taken back, without any upbraidings, into her father's 
 house. 
 
 Michael Forester chose the Sabbath day for this work 
 of love and righteousness. Agnes and Isobel accompanied 
 him to Ewebank ; and they all three walked silently and 
 solemnly into the room where Abraham was sitting, with 
 the open Bible before him — and the old pauper reading 
 her's likewise, in a nook, by herself — for a while unob- 
 servant of their entrance. Abraham, although too weak 
 to walk to the kirk, even although his unhappy feelings 
 had suffered him to do so, was decently clad in his Sab- 
 bath apparel, and, being prepared for a visit, received 
 them M ith surprising fortitude. " 1 again ask a blessing 
 upon this house," said Michael ; and these few words 
 were heard efficaciously in the silence. The aged at- 
 tendant placed her spectacles in her Bible, and walked 
 out of ihe hut. Then Abraham felt his conscience smile 
 him like a death knell, for the presence of those who had 
 received his daughter into their house when her father 
 would have driven her out even into the winter's snow, 
 dispelled all those distempered thoughts by which he had 
 blinded his moral understanding, and he knew that he
 
 THE FORESTEKS. 197 
 
 had sinned against nature and against God. " My bairn 
 will never forgive me, though meek Mary Morrison was 
 ay the name she bore ; for didna you see, Mr. Forester 
 — no, you saw it not, for the Ahnighty, who burned out 
 your eyes vviih his ligiitning, saved them from that pollu- 
 tion ; but your Lucy saw it ; and I wish you all to hear 
 me confess it with my wicked gray hairs in the dust : 
 your Lucy beheld this hand, which may yet wither in the 
 unquenched fire, smite my daughter as she knelt before 
 me — ay, smite her on the temples, till, without one 
 groan, she stretched herself out like a corpse upon this 
 very floor." At these words Abraham Morrison laid 
 down his head in the white ashes on the hearth, and 
 sprinkled them over it, saying — " Is this remorse, is this 
 repentance, or must I feed the worm that never dies, and 
 for me shall my Saviour have in vain been nailed upon 
 the tree ?" 
 
 No one moved; but they suffered the passion of the 
 contrite man to take its course. Then said Isobel — 
 " Fear not, my friend, but that this Sabbath sliall indeed 
 be unto thee a day of rest. Even at this very hour is the 
 psalm perhaps rising to the throne of God from the kirk 
 of Ferns, in which, although for some time absent, you 
 have been for many long years a worshipper. In that 
 congregation you will yet sit with Mary at your side, 
 happier than you have been for many hundred Sabbaths ; 
 nor, Abraham, is your daughter even now far distant from 
 you — she and Lucy are on the hill side, looking down 
 upon the dwelling in which she long thought herself 
 happy, and below whose roof, fain is she, with a loving 
 heart, once more to return ! " 
 
 Agnes had gone quietly out of the room when Abraham 
 had given way to that fit of passion ; and she now came 
 back, but not unaccompanied ; for Mary Morrison, in 
 deep mourning, walked in with her and Lucy, and then 
 advancing a iew steps, stood before her father. There 
 was no agitation on her countenance; for her soul was 
 prepared for this meeting, and it had gone through such 
 sorrows, that it was now found equal to any trial. She 
 17*
 
 198 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 came not to forgive, but to be forgiven; and, in a calm, 
 low voice, asked if her father would take back to his 
 bosom his repentant child. Her face was quite pale, but 
 also quite happy ; it did not seem that she trembled ; 
 and, as her father stood motionless, with his hands before 
 his eyes, Mary walked up to him with wonderful com- 
 posure, and, putting her arms round his neck, kissed his 
 cheek almost as placidly as if on returning home from an 
 annual visit to a friend's house, and then leaned upon his 
 breast, half supporting and half supported by him who 
 had held her up in baptism, joyful in the smiles of his 
 first-born. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI V. 
 
 The winter sometimes passes away as if that season of 
 the year had been imperceptibly Mended with the autumn 
 and the spring, and from December to April the earth 
 lies with little diminution of its cheerful character below 
 the beautiful uncertain weather. In a pastoral country 
 of hills, such months are especially pleasant. All the 
 small rivulets are kept perpetually alive and transparent 
 in their grassy or pebbly beds — the flocks feeding on the 
 braes, repose while in the fitful sunshine, just as in the 
 warmth of summer — and frequently the whole air is fill- 
 ed with insects sent up from the rushes, or crevices of 
 the rocks in their ephemeral festivals. If here and there 
 in the clefts on the mountain tops some patches of snow 
 are seen, they serve only to make the faded verdure of 
 the pastures below appear brighter. The little moorland 
 birds are heard twittering long before Valentine's day ; 
 and the flocks of fieldfares are more shy than when in 
 severe storms they alighted among the drifts, and could 
 with difficulty find their food on the winter fallows. 
 Then, at the time of merry Christmas, neighbors have to
 
 THE FORESTERS. ' 199 
 
 find their way to each others' houses by more circuitous 
 paths, according to the position of the bridges ; for no 
 stream is frozen, and perhaps the low lands are flooded 
 or full of pools, like the seashore at the flowing tide. 
 The crowing cocks are distinctly heard in the calm from 
 house to house to a great distance; and, from the hill 
 side, the shepherd can count a hundred wreaths of smoke, 
 seemingly settled, for hours together — so breathless is 
 the atmosphere beneath the blue firmament and all its 
 fleecy clouds. 
 
 Such had been the character of this open winter in the 
 parish of Holylee; and not a homestead within all its 
 bounds more enjoyed the temperate season, or looked 
 more beautiful under its variable colorings, than Bracken 
 Braes. Indeed, there had scarcely been a single day, 
 since Lucy went to the Hirst, on which the family could 
 not sit below the plane tree. Its hard healthy buds seem- 
 ed impatient for the full spring ; while the lilacs and horse- 
 chestnuts, all the way down the avenue, when tinged by 
 the sunlight, were, in the early part of February, as far 
 forward as they had sometimes been at the middle of 
 March. The primroses shewed themselves, as it seemed, 
 almost before the glory of the last year's garden-flowers 
 was forgotten ; and the geraniums and myrtles were oft- 
 ener left out on the sloping bank, for hours together, than 
 they had ever been in any one's remembrance. There 
 had even been blossoms on the fruit-trees before the ear- 
 liest bird had begun to build its nest; and that earliest 
 bird was the thrush, that again hung its cradle in the 
 Traveller's Joy, descending like often altered drapery 
 over the parlor window. 
 
 Michael and Agnes were without their Lucy, and yet 
 they had never been more perfectly happy. Always on 
 the Sabbaths she came into her father's seat in the kirk, 
 and sometimes went with them to Bracken Braes — walk- 
 ing over to the Hirst before dark, or in the moonlight. 
 The dear stranger thus contiilually restored her parents' 
 hearts, and carried her real presence in upon the cher- 
 ished image of her absent beauty. Every Sabbath Agnes 
 and Isobel thought they discerned some new sweetness
 
 200 THE FORESTEKS. 
 
 in her appearance or manner; as for Michael, he desired 
 but to hear her voice, and was satisfied. Martha, in 
 whose disposition envy or jealousy had no place, and who 
 now felt that she owed every day new obligations to her 
 uncle and aunt, was at no pains to conceal her admiration 
 of her incomparable cousin, and knew that she could not 
 more acceptably prove her gratitude 
 
 But in no other house, for many miles round, had there 
 been such a change for the better, in all things, as at 
 Ewebank. It had not pleased Providence to grant to 
 Mary Morrison, in early widowhood, the comfort that 
 breathes from the cradle — for her baby died almost as 
 soon as born ; but Mary considered that affliction as part 
 of the punishment of her disobedience. Herself deceived 
 by her unhappy husband, she had been prevailed upon by 
 him to deceive her father; and she had lived sorely to 
 rue that clandestine and irregular marriage. Her father 
 was now an altered man indeed — patient, even mild — 
 and under the power of a pious penitence. The change 
 had not been imposed upon him from without, and there- 
 fore liable to other change and relapse; but it had been 
 worked out by his own spirit fighting with itself — the 
 better part finally triumphant. Pride, stubbornness, and 
 a wilful hardihood, had been his besetting sins; but now 
 all these were gone, and Abraham Morrison was gentle 
 as a child to her who had for so many years trembled at 
 his frown, and loved him with a troubled heart. Besides, 
 Abraham felt that he could not be a long liver; and every 
 day seemed more and more anxious to make amends to 
 Mary for all the evils which his former neglect or cruelty, 
 fdr more than her own error, had brought upon her, in 
 those very years which nature holds privileged from any 
 rueful distress. Sometimes when the sunshine broke 
 suddenly in upon them sitting by the fireside, or as she 
 was going about her work, with the constant approval of 
 her father, Mary, in spite of her great misfortunes, felt a 
 strong spirit of happiness expanding her bosom, and she 
 would start to hear her own voice humming some cheer- 
 ful air, which perhaps she had warbled with Lucy Fores- 
 ter on the Govvan Green.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 201 
 
 It was the general opinion over all the parish that Lucy 
 Forester had saved the life of the Lady of the Hirst. 
 Even the proud and stately Mrs. Ramsay, who with diffi- 
 culty could bring herself to see either merit, beauty, or 
 virtue in any one of what she called plebeian birth, had 
 been drawn against her will into an affection for her, and 
 treated Lucy with all the kindness that her peculiar man- 
 ners would permit. Etnma Cranstoun had, during the 
 whole winter, been exactly in that precarious state in 
 which any neglect, or even injudicious care, might have 
 proved fatal, and in which even the silence of unaccom- 
 panied solitude might have insupportably weighed down 
 her spirits to death. But Lucy was always with her, and 
 that was enough, whether mute or speaking ; her looks, 
 motions, and words were all timed, and measured, and 
 toned by the nicest observations that a naturally fine mind 
 could make under the influence of affection ; and, not 
 only no touch, but no breath even, was too rudely applied 
 to the lady's fame, that, like the leaf of the sensitive plant, 
 would have shrunk into a tremor at the slightest violence, 
 during that illness in which the immortal soul may be 
 stricken into anguish by a cloud darkening the day, or 
 the leaves rustling against the window. From November 
 till May, Emma Cranstoun had never left her room; but 
 now the summer was again at hand, and in a few weeks 
 she was to leave the Hirst, and seek new strength in the 
 air of Italy. Mrs. Ramsay was to take her, for at least 
 a year, to Genoa, Florence, or Pisa: the Hirst was to 
 lose its lady ; and Lucy Forester to return to Bracken 
 Braes. 
 
 Emma Cranstoun did not despair of herself; and, al- 
 though the idea of taking Lucy with her to Italy had cer- 
 tainly not only passed across her mind, but even taken 
 possession of it, she knew that it would be impossible to 
 do so without cruel injustice to her parents. Michael 
 Forester was perfectly happy, no doubt, in his blindness, 
 but then he could not live were Lucy away in a foreign 
 country ; while to Agnes, whose health was by no means 
 strong, her departure would seem like death. The lady 
 felt that Lucy had done all the duties to her that nature
 
 202 THE FOKESTKRS. 
 
 and religion could approve, and was ready, vvitli even a 
 hopeful cheerfulness, to embark on a voyage to that beau- 
 tiful land, to which so many have sailed, to drop their 
 bodies into a foreign grave. 
 
 It was a sad day among all the hills of Holy lee and 
 Ferns, when Emma Cranstoun was to leave the Hirst. 
 Never did June breathe a more beautiful summer than 
 had been deepening the umbrage of these old woods, and 
 clothing, even their shadiest recesses with a profusion of 
 wild flowers. The year was in its perfection, yet the 
 Hirst was in one hour to be darkened. Emma Cranstoun 
 had many friends to bid farewell to from the houses of all 
 the gentry, far and near, who came that day to the Hirst, 
 not on idle ceremony, but withsincerest sorrow, took Lucy, 
 an hour before her departure, into that green-house, now 
 filled with odorous balm and the brightness of a thousand 
 intermingled blossoms, and, joining in a prayer which 
 they had often before repeated togetlier, they there sepa- 
 rated in silence — Emma going to join her friends in the 
 drawing-room, and Lucy to her father and mother, who 
 were in the great hall. 
 
 The Lady of the Hirst soon appeared gliding down 
 the wide staircase, and walked to her carriage through 
 the midst of the whole tenantry. There was Michael 
 Forester, with his head uncovered, and Agnes weeping 
 many tears; but Agnes was not the only one who wept, 
 for there were orphans and widows in that crowd ; and 
 they who had no cause to shed tears, from any afflictions 
 in their own lot, could not withhold them, when the 
 young, the beautiful, the charitable, and the pious was 
 seen taking her departure from the house of her fore- 
 fathers to a foreign country, too probably never more to 
 return.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 In a few weeks Lucy received a letter from Emma 
 Cranstoun, written on tlie eve of embarkation, in a hope- 
 ful spirit ; and if she read it once, she did so a hundred 
 times, in the room beside her parents, in her own small 
 retreat beneath the plane tree, up upon the hill side, and 
 on the Govvan Green, half way to the Hirst, whose ex- 
 tensive woods were visible from that eminence. The 
 handwriting was firmer, Lucy thought, than usual, and 
 she inspected the form of every syllable, that she might 
 guess the decree of strength possessed by the dear hand 
 that traced the affectionate words. There were no mel- 
 ancholy fears or forebodings expressed ; and Lucy, before 
 even the Lady of the Hirst had perhaps left the shores of 
 England, already anticipated her return in restored and 
 establislied health. Letters too were coming occasionally 
 from Ellesmere; not that Ruth Colinson, or any one of 
 the whole family at the Vicarage, were shining or fre- 
 quent correspondents ; but, once in the three months or 
 so, a Westmoreland letter did arrive ; and then the word 
 "Kendal," imprinted with villanous post-office type, and 
 ink more villanous still, across the superscription, always 
 brought to Lucy's- eyes a smile of cordial delight. The 
 Colinson's never forgot Martha, but sent her all the news 
 they could gather about the old people with whom she 
 had lived, and all her humble acquaintances ; and the 
 sound of the familiar names of persons and places took 
 her back again, in short dreams, to the wooded neighbor- 
 hood of Hawkshead, and its pretty lake of Esthwaite, 
 illustrious alike for its pike, its perch, its plovers, and its 
 poetry. For Mr. Thomson, the bard of Saury, had sung 
 Martha's departure to Scotland, which he described as 
 an isle far off in the great seas, and remarkable, as it was 
 indeed naturally to be expected, for the multitude and 
 majesty of its Scottish pines. 
 
 Lucy and Martha were both out, at some distance 
 from the house, when an elderly straiiger, of very gentle-
 
 204 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 many exterior, walked into the room, and courteously 
 saluted Agnes and Michael. In a few minutes he told 
 his name — the father of Edward Ellis. The manner of 
 all present was in an instant changed from hospitable 
 civility into the most respectful attention, and many 
 were the inquiries about the health and happiness of the 
 youth, who had so often cheered with his conversation 
 and laughter the roof of Bracken Braes. But it was soon 
 somewhat painfully observed, even by the blind man, 
 that Mr. Ellis' tone was cold and constrained, and that 
 he was far from meeting with sympathy their eager and 
 heartfelt interrogations. " My son was at Rome when 
 I last heard of him, and I believe he will remain in Italy 
 at least another year, when probably he will visit Greece." 
 
 The chilling influence of Mr, Ellis' manner and dis- 
 course soon froze Michael, Agnes, and Isobel into unac- 
 customed silence. But the mystery of such apparently 
 uncalled-for superciliousness was soon explained. " Mr. 
 Forester, from anything I can hear from Mr. Kennedy, 
 you are an upright man, and may be confided in ; and, 
 therefore, sir, I have taken the liberty of visiting you in 
 your own house, which, perhaps, you may at present be 
 thinking rather an intrusion ; but the truth is, that — 
 that I was some time ago made very uneasy about my 
 son Edward — you will pardon, because you can under- 
 stand a father's anxieties, Mr. Forcstar — about my son 
 Edward, Mr. Forester, and your daughter — her name, I 
 believe, is Lucy. Now that the ice is broken, Mr. For- 
 ester, I may say, that the remotest chance of my son 
 forming such a connection, could not fail of being most 
 distressing — most agonizing; and I trust in God that 
 you will deal openly and honorably with me, and declare, 
 if there be anything like an engagement — an engagement 
 of marriage — for there is no use in reasoning the matter 
 between those foolish children — foolish is the word I 
 use, for, from your daughter's very tender age, I feel per- 
 suaded that there is no occasion for a term of severer 
 reprehension." 
 
 Michael Forester was almost entirely unprepared for 
 such a speech as this ; for although assuredly, now and
 
 THE FORESTERS. 205 
 
 then, he had thought it very likely that Edward Ellis, 
 in the full flow of youthful enthusiasm, might admire, 
 even love his Lucy, yet judging justly of that high-souled 
 boy, he had never suffered the thought to give him one 
 moment's serious uneasiness, well knowing that his daugh- 
 ter's innocence was as safe in her simplicity with Edward 
 Ellis, as if she had been his sister; and that any love that 
 might subsist between young hearts, in such very different 
 conditions of life, would be little more than that emotion 
 of common humanity, which, where the mutual objects 
 are worthy, may not only harmlessly, but happily unite 
 in friendship those whom destiny must soon not only part, 
 but keep for ever separated, excci)t in slight and transient 
 intercourse on the paths of life onwards even to the very 
 grave. But there was something not only in Mr. Ellis' 
 words, but in the tone in which they were delivered, to 
 which Michael Forester, poor and blind man as he was, 
 had never been accustomed; and, raising him.self up with 
 natural dignity in his chair, he said, with a gravity almost 
 austere — "My daughter, sir, is little more than a child 
 — but since such a word as marriage has indeed been 
 coupled with the innocent's name, be assured, sir, that 
 my Lucy would not leave her blind father's side, if I only 
 put my hand upon her head — thus — not for all the rank 
 and riches in the land, although poverty, want, disease, 
 and death were, i#&ll their ghastliness, on the floor of 
 this house." 
 
 The language of Michael, on all occasions of any se- 
 riousness or importance, was perfectly that of a man of 
 education — in nothing vulgar, and not ineloquent in its 
 simple and straight-forward phrase — at once clear and 
 emphatic. Mr. Ellis, who, although a good and honora- 
 ble, was, in intellect, a very ordinary man, had not been 
 prepared for such an interview, and felt the artificial 
 authority of his mere rank giving way beneath the ascen- 
 dancy of natural endowments. The erect and command- 
 ing frame of the blind man, composedly seated in his 
 chair, with one hand upon his staff, as if about to raise 
 himself up into a standing posture — his strongly marked, 
 18
 
 ^i06 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bin far from harsh features, animated by sudden emotion, 
 beyond the calm of that habitual thoughtfuiness which 
 the loss of sight had induced — his manifest contentment 
 with his lot, which, so surrounded as he was, indeed 
 scarcely seemed one of great hardship — his pride, or 
 some state of the soul of a more sacred character, in his 
 dutiful and devoted child — the affecting solemnity of his 
 motions and gestures, every one of which slightly betrayed 
 a sense of his comparative helplessness and dear depend- 
 ence on those to whom heaven's light was not denied — 
 and along with all these, a deference which he seemed not 
 unwilling to shew towards one who, he had been informed, 
 was greatly his superior in rank, as well as the courteous 
 kindness which he owed to a guest below his own roof, 
 and that guest the father of Edward Ellis — one and all 
 of these things, separate or united, gave the stranger a 
 sadden knowledge of something existing in lowly life, of 
 which he had never had any suspicion, and in presence of 
 which he felt abashed, humbled, and changed in a mo- 
 ment from the arrogant and dictatorial superior into an 
 inferior called upon not to teach but to learn — not to 
 command but to obey. Mr. Ellis, although confused and 
 confounded, atteinpted to rally his spirits; and, after a 
 kw words of conmion-place compliment, said that his 
 purse was at Mr. Forester's service. Michael, although 
 a poor man, was as independent in his circumstances as 
 any man in all Scotland ; and if ever he had been at all 
 worldly-minded, and perhaps all people of very energetic 
 character, when toiling either in mind or body for the 
 good of their family, are apt to become somewhat too 
 much so, he had long ceased to err in that direction ; for 
 blindness had made him something better than a philoso- 
 pher, and he had found the golden mean in moderate de- 
 sires and a cheerful f;iith. Michael did not even conde- 
 scend to notice what Mr. Ellis had now said; but he in- 
 dulged an allowable pride in alluding to himself and his 
 condition. " Do you think, Mr. Ellis, that in poor men's 
 huts, the best natural affections do not reside in as great 
 force and purity as in the dwelling of the rich or noble ? 
 Is not ray Lucy as dear to me, and for the self-same
 
 THE FORESTERS. 207 
 
 reasons, as your Edward is to his father, and a finer boy 
 never stepped across a poor man's threshold ? You have 
 hopes — just hopes of your son — and may God in his 
 goodness cause them all amply to be fulfilled. You act 
 rightly in this matter. Your son must marry a wife in 
 the same rank of life with himself — Lucy Forester is 
 but tlie daughter of a peasant. These eyes of mine, sir, 
 have not seen for upwards of five years ; and the last 
 time I beheld my Lucy, she was a fairy of a thing, that 
 still slept in her mother's bosom. But although beauty 
 be but a fading, I do not say a worthless flower, and al- 
 though I have better gifts to delight me in my Lucy than 
 any beauty that ever shone on maiden's countenance, yet 
 they say my daughter is like the mother that bore her — 
 and there Agnes — there my wife sits before you, and 
 judge for yourself if I would exchange my lot with that 
 of any other man living, blind though my eyes be as the 
 floor beneath your feet." 
 
 In the silence that succeeded this impassioned appeal, 
 Lucy Forester came singing into the room, with her hair 
 sportively wreathed with a garland of wild flowers, and 
 on seeing the stranger, stood suddenly fixed with all her 
 glowing beauty, in one of nature's most graceful attitudes, 
 on the floor of the lowly hut. " Lucy, this is Mr. Edward 
 Ellis' father," said Aunt Isobel, anxious that the blush 
 that already mantled over her brow, cheek, and eyes, 
 might conceal her emotion. liUcy dropped a courtesy, 
 with her heart beating like a frightened bird in its cage, 
 and had just strength to seat herself on the stool by her 
 father's knee. 
 
 Her father put his hand upon her head, from which 
 she had just released the garland of flowers that fell at 
 her feet, letting all her rich golden ringlets flow uncon- 
 fined, and requested Mr. Ellis to speak, that, before a 
 word was said to Lucy^ he might judge for himself how 
 she received the communication. But Mr. Ellis was 
 dazzled with the beauty of the peasant's daughter, and 
 at the same time persuaded by its uncommon sweetness 
 that she was altogether artless and innocent, his naturally 
 kind and considerate character recovered itself from an
 
 '208 THE FOKESTEKS. 
 
 unnecessary, if not an unworthy, fear, and he felt that it 
 would be at once coarse and cruel even to alkide to his 
 son after what he had heard and now saw of all the in- 
 mates of Bracken Braes. All that he said or did was to 
 put a letter from Edward into Lucy's hand, with a few 
 words of kindness ; and she, unable to endure the scene 
 any longer, flew out into the open air, and almost without 
 knowing whither her steps were carrying her, followed 
 the stream down — down to the linn, and the Howlet's 
 Nest, where Edward had first learned to meet her by 
 accident two summers ago ; summers, alas! how swiftly 
 flown, and never to be equalled in beauty and in delight, 
 long as that sun should shine in heaven. 
 
 The waterfall was cheering the solitary dell with its 
 foaming murmurs ; but Lucy saw, heard it not, or, if she 
 did, 'twas like something sounding and gleaming in an 
 imperfect dream. She leant, sick and blind, against the 
 ivy tree, and at last opened the letter, in which she felt 
 she was to read something forever fatal to her happiness. 
 There were not many lines — and kind, perfectly kind 
 they were — but still they were charged with meaning 
 not to be misunderstood. Thenceforth, Edward Ellis 
 was to be nothing to her, but a name, a thought, a shadow : 
 and, as for herself, never more would her image come 
 before his eyes as he roamed over foreign lands, or sailed 
 on the bosom of the wide sea. Lucy Forester wept in 
 grief — love — perhaps anger — shall it be said — despair? 
 She went to the edge of the pool, and, taking from her 
 bosom the keepsakes Edward had given her at the Hawk- 
 stane Spring, she dropped them, one by one, into the 
 deep water — all, all hut one, which would not leave her 
 hand — the brooch which contained his dark glossy hair, 
 with two names engraved upon it — " Edward to Lucy." 
 She took out the hair — and then the dearest memorial 
 of all sunk to the bottom of the linn. Now, indeed, the 
 dream was broken, like a foam-bell upon the flowing wa- 
 ters. Not till this moment had she been completely un- 
 deceived. Yet there had been no deceit — no faithless- 
 ness — no falsehood. Ignorant of themselves, their pre- 
 sent condition, and their future lot, had Edward and
 
 THE FORESTERS. 209 
 
 Lucy been in the joy of their mutual affection. He had 
 first come to see the impossibility of their ever being more 
 to one another than they had already been — and now 
 Lucy saw the same truth with the same sad conviction. 
 " Vain creature that I was, and void of all understanding, 
 ever to dream, for a single time, in my sleep that Edward 
 Ellis was, all his life long, to love Lucy Forester ! And 
 yet often, too often, have I dreamt it; and, lo ! he has 
 passed away from Holylee — from Bracken Braes — from 
 the linn and the ivy tree — like a cloud ; and I shall never 
 see his bonny face again till my dying day ! " But, as 
 her tears flowed, her thoughts grew less and less bitter. 
 She now began to recall all the delightful traits of his 
 character, and to her unselfish nature that meditation 
 brought an alleviation of grief. How courteous had he 
 ever been in the cottage! — how tenderly polite to her 
 mother ! — how more than respectful to her father ! — how 
 pleasant to Aunt Isobel ! But all at once she tore herself 
 away from the trysting-place, and said within her heart 
 that she would never more venture to revisit it — for all 
 its beauty, all its blessedness was gone, just as the inde- 
 scribable brightness of some too heavenly dream, that is 
 felt at the time to be but a dream, and, long, long after, 
 when it returns in indistinct remembrance on the soul, 
 sheds something of its yet unextinguished light over the 
 dim, and clouded, and imperfect happiness of this waking 
 world ! 
 
 Lucy looked at Bracken Braes ; but Edward Ellis' 
 father might still be sitting there — and she dared not — 
 could not again meet his face, even in the gloaming. So 
 she sat down among the broom, and did not go home till 
 the plane tree was standing quite visible in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 18*
 
 210 THE FORESTEnS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Long before Christmas, Lucy Forester was happy as a 
 lark in lieaven, that cares not for a few clouds, and often 
 is heard singing wlien there is little or no sunshine. Idle- 
 ness is the great bane both of virtue and happiness, but 
 she was never idle, and putting at all times her whole 
 heart and soul even into the most trifling occupations, 
 there was literally no time for regret or repining at 
 Bracken Braes. Perhaps it might have seemed to those 
 persons who love to indulge themselves in useless sor- 
 rows, that Lucy was a girl of no steadfast affections, since 
 she could so easily get rid of all mournful remembrances 
 about Edward Ellis. But how could human life proceed 
 at all, except in despondency and care, if the heart of the 
 innocent were forever to retain its afflictions? Losses, 
 troubles, and death invade every dwelling on earth; but 
 there are few dwellings in which, nevertheless, there may 
 not be contentment. Fleeting as human joys too often 
 are, perhaps they are not more so than human griefs; 
 and, at all events, it can never be a duty to brood over 
 recollections that enfeeble our fortitude, even although 
 they may relate to the best and surest sympathies of na- 
 ture. 
 
 But while all was cheerfulness at Bracken Braes, there 
 were sorrows in a worthy neighbor's house, that greatly 
 affected Michael Forester and his whole family. Their 
 good friends, the Maynes at Ladyside, had, for a consid- 
 erable time past, suffered the very sorest distress that can 
 enter within the doors of a house. Isaac the scholar, the 
 youth whose surprising genius liad been the glory of the 
 parish of Ilolylee, had missed his way in the world — the 
 broad and shining way of truth and righteousness — and 
 had brought himself to the very gates of death. Michael 
 Forester had long suspected that his conduct had not 
 been what might have been predicted of a boy so richly 
 endowed with the gifts of nature. Jacob Mayne far sel- 
 domer spoke of his son than he had used to do, and never
 
 THE FORESTERS. 211 
 
 now with that pride which once kindled in his eyes at 
 the slightest mention of his name. But truth could be 
 concealed no longer — all Isaac's brightest prospects in 
 life had been blasted by his own imprudence, follies, and 
 vices, and he lay now in a hopeless condition within his 
 father's house at Ladyside. 
 
 Who can estimate the blessings of education, when it 
 comprehends within its range almost every dwelling in 
 the land, and when all the most numerous families of the 
 very poorest men, up even from the child of six years old 
 to thegrandsire of four-score, can read, and, in due meas- 
 ure, understand the Word of God, and the written com- 
 mentaries of man ? From the humblest huts in such a 
 country come sometimes forth in power the illuminators 
 of the race; while all the ordinary ongoings of life par- 
 take of a loftier character among those who pass unknown 
 to the grave, along the quiet paths that all end there as 
 well as the paths of glory. Generations do not then dis- 
 appear merely like the leaves, but their's is an undying 
 spirit that pervades future time, and invigorates the whole 
 frame of social life, thus continually increasing in strength 
 and beauty. But even this blessing is not without that 
 alloy which mingles with all that is most excellent in 
 man's estate. How many that might have been safe in 
 their simplicity, employ knowledge to their own destruc- 
 tion ! Feelings, in their origin pure and high often catch 
 in their progress a taint of corruption — imagination oft- 
 en dazzles to betray — and genius itself, the most envied 
 gift of Heaven, has it not too often conducted to guilt, 
 despair, and death ! 
 
 So had it been with poor Isaac Mayne. In earliest 
 boyhood, when sitting on the brae herding the sheep, to 
 him had whisperings come of a world of thought that lies 
 forever unknown to the ordinary peasant. He saw a 
 beauty in every little wild flower, in the structure of every 
 blade of grass glowing with its dew-drops, and in the 
 drooping branches of the birch trees, imaged peacefully 
 in the unsullied water they overshadowed, which he bore 
 within his spirit like an uncommunicated secret, a very 
 burden of delight, which there was no one to share with
 
 212 THE FORESTEUS. 
 
 him in his solitude. Unassisted by advice, and led, as it 
 were, by some sacred instinct, Isaac, before he was 
 twelve years old, had pored over many books, in which 
 his own keen and bright genius enabled him to interpret 
 the character, whicli, as his intellect expanded, all seem- 
 ed as full of hidden meanings as hieroglyphics. Then 
 the young enthusiast left his native hut, and walked into 
 the bewildering world of thought. But as he became 
 familiar with all those ideal regions, he was at the same 
 time surrounded, tried, and tempted by wants, cares, de- 
 sires, hopes, and passions, that spring from flesh and 
 blood, course along the veins, and, all unwearied with 
 their ceaseless journeyings, come and go from the beat- 
 ing or the boiling heart. Isaac, as he stood on the verge 
 of manhood, felt that there was truth in the fiction, that 
 man has, indeed, two souls. On the wings of the one he 
 soared into regions so pure and high, that he seemed to 
 float above this earth and all its bewildered scenery, like 
 an eagle aloft in the stainless ether; but on the feet of 
 the other, made of gold and clay, he walked through 
 haunts where danger lures on in the shape of delight, till 
 at last sin boldly meets her guest with undisguised linea- 
 ments, and stamps upon his very conscience, as with a 
 searing-iron, the brand by which she at once recognises 
 and claims all those who have sold themselves for the 
 price of her irresistible allurements. 
 
 Yet it was long — very long — after his first great 
 lapses, before such a youth as Isaac Mayne could be de- 
 graded by the permanent dominion of vulgar vices. The 
 fineness of his native genius saved him from many pollu- 
 tions to which coarse natures are prone. But no happi- 
 ness of natural constitution can guard its possessor from 
 worse and worse evils, when the eye of conscience has 
 been darkened or shut, and when religion has evaporated 
 into a mere imaginative feeling, or been narrowed into a 
 cold conviction of the understanding. Therefore Isaac 
 became at last little better than a vulgar sensualist: the 
 disorder in his spirit disordered his whole life; his duties 
 were either neglected or despised ; his character, month 
 after month, received a darker die; and not only con-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 213 
 
 scions of what he now was, but aware of what he might 
 have been, he finally flung from him the hope and the 
 desire of restoration, and was willing, in the dawn of his 
 youthful prime, to shut his eyes forever on a world which 
 had been spread in its beauty before him only, as it now 
 seemed, that he might disfigure and profane all its most 
 holy charms, flnd carry with him to the grave the miser- 
 able remembrance of talents misemployed or thrown 
 away, and of aspirations that once owned no other source 
 than Heaven, sunk now to the level of the lowest crea- 
 tures that crawl upon the earth. 
 
 What could his ignorant father, liis simple-minded 
 mother, and his homely sisters, now know of the suffer- 
 ings of Isaac Mayne? They saw him for some weeks 
 wandering like a ghost about the doors, and then taking 
 to his bed in silence, refusing sustenance, and sullenly 
 shunning all concern even with his parents. His were 
 failings they could neither understand nor assuage. 
 Their kindnesses were directed to things that, in Isaac's 
 eyes, were now less than nothing; for what signified to 
 him a smooth pillow, food or medicine brought, with weep- 
 ing eyes and the tenderest hand, or the silencing of the 
 wheel, and of every, the least noise in that small house! 
 Isaac cared not about his bed ; for, spread it as his mother 
 might, to him it was a bed of iron, and strewn with 
 thorns ; prison would to him have been more acceptable 
 than any food ; and there were sounds in his spirit that 
 would not cease, louder and more alarming than the win- 
 ter storm. Jacob knew not where to turn for comfort, 
 seeing that his son's reason was impaired ; but, next to 
 Mr. Kennedy, he looked for relief, if relief there could be, 
 to Michael Forester. 
 
 Michael had sometimes, in his solitary meditations, 
 thought that perhaps some day Isaac Mayne might make 
 Lucy his wife. Many things must escape the knowledge 
 of the most intelligent of the blind ; and, in this case, 
 Michael had been greatly deceived in the character of 
 him whom he continued to esteem and admire, long af- 
 ter almost all others had begun to regard it with more than 
 suspicion. He was even occasionally displeased with
 
 214 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Lucy for her indifference or dislike to Isaac Mayne, and 
 he hoped that as she grew up, and saw more clearly and 
 widely into her condition, that her heart might be chang- 
 ed, and favourably inclined towards one of whom he en- 
 tertained so high an opinion. But Lucy had noticed 
 many things in Isaac that turned her from him with feel- 
 ings stronger than she wished to indulge towards any hu- 
 man being; for her eye, quick in her innocence, had 
 seen that Isaac was an unduliful son, and treated both his 
 father and mother with disrespect. Lucy had not been 
 mistaken in these observations, for when once the soul of 
 a man has stooped to any single meanness, another and 
 another will not only work in of itself, but will be drag- 
 ged over his whole conduct by the very circumstances of 
 life. Isaac had become ashamed of his poor parents ; 
 and there were situations in which it is more than prob- 
 able he would have disowned them because of their homely 
 manners and appearance. The time had been when he 
 was proud to walk to the kirk with his hard-working fa- 
 ther, and to stand hand in hand with him in the little 
 friendly ring of Christians at the door, before the bell be- 
 gan to tinkle, or Mr. Kennedy appeared. But he had had 
 the wretched weakness to attach a painful importance to 
 the idle words that he had since occasionally heard in town 
 talk about low birth, humble origin, plebeian blood, and 
 so forth — expressions which are never heard from the 
 lips of high-born men, but not unfamiliar to the mouths 
 of the mean in nature or condition ; and he had almost 
 unconsciously allowed liimself to form unwarranted asso- 
 ciations of everything most worthy of being admired and 
 imitated with a certain rank in life; so that it even pain- 
 ed him to think on the low and thatch-roofed cabin, as it 
 might be called, in which he was born and bred ; and it 
 would have brought the red color into his face, to have 
 acknowledged, in some companies, his humble but honest 
 origin. When he thought on his mother even, and all his 
 sisters working in the harvest field, or busy in the byre or 
 the dairy, and then considered where he might then be 
 sitting among ladies and gentlemen, into whose society 
 his distinguished genius and talents had procured him a
 
 THE FORESTERS. 215 
 
 ready admission, and who, most assuredly — at least all 
 of them whose good opinion was worth having — did not 
 admire him the less because they indeed knew that he 
 was the son of a peasant, Isaac Mayne had often felt fool- 
 ishly humbled in his own estimation — so nearly allied 
 are meanness and pride! What high satisfaction was 
 thus lost to this youth's soul ! For, to have striven as he 
 had done, was indeed glorious; and his imagination, un- 
 der the impulse and guidance of nobler principles and 
 feelings, might have visited in its dreams the braes of 
 Ilolylce, as the only paradise on earth, and his father's 
 lowly mansion at Ladyside as the very centre of that pa- 
 radise, from which would have streamed alight that need 
 never to have been darkened before the eyes of filial 
 reverence. 
 
 Both Agnes and Lucy had once been witness to a scene 
 in the churchyard of Holylee, at the close of Divine ser- 
 vice, after which neither of them had been able to regard 
 Isaac Mayne with their former affection. Several ladies 
 and gentlemen, who had been sitting in the seat of the 
 Lady of the Hirst, in the little gallery, addressed Isaac on 
 the dismissal of the congregation, when he was along 
 with his parents and sisters. They had known him in 
 Edinburgh, as a young man of genius, and were not 
 aware that Holylee was his native parish. Isaac had then, 
 under manifest uneasiness, separated himself from the de- 
 cent home group, of whom no man need have been asham- 
 ed ; and to an inquiry from one of the party, who wer ethe 
 friends he had just left, liis answer was vague, and imply- 
 ing that his father, mother, and sisters might be to him 
 almost strangers. Lucy could not help eyeing him with 
 anger and disdain, while she thought, for a moment, of 
 Edward Ellis; and then, going up to her blind father, 
 walked with him through the crowd, in a pride known to 
 herself alone, but in a beauty that attracted the gaze of 
 all the strangers, who at once said to Emma Cranstoun, 
 — " There is no need to tell her name — your descrip- 
 tion, partial as it was, did not exceed the truth — she is 
 indeed the Primrose of Bracken Braes." 
 
 But all such remembrances were now dismissed from
 
 •216 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 their minds ; and Agnes and Lucy, no less than Michael, 
 thought only on the fair side of Isaac's character. They 
 went almost every forenoon to Ladyside ; and Isaac, who, 
 day after day, had become more indifferent to everything 
 about him, and almost wholly unobservant, asked if he 
 could see Lucy Forester. His mother took Lucy to his 
 bedside ; and Isaac's eyes, for a few moments, recovered 
 their fine intelligent expression, as they were lifted up 
 towards her pale and weeping countenance. " God bless 
 Lucy Forester 1" said the dying youth ; and his mother 
 afterwards often assured Agnes that these were his last 
 words ; yet Isaac lived on for two or three weeks without 
 pain, but insensible to the world. The old shepherd dog, 
 that had been fourteen years in the family, leapt up on his 
 bed; but Isaac felt no disturbance. Had the flail been 
 sounding in the near barn, it would have been unheard. 
 " My poor son, Mr. Forester," said Jacob, in a calm 
 voice, " has, for nearly a week, been past hearing our 
 evening psalm." — "I am happy to know that you are so 
 resigned, Jacob — your wife and daughters, too, are, I 
 think, composed." — "Ay, ay, — we have, in a manner, 
 taken farewell of Isaac — for you see his mind is gone ; 
 but his soul has not yet been called away, and I -will not 
 give him the last kiss till he is dead." There was no one 
 else in the room at this time but the two fathers ; and Ja- 
 cob Mayne, whose usual state of mind towards Michael 
 Forester was that of reverence, now embraced him in a 
 sudden burst of agony, and cried, with a loud voice — 
 " Pity me, pray for me — for Isaac — my darling Isaac 
 — the life, and the light, and the pride of this house — 
 will never know his father's voice more ! " 
 
 CHAPTETl XXXVII. 
 
 Ladyside was, at all times, rather a melancholy looking 
 place, standing as it did, at the very remotest end of the
 
 THE FORESTERS. 217 
 
 valley of the Heriot Water — there an insignificant rivu- 
 let, and at a considerable distance from any other liabita- 
 tion. The high heather hills overshadowed it; but there 
 were no trees — for the decayed and mossy stumps of a 
 decayed forest could not be called trees; and Jacob 
 Mayne had never been very well able, with his narrow 
 means, even if he had thought of it, to make any plantations, 
 either for ornament or shelter to his cattle. Its mournful 
 character was deepened on the day of Isaac's funeral, 
 which was on one of those dim and silent forenoons that, 
 in early spring, breathe a pensiveness over the air and the 
 earth. No bleat of lambs was yet hcp-rd over the braes 
 — the birds had not begun their carols ^ — and the perfect 
 silence was broken only by the sound of feet, as friend 
 and neighbor, one after the other, at short intervals, 
 were coming in to the funeral. 
 
 The company assembled in the kitchen — a wide, low- 
 roofed room, with an ample chimney — in the corner of 
 which, below the smoke-stained beam, Isaac Mayne had 
 sat during many a long winter evening, conning over his 
 book, to the delight of his proud father's heart, undisturb- 
 ed in his studies by the noise of work or merriment. 
 Mrs. Mayne had, herself, with the assistance of Agnes, 
 arranged all the seats that very morning ; and everything 
 was decent and orderly about the room. Many an in- 
 telligent and thoughtful countenance — not a few of them 
 with their foreheads sprinkled with gray hairs — were 
 seen in that circle. [Some wine and funeral bread was 
 handed round, and partaken of by all, after prayer from 
 Mr. Kennedy ; and then, going into the open air, the 
 company formed themselves behind the coffin, which had 
 been placed on the green before the door, and the pro- 
 cession moved down the valley. 
 
 Isaac's mother and sisters had, during the prayer, taken 
 farewell, on the green, of his mortal part, standing toge- 
 ther with Agnes and Lucy ; and as soon as the party left 
 the door, weeping eyes followed it from the window in 
 the thatch, down the stream, till, round a small mount, it 
 disappeared. 
 
 19
 
 218 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 y The funeral company was a large one — for the Maynes 
 were respected in the parish ; and, as for Isaac, his fame 
 had spread far beyond its narrow bounds; and now that 
 he had expiated, even by death, whatever faults he had 
 committed, the grief that went with him to the grave was 
 profound and universal. Many people who could not be 
 invited to the funeral, nevertheless came into the church- 
 yard, and all clothed in mourning. The children of 
 the village school were drawn up in a line near the grave, 
 and the low walls that enclosed that quiet place of burial, 
 were almost entirely covered with spectators — few of 
 them indifferent to the solemn scene. Michael Forester, 
 who, next to tiie father of the deceased, was chief mourn- 
 er, stood close beside him when the coffin was lowered 
 down, and grasped Jacob's hand when tlie first shovelful 
 of earth said, without man's words, "dust to dust." 
 
 The silent party dissolved ; and, in an hour or two, 
 most of them who had composed it went to their work 
 in the fields. Michael went back with Jacob Mayne to 
 Ladyside; and, early in the afternoon, the whole family 
 sat down to their meal. There were not a great many 
 tears, and such as fell at times were not very bitter ; for 
 every heart had had time to prepare itself for weeks before 
 Isaac's death ; and now that his remains were given up 
 to invisible decay, a calm came down from heaven upon 
 the house — and life, although it had lost much, still had 
 to them its blessings. 
 
 " Mr. Forester," said Jacob, " many great kindnesses 
 have we received at your hands; but this last is the great- 
 est of them all — religion itself has been a mair unspeak- 
 able comfort to us all on this occasion, because of your 
 Christian charity to the afflicted ; and poor Isaac's mother 
 there, last night, when sairly distressed, and calling on 
 God to comfort her, mentioned your name, and your 
 wife's and daughter's, in her prayers. She is, as you 
 know, a woman of few words; but there naewhere lives 
 ane wi' a mp'r grateful heart." Jacob then turned his 
 eyes towarOo a little bookcase that hung on the wall by a 
 string fastened to a nail, and said — " That was the wark 
 o' Isaac's ain hands, before he was ten years old. Many
 
 THE FORESTERS. 219 
 
 and many an hour have I seen him at it ; and an ingenious 
 thing it is for so young a creature. Tiiese volumes were 
 the first he ever bought — wi' his ain money, too; for 
 we were very poor in those days, as ye ken, and Isaac 
 was most industrious." But here Jacob's voice was 
 mute, and he walked out into the open air. Michael 
 joined him there ; and, by the long conversation that en- 
 sued concerning Isaac, the father's heart was quieted, 
 and believed that his son's spirit was now happy in 
 heaven. 
 
 Leaving the family at Ladyside composed and resigned, 
 Michael, Agnes, and Lucy, returned beneath the stars to 
 Bracken Braes. Lucy scarcely opened her lips; for she 
 thought of Isaac's very last words, and knew, now that 
 his heart was still in the dust, how much dearer she had 
 been to it than she had ever believed. His many good 
 qualities well deserved her tears, and the remembrance 
 of the happy hours she had long ago passed with him and 
 his sisters, when every one loved and admired him ; but 
 the thought that she had been dearer to him than even 
 his own nearest kin, and that his affection for her was 
 the last thing to leave his soul on the bed of death, touched 
 her with an almost self-upbraiding sorrow, and gave bis 
 memory a hold on her secret bosom, from which she felt 
 nothing could ever displace it. 
 
 While they were all sitting round the fire, and just as 
 the clock, striking ten, told them to retire to rest, the 
 door opened, and in came Mary Morrison. " Pity me ! " 
 cried Aunt Isobel ; " what brings you here sae late at 
 night; tell us — are you all well at Ewebank ? " Mary 
 sat down on the seat that Lucy's ready hand had placed 
 for her, and said, calmly — " My dear father is dead ! — 
 perhaps I should not have left him ; but there was nobody 
 in the house with me; and, when it became quite dark 
 — for the fire had gone out — I was not able to abide 
 the dreadful stillness, and have come here." The key 
 of the hut was yet in her hand, which she had carried in 
 it, unconsciously, all the way from Ewebank. 
 
 Abraham Morrison's death had been sudden; but every 
 circumstance attending his latter days had been such as
 
 220 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 now to comfort liis daughter. The reconcilement had 
 heen perfect; and the last year of the old man's life, 
 blameless and Christian-like, had prepared him for this 
 change. Mary had been already acquainted with grief, 
 and now sat in her cloak, beneath which she still wore 
 her widow's weeds, unagitated by any strong emotion, 
 like one having come from a neighbor's house on some 
 grave but not grievous errand. She had come, too, at a 
 time when all her friends were, from the melancholy duty 
 in which they had been engaged during the day, in a state 
 of mind altogether congenial with her own ; and in ano- 
 ther hour Mary was lying, as she had often done before, 
 in Lucy's bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 What strong support does the consciousness of a good 
 reputation yield to all men in the discharge of their most 
 arduous duties, and how benignly does a regard to the 
 opinions of those among whom we live blend almost into 
 one motive with that which we observe towards the in- 
 junctions of our Maker ! Michael Forester knew that 
 he was esteemed — beloved by every family in Holylee ; 
 and, although he had in no one single instance ever tried 
 lo become the object of such sentiments, by any unworthy 
 submission or compromise, yet he rejoiced to know their 
 existence, and felt them to be, in part, both the impulse 
 and reward of virtue. Above all, his character as a 
 peace-maker was especially dear to his heart and con- 
 science; and nothing cheered his blindness more than 
 the humble trust, that, in administering comfort to human 
 misery, which it had not unfrequently fallen to his lot to 
 do, he had been obeying the precept of Him whose prime 
 commandment was — that we should love one another. 
 Michael had often thought that, had he still possessed his 
 eyesight, he might have been more selfish, more exclu-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 221 
 
 sively devoted to the temporal interest of his own family, 
 and more lukewarm in the interest of his Heavenly Mas- 
 ter. He attributed no merit to himself in any kind action 
 which he had been enabled to perform ; but his conscience 
 rewarded him by the most delightful of all feelings — 
 gratitude to God. 
 
 There were now two orphans living under His roof — 
 his own brother Abel's Martha, and Mary Morrison. 
 Never were any two creatures more different ; yet they 
 were equally grateful, and, in a month or two after Abra- 
 ham Morrison's death, it might almost have been said 
 equally happy. Martha had never known much deep 
 heart-grief, but then she had endured toil, trouble, hard- 
 ship, and neglect, during the worst years of her life; and 
 during the best, her happiness had sprung up of itself, 
 whatever it might have been, against not a tew depressing 
 circumstances, of which the misery had been felt, although 
 overcome. Since she came to Bracken Braes, no one 
 could be more content and cheerful, shewing her enjoy- 
 ment of life, not by any starts of delight or sallies of glee, 
 but by a perpetuil vivacity that kept her stirring from 
 mornmg to night in solitary occupations, which, whether 
 easy or laborious, seemed alike sources of the liveliest 
 satisfaction. Martha was now quite a Scotch girl — an 
 epithet which she had borne in Ellesmere, without any 
 very good title to what was so respectable ; yet still some- 
 thing of the Westmoreland dialect blended with the Doric 
 of the Selkirk braes, and, at times, recalled pleasant re- 
 membrances of the distant Vicarage. The first time that 
 Michael stood beside his brother Abel's grave, with Mar- 
 tha by his side, who read the letters on the stone rather 
 with a grave curiosity than any mournful emotion — for 
 what more could they well be to her but mere chiselled 
 characters — his heart travelled back to the garden at 
 Dovenest, and into another world of pleasant years, that 
 seemed almost as much apart from that in which he now 
 lived, as two separate states of existence ! He thought 
 too of his father's love for Abel, and his conscience told 
 him that he had not forgotten the old man's dying words. 
 19*
 
 122 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Such remeiribrances might not now, after so many years, 
 be very frequent; but they Jiever recurred without re- 
 freshing his whole moral being', and deepening his con- 
 tentment, his gratitude, and his f;uth. 
 
 Towards Mary Morrison, the feelings of the whole 
 family, if not of a more affectionate, were of a deeper 
 kind. But for them she might have been wholly lost ; 
 and the gradual revival of her disconsolate, and once 
 almost broken heart, was a daily delight to them all ; but 
 far beyond others, to Lucy. There was nothing approach- 
 ing to jealousy in Martha's mind towards Mary; on the 
 contrary, that warm-hearted girl always behaved to her 
 with a thoughtful tenderness, which made Lucy love her 
 cousin more than she had ever done before, and anxious 
 to shew her, at all times, that there was no preference of 
 Mary Morrison in anything that could wound either pride 
 or affection. Martha was certainly iuferior to them both 
 in fineness, and tenderness, and depth of character ; but 
 still they had no feelings in which she could not, in her 
 owrt way and measure, sympathize ; and she sometimes 
 won upon their very closest affection, by unexpected and 
 casual glimpses of sensibilities that her ordinary deport- 
 ment did not display, but which yet slumbered in her 
 nature, and were fated, at no very distant time, to be 
 called into play in the more difficult duties of mature 
 life. 
 
 As for the Maynes, it is wonderful how happy they all 
 were at Ladyside. Jacob's eldest daughter had been 
 requested in marriage by one of the most respectable 
 young men in the whole parish, the only son of a con- 
 siderable heritor; and this event, independent of its natu- 
 ral interest to a father's heart, relieved his too anxious 
 and foreboding mind from all the worst fears about his 
 family in case of his own death. 
 
 Isaac had cost his father much money — such now 
 were Jacob's own words when speaking of his dead son, 
 to his very intimate friends, and without the remotest 
 meaning of censure — so that it was generally supposed 
 that there was a heavy mortgage on the property formerly 
 belonging to Richard Mayne. Such thoughts, very
 
 THE FORESTERS. 223 
 
 natural, and not at all reprehensible, came to Jacob's 
 mind, along with the influence of time, and the operation 
 of many other better reflections, till, by midsummer, a 
 stranger going in to Ladyside, mjght have remained there 
 a whole day without seeing or hearing anything to make 
 him suspect that, a few months ago, death had taken away 
 him who had been the pride of the whole house. 
 
 It was again midsummer, and no less than two whole 
 years had revolved since Lucy had set out at midnight, 
 under the guidance of Edward Ellis, for Ellesraere. 
 These two years had brought hor to woman's estate; 
 and now, in her seventeenth June, perhaps her friends at 
 the Vicarage, were they to see her now, would scarcely 
 know her to be the same maiden that came so suddenly 
 upon them, on thit day of rain and thunder, weeping 
 and sobbing on account of her dying mother. These 
 friends had not forgotten her, and the hour had come 
 when Ruth Colinson and her brother Miles were indeed 
 at Bracken Braes. 
 
 Beautifully prepared for their arrival was the avenue, 
 the green, the garden, and the cottage. Agnes and Lucy 
 remembered the exquisite neatness of everything in and 
 about the English Vicarage, and almost despaired of 
 equalling what seemed to be peculiar to the character of 
 that country. There was a richness, too, of verdure and 
 bloom at Ellesmere, with which nothing in their own 
 poor pastoral part of Scotland could pretend to vie; and 
 coming from all those woods and groves, sounding with 
 their open or hidden waterfalls, what could the Colin- 
 sons think of their lone valley, and the Heriot Water 
 wimpling along the open pastures ? But these thoughts 
 had been only half sincere; and as the sun rose on one 
 of the fairest mornings that the summer had brought, 
 Lucy eyed the place with pride, and was glad that their 
 friends from England were to arrive at Bracken Braes 
 during such heavenly weather. In the cool of the even- 
 ing before, all the shrubberies had been watered; a slight 
 sprinkling of bright blue gravel, from the burn, had given 
 H spirit of liveliness to the avenue and all the plants 
 through which it winded along ; and it seemed as if every
 
 224 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bee in the parish were in the plane tree, so loud, and yet 
 so lulling was the sound in that umbrageous tent. 
 
 Ruth and her brother had been true to the very hour ; 
 and never had there been a happier meeting than now 
 befell in front of that cottage. Martha was no insigni- 
 ficant personage on this occasion ; and, for a short time, 
 Lucy left all the questions to her, preserving all her own 
 kindest whisperings to Ruth, for the shadows of the even- 
 
 This visit awoke in the hearts of Michael and Agnes 
 the most distressing, and the most delightful remem- 
 brances belonging to their whole life; and, while Lucy 
 accompanied Ruth and Miles all about the braes, and, 
 not unfrequently, to the Hirst — the only old place worth 
 seeing to strangers — they remained at home conversing 
 about the Vicarage, and the mercy shewn to them by 
 their Maker in that crisis. But, after the first week, Mi- 
 chael also took his staff", and made one of the party on 
 many of their excursions; and, on all such walks, Lucy 
 more and more regarded Miles Colinson with esteem and 
 affection, for then he shewed himself forth in converse 
 with her father; and his were talents strong by nature, 
 and nobly endowed by sciences in which tiiere is no de- 
 ce[)tion, and that give a simple and unostentatious char- 
 acter to the whole mind of him by whom they are suc- 
 cessfully pursued. How superior seemed to Lucy the 
 calm settled knowledge of such a mind as that of Miles 
 Colinson, to the wild and disturbed eccentricities which, 
 with all his feeling and genius, had fatally characterized 
 that of Isaac Mayne ! This knowledge was clearly in 
 alliance with virtue. Here, heart and mind were almost 
 different .words for the same thing; and Lucy, when 
 Miles was speaking to her father on such subjects as she 
 could understand, did not so much think about his abili- 
 ties as his dispositions; for a certain considerate sweet- 
 ness of sentiment embued all he said with the common 
 spirit of humanity. Yet was Miles Colinson fit to be 
 coinpared, in her imagination, with Edward Ellis, the 
 graceful, and elegant, and beautiful boy, that had once 
 laid himself down, and watched over her, while she slept
 
 THE FORESTERS. ' 225 
 
 by tliat mossy well in the desert, with no other living 
 thing near them but the moorland birds, and the bees 
 murmuring through her dreams among the flowers and 
 heatiier-bells of" the solitary mountains? But that was a 
 childish vision, and never again could it find an abiding 
 place within a bosom not yet indeed depressed, but still 
 somewhat hushed by the almost unconscious influence of 
 the shadows of time stealing upon her altered being ! 
 The past, while it rose up before her, now always pos- 
 sessed the character of a dream, and, like a dream, stood 
 apart by itself from the realities of the living world. Such 
 dreams visit every human heart — sometimes, perhaps, 
 sickening it by the contrast, yet oflener inspiring grati- 
 tude ; for, in all their beauty, what are they but the gol- 
 den mist that shrouds all objects in undistinguishable de- 
 light, and veils from youthful eyes the real shapes and 
 lineaments of nature. 
 
 Besides, Lucy's whole mind was now woman grown; 
 and all the relations of life had been, oftener than she 
 knew, meditated upon by her with their delights and du- 
 ties. The conversations that took place every evening 
 by the fireside, when all were sitting together, were often 
 of a light, but never of a trifling nature. Pure were all 
 Lucy's thoughts as the well in which she dipped her 
 pitcher, but they were familiar with all sacred household 
 words ; and, as she beheld herself in her mirror which, 
 close to the window of her bedroom, reflected, not only 
 her face and figure, but all the flowering richness of the 
 avenue, and the beauty of the broomy braes, she would 
 sometimes slowly retire, and then as slowly return in her 
 rejoicing beauty, like a bride on her wedding morn ; and, 
 it may be, wondering, in a transient thought, if it were 
 impossible that she could be now beloved by Miles Col- 
 inson, as she had once been by one far away over the 
 roaring seas ! 
 
 Poor Mary Morrison, the blossoms of whose early af- 
 fections had been so soon dismally blighted, thought now 
 of nothing else than Lucy and Mr. Colinson. Could she 
 see Lucy married to such a man, then would all her own 
 cares be forgotten. The sight of such pure, calm, thought-
 
 226 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 ful, and profound affection as was dawning upon her eyes 
 sometimes almost made her weep; for although her con- 
 science had not much to reproach her with in her un- 
 happy love for Mark Thornhill, how different had been 
 his wooing fi-om this ! How uncertain and how troubled, 
 — how cruel in its close — and then what distraction on 
 that bed of death ! Their's were the first gentle begin- 
 nings of mutual faith — of love almost before the hearts 
 in which they were arising, knew with what kind of de- 
 light it was that they were so sweetly stirred. There 
 were truth, simplicity, honor, and religion, all united in 
 one holy purpose, and yet that purpose scarcely known 
 to those bosoms of which, nevertheless, it shaped and 
 colored all the very lightest and the very gravest thoughts. 
 " In former days, sometimes when sitting by ourselves on 
 the sunny braes, I have said to Lucy that I would be her 
 bridesmaid — some far happier creature than me must 
 now stand in that place ; but perhaps I may be allowed 
 to go with Lucy Colinson to Ellesmere; and methinks 
 these hands o' mine could better than ony ither, but her 
 ain, put up her bonny nair, and adorn her like a lily on 
 her wedding day. No black must be worn on that holy 
 morning of sadness and joy ; and I will lay aside my 
 weeds for one day, returning to them again by the next 
 sun, for they are tokens of my affection for him who is 
 gone, and also of my sin and repentance." 
 
 But what did Miles Colinson think of Lucy Forester? 
 He could not forget the hour when first he saw Ruth 
 wringing out the rain from her ringlets, as she stood 
 among them in the Vicarage, beseeching them to say if 
 her mother was indeed alive. But now those ringlets, 
 although they had lost something of that sunny glow 
 which the tempest could not tame with all its deluge, 
 were far more lovely than ever, in the subdued and tender 
 light that shone over her thoughtful forehead. Then she 
 had been accustomed to gaze on everything she beheld, 
 with the almost instinctive delight of childhood ; but now 
 Lucy understood more of the meanings on the face of 
 nature, and looked over the heaven and the earth with a 
 spirit of piety that felt God to be there, even while all
 
 THE FORESTERS. 327 
 
 her thoughts were about her fellow-creatures and their 
 habitations. Even when Lucy spoke of that festival on 
 Windermere, which, at the time, had seemed to be more 
 like a glorious train of sights passing in the trance of a 
 fairy dream, than a scene transacting on the bosom and 
 the banks of a real lake, it was with a calm and almost 
 melancholy voice ; for was she ever again to behold those 
 clouds, and woods, and waterfiills, shadowed far down 
 within the depths of that mirror, over whose surface not 
 an air breathed to veil with dim suffusion the reflected 
 scenery of earth and heaven? "Am I ever again to be 
 at Ellesmere," thought Lucy ; and the same thought, 
 more eager, ardent, impassioned, and overwhelming, was 
 in the heart of him to whom Lucy was every hour becom- 
 ing dearer and more dear till even the very sense of her 
 surpassing beauty was lost in a love that lived upon her 
 whole delightful character, and could never die while life 
 lasted, even if that beauty were to be utterly extinguished ; 
 for still the maiden at his side would be Lucy Forester, 
 and none but she was ever to be cherished in his heart, 
 whether it had been already doomed that she was thence- 
 forth to be to him but a shadow, or a steady light that 
 might shine on him forever ! 
 
 It was not possible that Miles Colinson's growing at- 
 tachment to Lucy could escape the notice of any one of 
 those most interested in her welfare; and Michael and 
 Agnes, happy as they would both be beyond their imagina- 
 tion of happiness were their daughter to become the wife 
 of such a man, almost wished that he were gone from 
 Bracken Braes. They did not know whether such a 
 connection — and yet, perhaps, the very forethought was 
 altogether but an idle dream — might be agreeable to the 
 worthy vicar. The visit had merely been one of a friendly 
 return ; and such consequences as now seemed far from 
 improbable, could never have entered into the minds of 
 Mr. Colinson's parents when he and Ruth left Ellesmere. 
 There almost seemed, to the high and independent mind 
 of Michael Forester, something clandestine, or at least 
 not perfectly open, in thus allowing the affection of the 
 guest below his roof to grow into a deeply rooted attach-
 
 228 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 ment for his own daughter, without being perfectly certain 
 that such an attachment would be approved by those who 
 were not indeed privileged to dispose of their son's feelings, 
 but certainly to guide them, and to be consulted in their 
 final decision. Agnes felt the same difficulty and delicacy 
 in this situation ; but Aunt Isobel considered the subject 
 in a very different light. " What 's the use, children, o' 
 making yourselves unhappy about what is one day to be 
 the greatest blessing that ever shone upon us frae heaven, 
 either at Dovenest or Bracken Braes ? My troth, there 
 is nae occasion to pity the folk at the Vicarage. A grand 
 vicar apostolic o' the Episcopalian Church, the young 
 man's father maun indeed be, if Lucy Forester be not 
 worthy of marrying into his family ! For my ain part, I 
 like the lad, God forgie me, very near as well as Mr. Ellis 
 himself — and he was a boy o' many thousand; but will 
 anybody tell me that he deserves our Lucy? And yet 
 he loves her well — that I can see, dim and auld as are 
 my een noo — and will love her better and better as lang 
 as he lives; for he has a strong thoughtfu' heart, that 
 young Mr. Colinson, and gin I am no sair raistaen, a 
 clear conscience ; and when such a one loveth a maiden, 
 it is not for her face, or her een, or her breast, although 
 that maiden be our bonny Lucy hersel', but for something 
 that endureth and fadeth not away, the soul within us 
 beins immortal." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Thirty long days, certainly in general the finest of 
 all the year in Scotland, from the middle of June to the 
 middle of July, had floated away down the sky since Ruth 
 and Miles Colinson had first found themselves domestica- 
 ted at Bracken Braes. Scarcely during all that time had 
 there been a dim forenoon, or any other than golden sun- 
 sets. Such weather may be objected to on account of
 
 THE FORESTERS, 229 
 
 sameness, and deficiency in picturesque and poetical 
 effects; but it gives iunple scope of time to hill-wander- 
 ers, and their walks of discovery between morn and eve, 
 unimpeded by swollen rivulet or dripping fern, can em- 
 brace vale after vale — glen after glen — secret chasm 
 known but to natives — wide moors not without a spirit 
 of lonesome beauty — lochs miles asunder — and the cat- 
 aract far up among the mountains — the boundary, in- 
 deed, of the journey, and beneath whose overshadowing 
 birches, within reach of the dewy spray, the pilgrims may 
 find shelter from the mid-day heat, and spread their table 
 in the peaceful wilderness. 
 
 But the last evening tlioy were to pass at Bracken 
 Braes, was now about to descend; and, although there 
 was no reason for melancholy, a pleasant pensiveness 
 seemed deepening below the shadow of the plane tree. 
 Ruth and Myles had taken farewell of the iew families in 
 whose houses they had familiary sat, especially those at 
 Raeshaw, Ladyside, and the Manse ; so there was nothing 
 more to do in the view of their departure. Lucy, Ruth, 
 Mary Morrison, and Martha, walked down the Heriot 
 Water in that uncertain and unconcerned state of mind 
 as to their movements, that every one feels when affected 
 by mingled pleasure and pain. Miles Colinson was glad 
 to see the group tripping across the bridge of the Whin- 
 holms ; for he was desirous of being alone for an hour 
 with Michael and Agnes, nor did he care if Aunt Isobel 
 were also to hear his confessions. 
 
 There was but little chance of any visitor coming to 
 Bracken Braes at that hour of the evening; but Miles 
 Colinson thought neither the parlor nor the plane suffi- 
 ciently safe from interruption, so he requested his friends 
 to walk with him a little way up the hill behind the house, 
 in among the hazles, hollies, and yews, where there were 
 several little glades, as perfectly retired, within a hundred 
 yards of the porch, as if they had been in the heart of a 
 forest. In one of these they took their seats on the limb 
 of an old disinterred tree ; and, while one and all suspect-? 
 ed what might be the nature of the communication, yet 
 20
 
 230 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 not one of them would have been surprised had Miles 
 Colinson introduced quite another, subject. 
 
 Miles at once declared, with earnestness but composure 
 — for he felt too profoundl}' to be visibly agitated — that 
 he loved Lucy, and hoped that, if he were so happy as to 
 gain her affections, her parents would give their consent 
 to the marriage. He acknowledged that as yet he had 
 no reason to believe that her regard for him was at all of 
 the nature of love, and that, indeed, the idea of her ex- 
 treme youth had often so influenced his behaviour towards 
 her, that he was aware she could now only think of him 
 as an elder brother. He felt that he owed it to Lucy's 
 simplicity and innocence, to the parental kindness with 
 which he had been received at Bracken Braes, and to 
 the character and condition of Mr. Forester — for now, 
 for the first time in his life, he alluded to Michael's blind- 
 ness — to the remembrance of all that happened when 
 they were at the Vicarage, and to his own father and 
 mother, to confess in this manner the state of his affec- 
 tions, before he even endeavored to win Lucy's heart. " I 
 dare not now speak to your daughter of love or marriage, 
 Mr. Forester ; for were Lucy to hear me with averted 
 eyes, methinksl could not bear to live ; but all I beseech 
 of you is leave to hope, that if, in future months or years 
 Lucy should give me her affections, you will not dislike 
 me for a son-in-law." 
 
 Both Michael and Agnes, when Miles Colinson had 
 ceased speaking, thought of themselves, and that sweet 
 spring Sabbath, more than seventeen years ago, when, in 
 the gardens of Dovenest, they found that a few words had 
 betrothed them, and that anew light, fairer than ever they 
 had beheld before, was stealing over the woods of Dryden. 
 Agnes was now sitting by Michael's side, and laid her 
 hand in sudden happiness upon his, which was not slow 
 to return its pressure. " If I live," said Michael, " to see 
 the day on which you will call Lucy your wife, this world 
 will be almost too happy for her blind father!" The 
 fine and delicate spirit of Agnes had felt unspeakable de- 
 light in the reverence with which Mr. .Colinson had be- 
 haved to her husband, and the exquisite tenderness he
 
 THE FORESTEIIS. 231 
 
 had shewn towards Lucy's youth and innocence. This 
 was indeed love — love such as she had herself enjoyed 
 for so many years — uninterrupted — unimpaired — in- 
 destructible in its sanctity and in the preserving spirit of 
 human joy, that, but for love would fall — die — and be 
 buried like the flowers of the senseless earth. 
 
 Isobel alone stood up, and, her eyes shining with a 
 lustre like that of youth, looked towards the setting sun. 
 " I see long years of happiness preparing for them by that 
 hand, which is over all His works. Yes, I have seen my 
 Agnes the happiest of the happy — as she is, and ever 
 was, the best of the good ; and now, lo ! her Maker hath 
 also blessed my Lucy, and her life and her latter end 
 shall be peace." 
 
 But now, voices were heard below, and Lucy's was 
 among them ; and, from the deadened sound, it was plain 
 the party had sat down beneath the plane tree. Although 
 but few words had been uttered by those assembled ui 
 that glade, yet a weight of solemn and sacred meaning 
 had lain upon their language. Miles Colinson, without 
 any pain, was willing to obey the injunctions of Lucy's 
 parents, not to address her till the following summer, 
 having been assured by them that there was no danger of 
 her heart yielding to any other attachment. From their 
 affectionate prayers for his welfare, he felt that, in his ab- 
 sence, they would not only prevent his image from fading 
 altogether away from Lucy's heart, but would hold it al- 
 ways before her in the most favorable and endearing light. 
 In that hopeful state of mind, he began to dwell upon 
 little circumstances that had occurred between him and 
 Lucy, that seemed now, although ihey were too indefi- 
 nite even to be named, to be not wholly insignificant; 
 and, indeed, had he not been, although aware of his own 
 moral worth and intellectual acquirements, a more than 
 usually modest person respecting any power over the fe- 
 male heart — a power which he had never before thought 
 of very seriously exerting — he might have believed, 
 without any very great mistake, that Lucy's eyes regard- 
 ed him with a pleasure that, although not what could be 
 called love, was something, at her tender age, far belter
 
 232 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 — from which would, in due time, be made to spring 
 "that consummate flower," which can only unfold toper* 
 feet beauty in the light of matured reason. 
 
 Certainly that evening, although the last, was the hap- 
 piest that Miles Colinson had passed at Bracken Braes. 
 Lucy, altogether unconscious of being not only the object 
 of all his love, but, as it might be said, affianced to him 
 by parents who feared not but that her affections would 
 soOR glide into his bosom, sat with her arm round Ruth's 
 neck, and gave her, over and over again, the kindest 
 messages to her father and mother, independently of a 
 long letter, which she had written something in the form 
 of a journal. Miles had made many pencil sketches of 
 the scenery of Holylee, which Lucy had never before 
 thought so beautiful in reality, much as she loved it all, 
 and he asked her to keep them for his sake. Lucy pro- 
 mised to do so without a blush, but with the most benign 
 eyes; and, with Miles leaning over her, arranged, accor- 
 ding to her own liking, the small green nooks with a few 
 sheep, or two or three cattle feeding, or standing below a 
 rock — a little broomy oasis in the blackness of a Scot- 
 tish moor — a waterfall — ay, even the linn of the How- 
 let's Nest closed in by gentle braes, in its sylvan loneli- 
 ness, from all but the silent sky — a glade in the Hirst 
 woods, selected by Lucy herself, because one of the fa- 
 vorite haunts of Emma Cranstoun. These, and many 
 more, she promised, as she was asked, to keep for his 
 sake ; nor did she conceal her joy at the thought of visit- 
 ing Ellesmere, which Michael said was not impossible 
 next summer, unless, indeed, the vicar and Mrs. Colinson 
 would come to them at Bracken Braes. " The Lady of 
 the Hirst," said Lucy, " will be coining home next sum- 
 mer ; for, by the blessing of God, her health is now per- 
 fectly restored by the air of those sweet foreign lands — 
 and I must not be away when she returns." But Miles 
 Colinson, from her affectionate looks when she was thus 
 thinking of Ellesmere, drew the most delightful hopes, 
 and said, with a smile, " that, for the future, they would 
 all trust in Providence." Lucy had shewn some of Em- 
 ma Cranstoun's letters, first to Ruth and then to her bro-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 233 
 
 ther, for they contained no secrets that might not be 
 heard by any friend slie had ; and Miles Colinson could 
 not but be still prouder of his Lucy — for to himself he 
 had sometimes dared to call her so, when the sunshine 
 danced into his heart — on thinking how highly that ac- 
 complished lady estimated her character, and how ten- 
 derly she admitted her into her friendship. 
 
 Early next morning a parting took place, without a 
 tear, beneath the plane tree; and, as long as Ruth and 
 her brother were visible, many a farewell was wafted to 
 them down the vale, by hand and kerchief — many a 
 prayer sent after them, when they had disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 The harvest in the parish of Holylee was this season 
 a late one, and there had been much cold and inclement 
 weather during the ripening month, so that well on in 
 October, the crops, especially on the uplands, were still 
 green, and promised badly for the thrashing floor. Since 
 the time Michael Forester came to Bracken Braes, there 
 had been much more land brought into tillage, along the 
 course of the Heriot Water; and, except now and then, 
 in a late and unfavorable season like this, the new agri- 
 culture had been far from unproductive. It so happened 
 that there were a greater number of acres under the 
 plough this year than any previous one, and there was 
 even a want of hands for the harvest. What happens in 
 one hill parish, generally happens in a great measure in 
 another, and bands of shearers were now traversing the 
 south of Scotland, some of them even from the most dis- 
 tant Highlands. 
 
 A small band, consisting of father, son, and daughter, 
 had looked in at Bracken Braes, and were hired for a 
 20* «
 
 234 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 fortnight. At the expiration of that time, they uere to 
 go to Ladyside ; and it was probable they might get a few 
 days likewise at Raeshaw. They had not been at Brack- 
 en Braes half a week, till Donald Fraser had told the 
 story of his not uneventful life. 
 
 Donald had been a soldier, and had seen service on the 
 sands of Egypt, under Abercromby. Although not the 
 Highlander who took the invincible standard, he would 
 not have been slow in taking it had it come in his way — 
 and a bayonet in his hand must have been an unchancy 
 weapon. Unfortunately, his broad breast and brawny 
 limbs had escaped without a wound, so Donald had no 
 pension. Foreign warfare and foreign climate had done 
 his constitution some wrong, and, to say the truth, except 
 by fits and starts, it did not appear that Donald had ever 
 been very fond of work. On leaving the army, which he 
 had been forced to do by rheumatism, that at one time 
 threatened to leave him lame for life, he took up his abode 
 in a hut near the head of the Dee — the most mountain- 
 ous region perhaps in Scotland. He had left a wife and 
 two children there when he joined the Forty-Second ; 
 and soon after his return, his wife died, leaving him to 
 provide, as best he could in that solitary region, for Ha- 
 mish and ['""lora. Year after year had passed awa}^, and 
 there had never been any absolute want of food or rai- 
 ment, such as they were, in Donald's hut. The lochs 
 were full of trout, the river of salmon, the heather moun- 
 t.aius of grouse, and the forest of deer, and Donald had 
 several fishing-rods, and one rifle. Now that his son and 
 daughter were arown up, they had for several harvests 
 sallied into the Lowlands, sometimes walking and work- 
 ing their way by Montrose and Kirkaldy, and, on the last 
 occasion, coming direct from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, by 
 the Brilliant steam yacht. 
 
 Hamish was about nineteen years of age, of quiet man- 
 ners, and inoffensive disposition, as most Highlanders are, 
 when not put out of their way; but bold, active, and 
 patient of hunger, cold, and toil. Besides his father, who 
 was almost of gigantic mould, Hamish seemed little more 
 than a dwarf; but he was, in fact, rather above the mid-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 235 
 
 (lie size, slim, straight, and muscular — every motion be- 
 tokening the possession of strength and agility not thrown 
 away on useless pastimes, but reserved tor occasions of 
 real need. Tiie courtesy for which his poorest ar»d most 
 uneducated countrymen are so pleasingly distinguished, 
 marked his demeanor in a more than ordinary degree ; 
 and, when he threw aside his bonnet, his freckled and 
 weather-beaten countenance, without being remarkable 
 for one single feature — except, perhaps, its light-blue 
 and sincere eyes — was extremely agreeable; and, when 
 lighted up with a smile, even handsome below its curls 
 of yellow hair. There was not a better hook on the corn 
 rig than the youns Hicrhiander; for, besides woing over 
 
 ra JOS ■' no 
 
 much ground in little lime, he left the stubble no higher 
 than his ancle. As for food, he cared not about it, nor 
 what it was, if wholesome — barley meal and goat's milk 
 had still been the chief fare in the hut by the Linn of 
 Dee; although, it must be confessed, that a more potent 
 liquor, when it came in the way, was in no disrepute, 
 and that the old man especially, although he knew his 
 besetting sin, was not very cautious against temptation. 
 
 Flora Fraser was one of those perfectly simple and 
 harmless, say at once innocent, creatures, of whom it is 
 thought we may read in old songs and ballads — the fic- 
 tions of imaginative minds in lowly life, but nowhere ex- 
 isting, even iu the hut farthest remote from the haunts of 
 men. But in those little traditionary strains of feeling 
 and of genius, the human spirit speaks of itself no more 
 than the truth ; and altliough to those who live not among 
 the lonely dwellers in the wild, and know them most im- 
 perfectly from the mere appearances of their outward 
 condition, such pictures may seem false and visionary, 
 yet the colors are true as those of twilight or the sunset 
 heavens, and, touched, by an unerring hand, obeying the 
 genuine impulses of nature. Flora had slept all her life 
 on heather or straw, and little or no care had ever been 
 taken to keep her mind from the knowledge of those 
 evils, and vices, and sins, that, like the seeds of plants, 
 seemed to be wafted by the winds into the most secluded 
 and solitary places, and sometimes grow there with 41 rank
 
 236 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 luxuriance, even below the same atmosphere that cher- 
 ishes all the best charities of life. Although her father 
 protected his daughter's virtue, and would have killed the 
 man who offered to corrupt it, yet the rough old soldier 
 had, of course, little delicacy of thinking or of speaking, 
 and had not only witnessed, but taken a part in many a 
 scene of turbulent and reckless enjoyment in those bloody 
 but triumphant companies. But still, like some beautiful 
 small bird of the mountains, that rises up, with unstained 
 and shining plumage, from the dankest marsh, and in the 
 midst of the raining mists, young Flora Fraser had re- 
 tained all the hues of her native innocence, and returned 
 home from her walks or occupations among the moun- 
 tains, happy as that bird to its nest. And now, cheerful 
 in the haughs or on the uplands of Holylee, as in the 
 glens that open down to her own river, she sung her old 
 Gaelic songs around Bracken Braes, or sat, sheltered in 
 her Tartan plaid, when the sleet came strong, below the 
 hills that wanted the heather, on which, from infancy, 
 she had watched her kw sheep and goats, at the foot of 
 the great Highland mountains. 
 
 Martha, who, for the last years of her childhood, had 
 always been a worker in the open air, was not contented 
 to remain at home in domestic occupations, and now 
 joined the shearers. She and Hamish Fraser were to- 
 gether on the same corn rig; and, busy as they all were, 
 still there was time for talk even during their work ; and 
 then, at meals taken in the field by the hedge side, on 
 some bank below a tree, all was glee and merriment with 
 every group. Hamish and Martha were at first fellow- 
 shearers, then acquaintances, and then friends; and, be- 
 fore the fortnight was over, and all the fields covered with 
 stooks, or some of them left naked by the wains rapidly 
 moving to and fro from the stack-yard, they were more 
 to each other than friends, even lovers in all the warmth 
 and tenderness of youthful affection. The Frasers al- 
 ways, after the day's work, walked down to the village to 
 their beds, in a small apartment there; and it did not 
 require much persuasion to induce Martha occasionally 
 to aceornpany them ; while old Donald led the way with
 
 THE FORESTERS. 237 
 
 his bagpipe, thnt sounded with a wild outlandish music 
 among tlie braes — laments and marches, melancholy or 
 exulting, as over chiefs that had fallen, or with kilted bat- 
 talions rushing to battle. Love was made both in shade 
 and sunshine, without those young creatures knowing that 
 it was love; and, on the evening before the Highland 
 party were to move to Ladyside, Martha promised to 
 marry Hamish Fraser, and to go with him, if he chose, to 
 the world's end. 
 
 Donald blamed in no measured terms his son's folly, 
 and tried to frighten the young lovers by terrific pictures 
 of the married life ; but he had himself done the same 
 thing in his youth; and when he saw that a marriage it 
 would be, he gave Martha his blessing. Flora, too, 
 cheerfully called her sister, for Martha was too passion- 
 ately attached to Hamish not to give her affections freely 
 to one so near akin to him. Lucy Forester was not held 
 the less dear; nor did she become forgetful or ungrateful 
 to her uncle and aunt ; yet still from Bracken Rraes she 
 was willing to go, and fearlessly, and without an hour's 
 hesitation, to enter into the uncertain prospects of a new 
 life. 
 
 Not a little surprise-was given to them all, at Michael's 
 fireside, by this unexpected event; but what had happen- 
 ed was not to be changed. There was something to re- 
 gret, but not to blame; and, since Martha would go, it 
 was now their duty to be as kind to her, on her departure, 
 as they had been during her stay, and, in as far as lay in 
 their power, to contribute to the comfort and respectabil- 
 ity of her Condition. Nature, where there is no guilt, 
 may as well be allowed to take its course, even when 
 prudence would say nay. Perhaps there was some wil- 
 fulness in Martha's disposition which could only fruitless- 
 ly have been opposed, and, if thwarted, would have affect- 
 ed not only her future happiness, but her very nature; 
 and, judging considerately and affectionately what was, 
 on the whole, best for her condition and circumstances, 
 Michael and Anrnes used few arguments to dissuade her 
 from her resolves; and then made a promise, which they 
 faithfully kept, to treat her the same as ever while she
 
 238 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Stayed at Bracken Braes, and to send her, not only with 
 their best prayer and advice, but with substantial com- 
 forts, into the wide world. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 The three merry harvest-homes at Raeshaw, Ladyside, 
 and Bracken Braes, were not over till the first week in 
 December. Many of the latest wagons left the marks of 
 their wheels on the snow; and some patches of grain, 
 that never ripened at all, fed the working horses in the 
 field or stable. The large kitchens of these houses 
 exhibited, each on its own night, a feast that was not 
 long of melting away before many well-earned appetites. 
 There was no distinction of rank between master and 
 servant, heritor or hind, at these plenteous boards ; nor 
 was there any need of crabbed censor to restrain the 
 harmless wit that ever and anon set the table in a titter 
 or a roar. Soon as the few toasts had been given, at the 
 head of which, even before his well-beloved Majesty, 
 Great George the King, came not with loud cheers, but 
 low murmuring congratulations, " The Lady of the Hirst," 
 tables, chairs, and forms were expeditiously removed, and 
 the floor cleared for the dance, reel or jig — for waltz or 
 cotillon were yet unknown ; while Bauldy Baird, succes- 
 sor to Blind Sandy Paisley, now under the mouls, screwed 
 his strings to the sticking-place, and, after a few prelusive 
 flourishes, broke, with all his birr, into the Cameronian 
 Rant, or Lord Macdonald's Reel Martha and the young 
 Highlander were conspicuous for the right good will with 
 which they tripped it and flung it to the gay strathspeys. 
 Lucy did not decline the awkward bow and the bony 
 hand of the homeliest suitor; and even Mary Morrison 
 herself was once or twice on the floor, although she pre- 
 ferred sitting with Agnes or Isobel, or making herself
 
 THE FORESTERS. . 239 
 
 useful among the refreshments. Old Donald had still in 
 the room his unmerciful bagpipe, and among the " sma' 
 hours," without asking leave of any one, blew up his 
 chanter ; and, to the angry dismay of Bauldy Baird, 
 whose fiddle was then no more heard than if it had been 
 a mouse " cheepin i' the riggin," filled the house with a 
 din that made many a pretty girl put her hands to her 
 ears, and no doubt sorely disturbed the bonny gray cock, 
 and his wives and family, in his adjoining roost beyond 
 the hallan. 
 
 Now that all these festivities were over, and winter had 
 fairly set in, who, to make amends for his absence the 
 year before, brought with him his most boisterous train 
 of storms and snows, the Highlanders spoke of taking 
 their departure — not for their liut at the Linn of Dee, 
 for that they had left forever and a day, but for distant 
 Canada. Donald Fraser had for many years been impa- 
 tient of his poor and uncertain, and often inactive life, 
 and had resolved to emigrate. He knew that he had a 
 brother in Canada, although he had not for a long time 
 heard directly from himself, and that he was also in a 
 prosperous condition ; many of his countrymen, and not 
 a few of his clan, were settled there; and the old soldier, 
 who had been in all climates, cared not if he should leave 
 his bones in a foreign soil, since it was tilled by Highland 
 hands. Hamish and Flora were willing to go with their 
 father ; and they were buoyed up by the adventurous spirit 
 of youth, that looked with an imaginative eye into a life 
 beyond the seas. It was not to be thought that Martha 
 would be the one of the party most prone to regret or 
 fear ; she had been contented in Ellesmere, happy at 
 Bracken Braes, and she now hoped to be even more than 
 happy in the Canadian woods. 
 
 Michael Forester could not, however, agree to their 
 plan of embarking at Greenock in a vessel just then about 
 to sail, and insisted on their waiting till the winter hurri- 
 canes were over, and taking advantage of the more mod- 
 erate breezes of early spring. With some difliculty the 
 stubborn veteran was prevailed on to remain in the neigh- 
 borhood for a few months ; and Ewebank, which, since
 
 240 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Abraham Morrison's death, had been untenanted, was 
 soon put into a habitable state. Donald and his son took 
 immediate possession. Michael sent over one of his best 
 milch cows, and an old oak chest, by way of girnel, well 
 filled in its two departments with oat and barley meal ; 
 Isobel added a few of her celebrated mutton hams ; and 
 old Donald himself, who, if there was a still within six 
 miles, scented it out with miraculous sagacity, procured, 
 by some inexplicable means, a tolerable sized cask of 
 mountain dew, in which he endeavored to assure his 
 sceptical friend, Mr. Forester, that there was not a single 
 headach. 
 
 Both the veteran and hi.s son got plenty of winter work 
 to do, and earned good wages. Martha was still an in- 
 mate of Bracken Braes, but there were few days on which 
 she did not see her lover. It was fixed that tlae wedding 
 was to take place on her birth-day, in the middle of Feb- 
 ruary, when she would have completed her seventeenth 
 year ; and they were to take their passage in the first 
 Greenock ship that was to sail for Canada in March. 
 
 Meanwhile every hand was busy within Bracken Braes, 
 getting ready clothes and comforts of ail kinds for the 
 voyage, and their Canadian dwelling. Martha had never 
 seemed to care much about dress before, although her 
 Westmoreland education had taught her at all times to 
 be neat and tidy about the house, as a swallow ; but now 
 she half imitated the way in which Lucy put up her hair, 
 and half adorned her ringlets, by more careful and assidu- 
 ous touches of her own taste. In compliment to Hamish, 
 or rather, in undesigned sympathy, she sent all the way 
 to Edinburgh for a plaid of the Fraser tartan ; and wheth- 
 er it was that her features and complexion suited the col- 
 ors of the web, or that her face was now tinged and ani- 
 mated by the glow of youthful passion, Martha certainly 
 never had looked half so well before, and might even be 
 said to have some pretensions to beauty. But Martha 
 had no pretensions to anything she did not possess; and 
 any little alteration that now took place, either in her 
 appearance, her manners, or her general conduct, pro- 
 ceeded entirely from that blameless joy that rose within
 
 THE FORESTERS. 241 
 
 her heart at the thought or the sight of Ilnmish Fraser ; 
 and that, so far from engrossing her wholly, prompted 
 her to even more than her usual oblioingness and grati- 
 tude to everybody around her, from all her relations at 
 Bracken Braes, to Alexander Ainslie at Holylee, who had 
 driven them, years ago down from Ellesmere. Seeing 
 her cheerfulness, her industry, her activity, her intelli- 
 gence, and her amiable disposition, now shewn in a 
 stronger and more trying light than ever, the whole family 
 felt that they were going to lose a most excellent member, 
 but at the same time one who was admirably adapted for 
 the life she had chosen, and who would be happy, and 
 make any kind husband happy, in any corner of the 
 world. 
 
 The middle of February was not long of arriving; and 
 the young Highlander issued out from the Manse, after 
 Mr. Kennedy had made them one, with Martha on his 
 arm, amidst a loud shout of congratulation, sent up from 
 all the village school children, and others of a larger 
 growth. Alexander Ainslie, whom nature had destined 
 for one of the Tenth Hussars, took the lead, and kept it 
 in the broose, on an iron gray galloway, whose fame is 
 yet rife in the parish of Holylee. Donald led the foot 
 procession across the hills, with cheeks before which the 
 peony would have waxed pale, the drones of his pipe flow- 
 ing with a hundred ribbons; and the day being calm, it 
 is asserted that the concluding pibroch was heard in the 
 kirkyard, all the way from Ewebank, although that soli- 
 tary farm-house was three good Scottish miles from Holy- 
 lee; and the length of any one of these may be judged of 
 by all who have performed the distance at the close of a 
 day's walk, when the wayside inn has seemed to retire 
 into the mists, and the termination of a Scottish mile to 
 be extended to a remoteness fearful to the very imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 About a fortnight after the wedding, a letter came from 
 
 Donald's agent, a tide-waiter in Greenock, rnarked, 
 
 " Haste and care " — an injunction to which, no doubt, 
 
 all due attention was paid by more than one postrqaster — 
 
 21
 
 242 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 urging him to appear forthwith on the qua)', for that the 
 good ship Montreal was nearly ready for sea. 
 
 Before the marriage, Michael Forester had given Mar- 
 tlia fifty pounds in money, and paid all their passages to 
 Q,uebec ; stores had been also purchased for them in 
 Greenock ; and Martha's wardrobe was little inferior in 
 the number of articles, and far superior in solid worth, to 
 many a young lady sailing in the Orient for a husband. 
 Donald, Hamish, and Flora, had each a privy purse — 
 what sums they held did not appear, but they could not 
 have been very magnificent, saved as they had been from 
 the wages of their Lowland harvests. A certain sum was 
 to be sent to them annually, after it was known where 
 they had ultimately settled, so that the emigrants were to 
 be independent of Donald's brother, who might be dead, 
 or, if alive, unwilling to acknowledge the claims of kin- 
 dred. There was, in good truth, nothing to send them 
 away to Canada, but the hearts of one and all yearned 
 for a foreign land , their cool determination had become 
 longing desire ; and even Martha was impatient to hear 
 the rustling of the great ship's sails — so different from 
 those that she had seen gliding along the blue water of 
 Windermere — and that were to waft her away from the 
 hollow skies, which lately had seemed to her to encircle 
 the whole world. 
 
 The emigrants came to take farewell, most probably 
 forever, of their friends at Bracken Braes. Martha sat 
 by the side of her youthful husband, and was waited upon 
 by Lucy, who, with tears in her eyes, handed round wine 
 and cake on the little silver tray she had got in a present 
 from Emma Cranstoun. Mary Morrison could not help 
 looking at the young bride almost with pity, for her sake, 
 and with a mournful remembrance of her own sad story ; 
 but Aunt Isobel would not allow even a parting scene to 
 be clouded with vain grief. " God bless you baith, my 
 gude bairns — nae fear you will be happy. Hear how 
 the very bird, in his cage there, sings to you — the first 
 time he has tuned his pipes this spring — and isna it a 
 cheerfu' sang ? A' the world over, nae better omens are 
 desired than the lilt o' birds; and, in Scotland, the maist
 
 THE FORESTERS. 243 
 
 encouraging is that o' the lintvvliite and the mavis." 
 Agnes put a small Bible into Martha's hand, and asked 
 back her own as a memorial ; Michael put his hand on 
 her head, and, remembering his brother Abel, gave her 
 a silent blessing ; and then sweet Flora Fraser came in 
 for her share of the tender farewell, when the emigrant?! 
 at last rose to go. Lucy and Mary Morrison were not in 
 the room ; but they had gone to wait for them a little way 
 down the burn, and they did not return home till more 
 than an hour after their final departure. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Once more had the sunny June loaded the woods of 
 the Hirst with beauty, and darkened into grateful twilight 
 a thousand glades, that, but a month ago, were all open to 
 the sky. The gray walls of the ancient edifice could now 
 be espied but from a few distant points; for oak, elm, 
 and sycamore were hiding all its turrets. For two dull 
 years, the majestic and venerable place had lost the ani- 
 mating and presiding spirit, that breathed a cheerfulness 
 throughout all its scenery. Although skilful hands had 
 continued to do everything required by the perfect order 
 and regularity of the walks, lawns, and gardens, that 
 furnished a delightful contrast to the rich confusion of 
 nature over the adjacent groves and remoter woods, yet, 
 during the absence of the lady, many fine and delicate 
 perceptions had been wanting, which had formerly dis- 
 covered, almost every day, some new embellishment, or 
 some magic change — perhaps no more than the lopping 
 oflf a bough, or the thinning of a coppice-screen, that, in 
 a moment, brought the airy distance to view, or a cot- 
 tage embowered in trees, or a bright slope of hill side, or 
 a wider expanse of sky, for the clouds to travel in or to 
 repose. But now the Hirst was to be jocund as in its
 
 244 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 best days; for llie wide gates of the avenue were flung 
 open, and, under an arch — a triumphal arch of flowers 
 and blossoms — was the lady expected to pass to her na- 
 tive home, returnincT from blessed Italy in perfect health, 
 and, as the rumor flew, if possible more beautiful than 
 ever. 
 
 A few days before, there had been a meeting of some 
 of the most intelligent of the tenantry, and they had 
 arranged with the land steward their plan of welcome. 
 Ten thousand branches would never be missed in those 
 extensive and gigantic woods ; the removal of ten thou- 
 sand flowery sprays would scarcely dim the lustre of that 
 wilderness of lilacs and laburnums; the bees would know 
 no difference among the banks of wallflowers, although 
 troops of children were to carry away, in little baskets 
 on their heads, all that their hands in one forenoon could 
 gather of those balmiest treasures of our Scottish Flora; 
 and if the earliest roses must go, although yet but in the 
 bud, let them be plucked without a sigh, and trust to the 
 prodigal summer to bring undiminished brightness to 
 every i)arterre and terrace. But they all knew that the 
 lady had been fond of roaming among the braes, and that 
 she admired nothing more than the spreading fern, and 
 the broom that yellowed the little lonely glens. Many a 
 pretty plant, and flower, and weed, grows almost in every 
 solitary nook, and places familiar only to the birds, bees, 
 and sheep, were now rifled of their sweetness, that the 
 triumphal arch might shew to her gaze some of the na- 
 tive products of the hills, intermingling their simple 
 charms with the richness of the lawn and garden. It 
 was not till a little after sunrise, on the very morning the 
 lady was expected to arrive, that the last touches were 
 given to the arch by Lucy's own hands, and so many j)er- 
 fectly fresh and unfading flowers were clustering there, 
 that the wandering bees wheeled from their forward 
 flight to the clover lee, and lingered in the honey dew of 
 those gorgeous garlands. 
 
 Sucii was the spirit of the festival ; for, among those 
 lowly folks, love looked to imagination to brighten the 
 lady's birthplace to her eyes on her return from a
 
 THE FORESTEKS. 245 
 
 foreign land. Tliat triumphal arch was nothing less 
 than most beautiful, with its shower of blossoms now 
 moving in the breeze, and now, when the air was calm, 
 depending steadfiistly as images in water. But the bu- 
 gle rang from the top of tiie central turret of the hall 
 — a signal of the happy approach — and up came a splen- 
 did equipage sweejiing along, while the tall white ostrich 
 feathers, gracefully nodding in the airy sunshine, told 
 all the joyful assemblage that the Lady of the Hirst was 
 there. There was no shout, nor yet was there any music 
 to sound a welcome; but all the tenantry stood with un- 
 covered and bowed heads in salutation; not with down- 
 cast looks, as on the day she left them, but with smiles 
 of rejoicing, and not a few tears, amidst a deepening 
 murmur of blessings. On both sides of the entrance, 
 immediately below the arch that shed flowers down upon 
 their bosoms, stood a row of pretty children, all dressed 
 in white, who dropped courtesies, with eyes fixed in ad- 
 miration of their lady's angelic beauty, as she stood up 
 in the carriage, and, perhaps little able to speak, waved 
 blessings over all tlie crowd, with arms that, in their 
 graceful motion, were fairer than the snow. A little 
 apart from the main assemblage, in hopes of attracting 
 the lady's eyes, stood the party from Bracken Braes; and 
 Lucy's heart quaked with joy when that hand waved a 
 kiss towards her, and a smile followed it, of such pierc- 
 ing sweetness as placed her at once in heaven. 
 
 This was no idle pageant, that passes away, and leaves 
 the heart half despising the emptiness of a fantastic 
 dream. But here gratitude gave visible and vivid ex- 
 pression to itself, for its own and its object's delight, in 
 the greenness of bough, and the brightness of blossom, 
 which might, without any regret, all fade and wither in 
 the next week's sun, since the feeling they symbolled 
 was imperishable. The very children felt the whole 
 meaning of the spectacle, of which themselves made a 
 proud part; and the wonderful show of flowers was un- 
 derstood by them, as it indeed was, to be an offering to 
 Heaven — although they had never heard of such altars 
 21*
 
 246 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 • — of thanksgiving for that beautiful being's escape from 
 the grave. The Sabbath before Mr. Kennedy had al- 
 luded to her in his prayer; and that recollection now 
 gave within every innocent heart over which it came a 
 religious sanctity to the rural festival. 
 
 Nor was the assemblage suffered to depart and dis- 
 solve, till the Lady of the Hirst had an opportunity of 
 more fully expressing her sense of the kindness shewn, 
 than she had been able to do in the sudden surprise of 
 that delightful reception. A message was sent to Mr. 
 Forester, who was present, in perfect happiness, amidst 
 the beauty of a scene which, from Lucy's words, he had 
 been at no loss to imagine, that she would be happy to 
 see all her friends, young and old, on the southern lawn. 
 There they were soon arranged in an order that could 
 not be otlierwise than proper, since all fell into the 
 places that were felt to belong to their own age, charac- 
 ter, or condition. The door of the greenhouse opened, 
 and down came the lady, with light steps, and across 
 the carpet sod, close to the first row of her humble friends. 
 With the sweetest smiles that ever were seen, she, first 
 of all, said, that she hoped happiness had been in their 
 homes ; and then, with a more solemn expression of 
 eyes, returned thanks to Cod in their presence for his 
 great mercy to herself " But where is Lucy Forester 1 " 
 These few words, said with a silvery tone, brought Lucy 
 from her father's side; and as she stood there, with eyes 
 downcast, and cheeks pale in emotion, many thought 
 that it was hard to tell which was the most beautiful — 
 Emma Cranstoun or Lucy Forester. All, too, remem- 
 bered that she had attended the lady in her illness, and 
 had been instrumental in saving her very life. Was it 
 not also well known that Lucy had been the friend of 
 all, whenever she had been questioned about their fire- 
 sides ; and that, from her representation, their benefac- 
 tress had learned all her true knowledge of the family 
 at Bracken Braes, Therefore, not one heart there felt 
 the slightest touch of envy on seeing Lucy thus singled 
 out; while Michael, who had heard the words with 
 sightless eyes towards heaven, was perhaps the happiest
 
 THE FORESTERS. 247 
 
 man there ; and llie gentle Agnes cared not if the whole 
 assembly noticed her gushing tears. Emma Cranstoun 
 kissed Lucy's cheek, and whispered a few words into her 
 ear ; and then, knowing her own station, and finally un- 
 derstanding how far the lady's condescension was, at 
 this time, meant to extend, Michael's daughter, after a 
 low obeisance, returned to his side, and the whole group 
 expressed their pleasure and applause. 
 
 This had not been intended for one of those more or- 
 dinary commonplace merry meetings, where tables are 
 placed beneath the shade, and the jovial tenantry of some 
 great estate feast in honor of the house. Such festivals 
 have their own peculiar character of happiness, and may 
 they never be blotted out from the holidays. But here 
 the meaning of the entire day was higher and more 
 solemn : little parties were formed by the children and 
 their parents, up and down the woods, at some consider- 
 able distance from the hall, which wr,s now left altogether 
 undisturbed ; other groups took their frugal refreshments 
 by the spring wells among the braes, plucking thevvater 
 cresses to their bread ; and, in net a ^ew of the houses 
 on the estate, there were evening meetings of youths and 
 maidens, who were all dressed already in their best array, 
 and saw each other home, among the falling dews, and 
 below the moon and stars. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Lucy had never, in former years, contemplated the 
 beauty of Emma Cranstoun without melancholy ; but now 
 there was no occasion for any such feeling; for her step, 
 although light as ever, was now far more elastic. Noth- 
 ing like lassitude or decay belonged to her most graceful 
 of all figuies. Her voice was mellow as her own new- 
 strung lute ; and the joyfulness of grateful health tinged
 
 248 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 her face, without being able to overcome its characteris- 
 tic pensiveness. She never could — never ought — never 
 wished to forget, that from the very brink of death she 
 had been restored ; and that remembrance, present with 
 her in her pleasanter hours, could not but give to her eyes 
 a perpetual expression of piety, that threw an affecting 
 light over all her ordinary pursuits. It might well have 
 been said that her manners were religious, for they were 
 all inspired by a spirit that was so indeed ; and while 
 Emma Cranstoun seldom or never introduced, into her 
 common conversation, any of that language which, being 
 divine, ought cautiously to be guarded against any in- 
 voluntary profanation, her pious heart spoke in the entire 
 structure of her speech. She said, that she liked even to 
 hear Lucy's Doric tongue ; but what could be her plea- 
 sure, in all its simple or Scottish phrases, sweetly sylla- 
 bled as they were, to the delight which Lucy enjoyed 
 from that perfectly beautiful English that flowed from the 
 lady's lips, expressive at once of all the highest endow- 
 ments of mind and soul, and of a range both of thought 
 and feeling to which the humble shepherdess of Bracken 
 Braes feared even to raise her imagination. 
 
 Lucy felt now, even more than ever, the vast distance 
 at which she stood from the Lady of the Hirst. But her's 
 was still the same affection, not at all altered in its nature, 
 only deepened and strengthened by a clearer insight into 
 the order of things. When a child — at least a mere girl 
 — she had often sat in the lady's presence, never, never 
 indeed, with anything like the feeling of an equal, but 
 almost without any restraint, and free of her own accord 
 to talk or to smile. But now Lucy saw the nice duties 
 of look and manner which that gracious and benign 
 friendship imposed — duties that no one else could have 
 discerned. "There is nothing to hinder love from existing 
 between persons in most unequal conditions, when each 
 knows well the full nature of her own ; and perhaps in 
 some peculiarly felicitous instances, that very inequality 
 preserves the completeness of the emotion, and continues 
 it to the end pure, unfading, and entire. It was so with 
 Emma Cranstoun and Lucy Forester. Here it might be
 
 THE FOKESTEKS. 249 
 
 said met together the genii of the hall and the hut — and 
 who could pronounce which spirit was most beautiful, 
 the lady with her dark hair braided across her pensive 
 forehead, and a few pearls among the lace veil that shap- 
 ed her head-dress into that which charms in old pictures 
 of our Mary Queen, or the shepherdess with her golden 
 tresses yet as rich in ringlets as when Isaac Mayne com- 
 l)ared it to a star twinkling on the brow t)f the hill, with 
 rays seemingly half light and half dew, so bright, and yet 
 so soft, the splendor ? 
 
 " What a heart must be her's," thought Lucy, " never 
 to have forgotten one single event or incident, however 
 small, that we ever talked about — never to have lost the 
 least part of her interest in any of the concerns of any 
 one poor family in the whole parish, after an absence of 
 two years — and these years, too, past in struggling with 
 disease in far away countries ! What a memory have the 
 truly good !" All this was true, and no exaggeration of 
 Lucy's admiring heart. Indeed, the Lady of the Hirst 
 was more attached to it than ever; and now that her 
 health allowed her to rise with the sun, what blessings 
 was it in her power to bestow during the length of a mid- 
 summer day ! At Bracken Braes all that was needed was 
 her presence. "An hour in the week, on an average, all 
 the year through, will content me," said the blind man ; 
 " a visit from her makes that day a Sabbath, Agnes — 
 does it not?" And Agnes felt the very same state of 
 mind her husband had thus expressed. Aunt Isobel, it 
 seems, had once seen the lady's mother on the steps of 
 Dalkeith House when she was a bride; but she was forc- 
 ed to confess that the living Emma Cranstoun was the 
 fairer — one of the few instances on record of a daughter 
 being more beautiful than her mother. Mary Morrison, 
 now almost cheerful in her widowhood, yet meek as when 
 that word was in childhood first applied by general con- 
 sent to her name, desired no better happiness than to be- 
 hold Lucy sitting in the lady's smiles ; but if not a better, 
 yet a more animating happiness was her's, when she her- 
 self too came in for her own share of kindness, retired as 
 she most frequently was on some seat in a nook, or a little
 
 250 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 out of the circle, not to shun observation, for she had 
 lived once more to love the sunshine, but from an hum- 
 ble habit learned in other days, and proceeding from a 
 part of her very nature. 
 
 " Lucy, have you heard that my brother is coming to 
 the Hirst ? I fear that his long detention in France has 
 not been for the benefit of his character ; but I shall hope 
 the best. You know that I had not seen Harry since I 
 was almost a child ; but last winter he came to see me at 
 Rome. He is, alas! too much a foreigner — but he 
 treated me with the greatest affection. I do not think 
 that he will ever live at the Hirst; and he has told me 
 that I may live here, if I choose, all my life." No words 
 could be more happy to Lucy, for her heart did not ex- 
 pect, and scarcely wished ever to care much for anything 
 out of the parish of Holylee. 
 
 But Emma Cranstoun had another communication to 
 confide to Lucy, and she was now led to do so from its 
 connection with what she had said about her brother. " I 
 am engaged, Lucy, to be married; but he who hopes to 
 be my husband loves dearly the parish of Holylee, and we 
 shall reside at the Hirst, if my brother prefers living 
 abroad — if he possesses the hall of his forefathers, which 
 I wish he may do, then Mr. Ellis intends to purchase the 
 Mains, and build a mansion there, on the site of the pre- 
 sent ruin." 
 
 " Mr. Ellis !" that word almost stopped the beatings of 
 Lucy's heart, although at first it made it flutter nearly in- 
 to a fainting fit; but Emma Cranstoun was herself too 
 much possessed by her own thoughts to observe her emo- 
 tion. " Edward told me that he had frequently visited 
 the family at Bracken Braes ; and, indeed, when I think 
 of your moonlight journey, I could almost be jealous ;" 
 and Emma lifted her beautiful white arm to adjust a ring- 
 let that she then felt upon her blushing cheek, with a 
 smile that shewed at once ignorance of poor Lucy's first 
 love, and confidence in the power of her beauty. " I am 
 sure, Lucy, you will admire my Edward ; he, I know, 
 will love every one I love; and there is not, and never 
 will be, that friend dearer to my heart than Lucy Forester."
 
 THE FORESTERS. 251 
 
 Lucy soon recovered her composure — and, indeed, 
 what had there been said to agitate her — lor liad not 
 Edward Ellis been long ago thought of with unpainful 
 affection, and, of late, often removed out of her remem- 
 brance ! And, then, had not her own heart found more 
 pleasure, more happiness, more delight, than perhaps she 
 might be willing to confess, even to herself, in the com- 
 pany of Miles Colinson ? Could she have laid her hand 
 on that fair bosom, and denied that it had ever heaved a 
 tender sigh when dreaming of Ellesmere 1 Was a dream 
 of the days of old, once bright and beautiful as it was — 
 and tender, most tender, in all its celestial bliss — to come 
 back from the mist to drive away the pleasant prospects 
 which were dawning around her life, or to deaden her 
 spirit to the enjoyment of more sober realities ? Lucy 
 had too simple, too strong, too wise a heart, long to in- 
 dulge in such delusions ; and, after a pause of not very 
 many minutes, she kissed the lady's hand — an expression 
 of attachment which she especially loved, because, felt to 
 be at once respectful and endearing — and, after prayers 
 for her happiness with Mr. Ellis, as sincere as ever went 
 to heaven, she returned perfectly happy, by the Gow- 
 an Green and the Hawk Stane Spring, to Bracken 
 Braes. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 When Michael Forester compared all the circumstan- 
 ces of his life, from his earliest remembrances, with all 
 that he knew of the lot of any other individual, high or 
 low, rich or poor — and such comparisons had, of late 
 years, been more and more frequently made by him in 
 his solitary meditations, or in cheerful conversation with 
 his beloved Agnes, when all the household were asleep — 
 what reason had he to be grateful to Providence for so
 
 252 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 t- 
 
 many undeserved blessings! Even their unceasing so- 
 licitude about Lucy had been to them both a source ol" 
 happiness ; for, in all their anxieties, they felt that she 
 was nevertheless secure, and that their fears proceeded 
 entirely from an excess of parental affection. Her beauty 
 and her goodness were to them one idea; and, when 
 praying together, they felt assured that both were inde- 
 structible. Then, how had all their worldly affairs pros- 
 pered ! Rich they were not, nor wished to be ; bad sea- 
 sons and fluctuating prices had affected them as well as 
 their neighbors; and, for a good many years, they had 
 had struggles to preserve their independence. But the 
 farm of Bracken Braes had seemed to become more pro- 
 ductive after Michael's blindness, not merely from its 
 increased cultivation, but even as if the sunshine and the 
 dews had visited it more genially since that affliction. 
 All the money that Michael had at first to borrow had 
 been repaid ; Aunt Isobfel's three hundred pounds had 
 again been put into the bank in her own name — for, old 
 as she was, it was yet possible that she might survive 
 them all; the stock on the farm was his own, and the 
 furniture in the house; and he had considerable sums 
 lent on unexceptionable securities. Were Lucy ever to 
 be left an orphan, she would be very far from destitute ; 
 and, perhaps, that confidence is the most perfectly sooth- 
 ing and satisfactory feeling that can fill the bosoms of 
 affectionate and thoughtful parents. What more could 
 they desire on this side the grave? 
 
 Now that Lucy was grown to woman's estate, they 
 sometimes had spoken to her of such matters ; and, al- 
 though at first she listened with a painful feeling — for 
 the very possibility which these conversations implied of 
 her parents' death was most distressing — yet, since they 
 were so deeply interested in what they said, she did not 
 interrupt them, and even put on an appearance of being 
 interested herself, which was altogether foreign to her 
 real state of mind. As long as her father and her mother 
 lived, Lucy cared not either about riches or poverty; 
 were they to die, she felt that nothing could ever lighten 
 to her eyes the darkened earth. But they were both well.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 253 
 
 Strong, and happy; neither were they old ; and, as for 
 her mother, Lucy thought her, nor was she greatly de- 
 ceived, except the Lady of the Hirst, the most beautiful 
 person she had ever seen; but Emma Cranstoun was not 
 yet twenty, and Agnes Hay nearly twice that age. Her 
 matronly loveliness was yet admired by all ; but they who 
 remembered her when she first came into the parish of 
 Holylee, doubted if, at that time, she could not have stood 
 a comparison even with the lady, now in the perfection 
 of her virgin beauty. 
 
 Thr-y were all sitting together under the plane tree, 
 and Lucy cheering the evening silence with a song, when 
 a stranger, who had stood unobserved at a small distance 
 during the time she was singing, advanced courteously, 
 and introduced himself as Mr. JMaxwell. The name was 
 one that had long since ceased to be familiar to Michael's 
 mind ; but Agnes at once recognised a likeness in his 
 features to those of the gentleman whom she had seen at 
 Dovenest, that evening her husband told her of the ruin 
 of his fortunes. " I am the only son, Mr. Forester, of 
 Mr. Maxwell who came into possession of your property 
 between Lasswade and Roslin." These words awoke 
 many remembrances in Michael's mind, but they were of 
 no painful nature, for he had never repined from the first 
 day he had left Dovenest, and had long been so perfectly 
 reconciled to his lot, that he often felt the pleasure of 
 living over again his life in those quiet gardens washed 
 by the Esk that murmured louder than the Heriot Water 
 in his dreams. " It is getting late in the evening, sir; 
 will you be our guest till the morning?" Mr. Maxwell 
 assented, and they ail went together into the house. 
 
 It was not till after supper and prayers that their guest 
 spoke of any but ordinary subjects; but just as Lucy was 
 lighting his taper, he asked leave to address them on an 
 affair of some importance, and which he hoped would 
 tend in some measure even to promote their domestic 
 happiness, although he saw, and indeed previously knew, 
 that it was built on a surer foundation than mere temporal 
 prosperity. " My father, Mr. Forester, was an honest
 
 .254 THE FORESTEES. 
 
 and upright man, and I should be unworthy of calling 
 myself his son, did I not respect his memory. But by 
 his successful industry I nm now a rich man, and I am 
 come to restore to you the full value of that property 
 which, on an unfortunate occasion, passed from your 
 into his hands. I do not say that I am unentitled to it, 
 although my doubts are strong ; but be that as it may, it 
 is now yours ; and had the place itself not long ago been 
 purchased and repurchased, as you know, Dovenest itself 
 should now have been put into your possession. Before 
 I leave this roof, my words shall be made good." 
 
 Michael Forester continued to sit exactly in the same 
 posture in which he was before Mr. Maxwell began to 
 speak, nor did any visible emotion pass over his placid 
 countenance. Agnes looked at her husband, but her 
 face was equally calm. Aunt Isobel alone spoke : — 
 "Ay — there is an honest man — something more than 
 honest — your very face, my friend, declares your charac- 
 ter, and my heart warmed towards you when you knelt 
 beside me on our earthen floor. Your substance will not 
 be lessened by this act; but for it and others like it — 
 for good deeds, like bad, never go single — Providence 
 will bless your children's children." Mr. Maxwell seemed 
 to feel that his conduct scarcely deserved such benedic- 
 tion ; but as his conscience told him that he was doing 
 right, his heart did not wholly decline the old lady's com- 
 mendations, and he had seldom been happier than he now 
 was at that fireside. 
 
 Michael, in a few minutes, shewed that very strong 
 feelings were rising within his breast. The mere recovery 
 of what had been lost so long ago did not afTect him at 
 all, but the principle of Mr. Maxwell's conduct did so 
 exceedingly, and there also came over him a deep sense 
 of the goodness of his Maker. How had all things wrought 
 together for the good of himself and family ! His father 
 had died quite happy at last, and full of years — poor 
 Abel, after much suffering, no doubt, which his errors 
 incurred, had found, when all his wanderings were over, 
 a hopeful death-bed, and a quiet grave — Martha the 
 orphan, although far away, had prospects of happiness in
 
 THE FORESTERS. 255 
 
 that peaceful foreign land — who was so good, and so 
 happy, as his beautiful Lucy — Agnes Hay had brought 
 blessings into his house which none enjoyed more than 
 that gentle spirit — in extreme age, Aunt Isobel was 
 cheerful as a new-stirred fire — and Mary Morrison, in 
 her meekness, was like a child of their own at Bracken 
 Braes. 
 
 For an hour after all the others had retired to rest, 
 Michael sat by himself in his chair, aware, from the 
 cessation of the flickering sound, that the fire was dead 
 on the hearth. It was pleasant to be alone in the per- 
 fect silence. His whole soul was calm and bright as 
 the heavens stretched with their stars over all the quiet 
 hills. 
 
 What stronger proof of the superior e.xcellence and 
 happiness of virtue, than that placid and serene content- 
 ment that is almost always the portion of the blind ! 
 That inner world, which is to us all the most essential 
 world which we inhabit, is to them more clearly discov- 
 ered than to ourselves. Our inward eye is dazzled with 
 the light in which we live; but theirs, in its darkness, 
 sees well and undisturbedly. Their mind is a clearer 
 world to them, as it is also more clearly revealed. Hence 
 it is, that judging more justly of the human soul, they are 
 less troubled with its passions. Cut off from so many ol 
 the amusements and pursuits of human life, and left so 
 much to the dominion of their own silent spirits, they 
 feel and know that there is no stability — no hope — no 
 trust in vicious appetences or degrading thoughts. All 
 these they fear and abhor as false friemiri, stealing upon 
 the noiseless calm of their lives, and whose visit must 
 bring and leave behind trouble and remorse. But kind 
 affections — pure sentiments — lofty thoughts — gentle 
 opinions of humanity — and devout feelings towards God ; 
 these are a solace and support, in which there can be 
 nothing vain or delusive. Resignation is ever attended 
 with its own perfect peace; and the blind, sitting in their 
 solitude, and for a while forgotten, perhaps even by those 
 who most tenderly love them, are happy, because their 
 souls are true to virtue, and because the Great Being
 
 256 THE FORESTERS, 
 
 who inflicted the dispensation, has more than compensated 
 it, by that inward light which shines amidst the thick- 
 est darkness, with its own sacred and inextinguishable 
 lustre. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 The Hirst had, for severaKweeks, been a scene of un- 
 usual festivities; for Henry Cranstoun, with several fash- 
 ionable friends, had arrived there from London ; and it 
 soon appeared that his tastes and enjoyments were alto- 
 gether of a different description from those of his incom- 
 parable sister. Mr. Cranstoun had not been in Scotland 
 since his childhood; for he had received his education at 
 a great English school, and one of the English universi- 
 ties, and had afterwards been detained for many of the 
 best and most critical years of his life at Verdun. That 
 system of education., which has formed so many good and 
 great men, had to him been productive of nothing but 
 evil. His fine talents had either lain wilfully neglected, 
 or grossly misapplied — his passions had run riot in early 
 indulgence — and, before he left England, he had formed 
 wild, irregular, and disorderly habits, which his long resi- 
 dence in France had confirmed. It was not possible 
 now, either to himself or others, to understand what was 
 his natural character, it was so overlaid with foreign ac- 
 complishments, follies, and vices. His, however, had 
 seemed to be the very worst kind of selfishness — that 
 whicli enjoys nothing intensely, unless there be about it 
 something vicious or unlawful ; and with all that cheerful 
 laughter and airy demeanor, that to heedless observation 
 betokened only good humor and generosity, Henry Cran- 
 stoun had always an eye to his own gratifications, and 
 would greedily grasp them to the sacrifice of every just 
 and humane principle. But then he was in the prime of 
 life — extremely handsome — skilled in almost every art
 
 THE FORESTERS. 257 
 
 of insinuation and allurement — master of all the modern 
 lanijuages of Europe — a consummate musician, for music 
 \v<is an art he might be said to have inherited — of an old 
 family — and with a princely fortune. 
 
 It is surprising what a quick and true perception of the 
 moral character of their superiors is often possessed by 
 people in the lowliest conditions. They may make grer.t 
 mistakes as to manners, acquirements, and intellectual 
 capacity; but, with regard to the essentials of worth, 
 their opinions are generally right. Virtue breathes with- 
 out disguise — speaks openly^ and appears forth clearly 
 before men, even in the most retiring of unostentatious 
 characters. Its lustre cannot be hidden. If it shine not 
 like a star, it will glimmer like a lighted window. Intel- 
 lect often works in a sphere of which common men know 
 nothing, not even its existence ; and the famous genius 
 may seem to them a recluse, ignorant of the world, and 
 all its concerns. But if there be great vices in a man's 
 character, let his rank or riches be what they may, they 
 will be reprobated by the honest poor in their huts. Out- 
 ward respect may still be shewn — for that is due to their 
 station ; and the peasant, shepherd, or hind, may, with- 
 out reproach of conscience, unbonnet to his worthless 
 landlord. But all his most courteous smiles, and words, 
 and acts, within the doors of their huts, or the gates of 
 his own halls, will never purchase for such a man the 
 smallest portion of genuine esteem. His entrance into 
 humble households will be regarded with suspicion ; and 
 fathers and mothers will pray that their porch may be 
 unvisited by him, who knows not the value, and feels not 
 the sanctity, of iimocence. 
 
 Henry Cranstoun had not been many weeks at the 
 Hirst, till he had become the object of such disturbed find 
 disproving feelings and judgments, very widely over the 
 whole parish. He seemed either totally ignorant of the 
 character of the peasantry on his estate, or insensible to 
 its excellence. It was not a little rudeness, folly, error, 
 or even apparent vice itself, that could have wholly alien- 
 ated from the heir of an old house the affections of an 
 oo*
 
 258 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 intelligent and virtuous tenantry ; but this infatuated 
 young man seemed to have even a pleasure in insulting 
 their holiest habits and deepest natural emotions. The 
 Sabbaths at the Hirst were now disturbed with the noise 
 of revelry, that had been heard by whole families walking 
 through the woods to the house of God ; and, to the hor- 
 ror of the yet simple dwellers in the parish of Holylee, 
 cards, and dice, and other hideous gambling, were, ac- 
 cording to rumor, rife there, even on the Lord's day. 
 Servants, with more even than their master's reckless 
 vices, and a pride almost equal to the debasement of their 
 ignorance, and the shocking brutality of their manners, 
 swarmed about the old venerable Hirst; and some part 
 of the indignation and scorn, which the behavior of these 
 tyrannical slaves, at the houses of poor men, had far and 
 near excited, could not but fall upon him, who could not 
 only endure their presence, but whose life seemed even 
 to depend for many of its enjoyments on their base ser- 
 vilities and unprincipled cruelty. " There is nothing 
 Scottish about him or his," was the bitter expression of 
 many a father and mother's heart. "God grant the time 
 be not far when he and his outlandish counts and valets 
 disappear from Holylee 1 " 
 
 Emma Cranstoun conducted herself towards her bro- 
 ther in the way that might have been expected from so 
 nearly perfect a character. She soon saw, with the deep- 
 est grief, that she must not hope to work any great change 
 upon him, in less time than years upon years ; for his bad 
 principles were rooted in a strong understanding, and his 
 evil practice had made his heart callous. She endeavor- 
 ed to make him comprehend the character of the people, 
 by opening up to him some of their home habits; and 
 she did not even scruple to beseech him to respect their 
 prejudices; for, had she called their reverence of all reli- 
 gious institutions by its true and high name, she would 
 only have been more strongly exciting his ridicule or con- 
 tempt. With bitterest tears of shame and grief, she be- 
 f'.eeched him to remember that their innocence was the 
 sole portion of the females of the poor man's family. 
 " O brother ! as you respect the purity of me, your sister.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 259 
 
 and would, I verily believe, rather see me dead than dis- 
 iionored, respect, for my sake, the purity of the harmless 
 creatures, whose forefathers have even lived for genera- 
 tions on this estate. They have a hereditary claim to 
 your protection ; and, methinks, that were any infamy to 
 come to them from yourself, or those whom you have 
 chosen to be your friends, that I could not bear to look 
 at these pictures of our blameless ancestors. See what 
 venerable sweetness is on the face of Alice the Lovely, 
 whose burial was a hundred years ago! But look — look 
 here, my dear brother, this is the picture of our own 
 sainted mother!" And Emma drew aside a black silk 
 curtain, that shaded from the light a face drawn in cray- 
 ons, which beamed with a mingled dignity and gentleness, 
 not easily to be gazed on, now that their mother was in 
 her tomb, without an emotion that, in its mournfulness, 
 was akin to virtue. 
 
 To all these gentle and affectionate remonstrances of 
 Emma Cranstoun, her brother was not altogether insen- 
 sible ; and however unapparent their influence had yet 
 been on the general tenor of his conduct, they had at 
 least awakened in his heart both a finer and a stronger 
 feeling of affection for his mild and persuasive instruc- 
 tress. Perhaps he had hitherto loved his sister more on 
 account of the pride he felt in her great beauty and ac- 
 complishments, which -had burst suddenly upon him the 
 first time he had seen her since a child that summer in 
 Rome, than for the sake of her better worth ; but now 
 he felt the holy charm of virtue when seen shining forth 
 in one by nature necessarily so dear to him; and, in the 
 midst of his own reckless profligacy, he paid it an unac- 
 cepted and unavailing homage. Emma endured the dis- 
 turbed and disreputable life he had introduced into that 
 once peaceful hall, as long as she could do so with any 
 propriety ; but her sense of duty and dignity at length 
 overcame every other consideration, and she formed the 
 resolution of leaving the Hirst for a season, and going 
 with Mrs. Ramsay to the seat of one of her father's oldest 
 friends, who would probably understand the reason of her 
 offered visit. ^^
 
 '260 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 The character of young Cranstoun was nowhere better 
 understood than at Bracken Braes ; and Michael, Agnes, 
 and Isobel, had, one and all of them, cautioned Lucy to 
 avoid at all times the slightest approach on his part to 
 her company, at least when alone, either at the Hirst, in 
 any of the valleys, or at iheir own house, which he had 
 been much fonder of visiting lately than was agreeable to 
 any one within its walls. This caution was not given in 
 any doubt of his daughter, but to prevent the possibility 
 of any unknown evil coming from that quarter. Lucy 
 did not need any such warning, for she knew too well 
 her own danger, or rather she knew what anger, and 
 misery, and disturbance of spirit there would be at Brack- 
 en Braes, if her father had been aware of Mr. Cranstoun's 
 repeated attempts to gain upon her vanity, her simplicity, 
 her ignorance, or her weakness — and Lucy was willing 
 enough to confess, that all these might belong to her 
 character. 
 
 His sole desire and determination, since Henry Cran- 
 stoun had first seen Lucy Forester, was to get her into 
 his power, and carry her off with him to the Continent. 
 What was she but a peasant's daughter? Her father, to 
 be sure, was a man far beyond the common run — and he 
 was also a blind man, who would sorely miss the child 
 heard for so many years in his darkness. Lucy was like- 
 wise, humbly born as she was, his own sister's bosom 
 friend; and her kindness, it was said, had even saved 
 Emma's life. She was also a perfectly happy creature ; 
 and to destroy great human happiness, requires a cold, or 
 a stern, or a fierce heart. But then she was beautiful — 
 ay, beautiful as an angel, and not less innocent — and his 
 heart, which had so long been the victim, the slave of 
 passion, beat, and leaped, and bounded at the forethought 
 of all that angelical beauty and innocence being prest in 
 transport to his bosom, although afterwards might come 
 shame, sorrow, despair, and death. 
 
 Had Lucy known all that the heart of Henry Cranstoun 
 had planned against her, sooner would the small singing- 
 bird have left the hawthorn hedge when it saw the merlin 
 on the wins, than she have forsaken for an hour the shel- 
 
 ♦
 
 THE FORESTERS. 261 
 
 ter of Bracken Braes. But innocence suspects not, nor 
 if it did, could penetrate into the dark secrets of that 
 heart from which pity, and honor, and religion are all 
 flung aside; and nothing heard, felt, or obeyed, but the 
 cry of passion, unresisted in its long career and conquest 
 of crime and misery. 
 
 Henry Cranstoun had had his spies and emissaries at 
 watch and at work through all the parish. He knew 
 every step that Lucy took half a mile from Bracken Braes. 
 Did siie go to Raeshaw, to Ladyside, to the Manse, to 
 Ewebank, to any hut without even a name, her visit, if 
 one that had been previously intended, was already known 
 to him at the Hirst. He had sometimes been at her side 
 among the braes, as if he had risen out of the earth, and 
 had come carelessly and accidentally into the solitary 
 dwellings where Lucy perhaps had gone to see some sick 
 or dying person, or to offer some charitable office to the 
 poor. He stood not in awe of that God whose servant 
 the young, the humble, innocent, and happy creature was 
 upon those affecting occasions ; and he would have ruined 
 the soul of her whom he might have beheld kneeling in 
 prayer by the sick-beds of the widow and the orphan, or 
 gliding home to her blind father's dwelling with a song 
 that cheered the solitary braes, and seemed to leave its 
 music in the wild moors. Her innocence, he saw, could 
 never be corrupted — but it might be betrayed ; and were 
 Lucy Forester away with him into another country — 
 away beyond the seas — cut off from Bracken Braes by 
 hundreds of leagues of land and seas, with all their moun- 
 tains and waves, might she not perhaps become his in 
 her homeless, hopeless destitution and despair, and might 
 not his joy, his happiness, his bliss be perfect at last in 
 that sacrifice ? 
 
 But, Emma Cranstouxi, although she had never breath- 
 ed a syllable of her suspicions to her brother, had been, 
 for some time, more unhappy and afraid even than Lucy 
 herself, of his wicked designs. Indeed, it was her mis- 
 erable conviction of some meditated evil, too dreadful 
 even to be alluded to, that finally determined her to leave 
 the Hirst, and to take Lucy with her to BallendeaqA Mi-
 
 262 THE FORESTEUS. 
 
 chael and Agnes, although ahnost daily expecting a visit 
 from Miles Colinson, did not think of making any objec- 
 tions to this plan, linder circumstances which they i'ully 
 understood, witlioiit putting that lady under any necessity 
 of entering into any lengthened explanation; so it was 
 fixed that Emma Cranstoun was to send over a servant 
 for Lucy next evening, and that she should accompany 
 herself and Mrs. Ramsay to Ballendean, where they 
 would remain till her brother and his companions left the 
 Hirst. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Lucy had left Bracken Braes in the evening, on Emma 
 Cranstoun's own palfrey, under care of a servant ; and 
 Mary Morrison had tripped on foot by her side, as far as 
 the well-known Gowan Green. There she had parted 
 from her friend with a kiss, and kept her eyes upon her 
 till she saw the horses following the bridle road towards 
 Ewebank. " Ay, ay !" said Mary to herself, "Lucy is 
 just going round by the house where I used to live, to 
 take a look at the sweet birchwood, where we have so 
 often sat together, in days when 1 was as happy and as 
 innocent as herself! " — and then returned to the Heriot 
 Water. 
 
 Michael never slept very soundly when Lucy was from 
 home; and he now rose in the gloaming, before the sun 
 had shone his disk over Raven Crag, or awakened a bird 
 in the eaves or the plane tree. It was the dawn of the 
 12th of August; and no sooner had the light broken, 
 than the frequent gun of the fowler was heard on the 
 hills. A foot came up the avenue, and a voice said — 
 " Mr. Forester, here is a letter from the Hirst." Michael 
 took it to Agnes. It was from the lady herself; and ex- 
 pressed much surprise that Lucy Forester had not, ac- 
 cordji^ to agreement, come to the Hirst ; with tender
 
 THE FORESTERS. 263 
 
 inquiries as to the cause of her not appearing — which, 
 she trusted, was not ilhiess, either of herself or any one 
 at Bracken Braes. 
 
 Every inmate was soon up; and a dire and dismal 
 distraction, in which reason itself was baffled, prevailed 
 over the whole family. Their fears all connected them- 
 selves with Henry Cranstoun ; but nobody yet expressed 
 them, till Michael himself said — " Let us trust in that 
 God who has never yet forsaken us, and whose provi- 
 dence, although often inscrutable, will not suffer our 
 child to be destroyed ! " But every minute brought its 
 own horrid thought ; and there was an uncertain and 
 hurried walking about, as if the tenement had been on 
 fire. 
 
 Mary Morrison, who had gone out to speak with the 
 person who had brought the letter, came back with a 
 quick pace to the room, and said — " Here is Mr. Miles 
 Colinson — here is Mr. Miles Colinson!" Aunt Isobel 
 
 — for Michael and Agnes were sitting in a sort of stupor 
 
 — went and brought him in, after telling him, in a few 
 words, at what crisis he had arrived. " You have come 
 to us just when we have lost our Lucy, Mr. Colinson. A 
 villain has taken her from us — from Agnes there, and 
 me, her blind father ; and dreadful are the decrees of the 
 Most Merciful and the Most High! " 
 
 It seemed that nothing was in their power to do, any 
 more than if they had all been chained in a dungeon. 
 Into what quarter of the horizon should the pursuers go? 
 Hours — hours — many long hours had there been — a 
 whole night of hours — since Lucy had fallen into the 
 fatal snare. As well go seek for a dropped pearl from 
 the hair, over the bounds of a great forest, as seek for 
 Lucy Forester now among all those mountains ! The 
 light of morn must have found her far — far off from 
 Bracken Braes; or perhaps the light of morn may not 
 yet have visited her weeping eyes in some dark den, 
 known only to that pitiless Atheist. 
 
 Perhaps Miles Colinson was now a more miserable 
 man even than Michael Forester. He had come to woo 
 his bride in her f;i(her's house ; and, lo ! she had been
 
 264 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 carried off by a ravisher. Yet, wicked as the world is, 
 there are bounds, he thought and said, set to wickedness, 
 which even a demon from below could not have power to 
 overleap ; and a hope came, even from his being the 
 brother of Emma Cranstoun, that Lucy might find mercy 
 at his hands. They all knew that Lucy would walk into 
 a burial vault, and be left there to die of hunger, rather 
 than break one of God's commandments. A sort of wild 
 joy was in Michael's broken voice, as he cried out — "O 
 that she had the wings of a dove, that she might come 
 flying back to her blind father ! " — " Fear it not, fear it 
 not," said Aunt Isobel — now too old to weep, but whose 
 hope was strong as possession, both of this world and the 
 world beyond the grave — "safe is she at this hour, 
 wherever she be, as the youths in the fiery furnace ; nor 
 shall a hair of her head be skaithed." 
 
 Mary Morrison now mentioned that Lucy had left the 
 direct road to the Hirst, and had gope up the brae to- 
 wards Ewebank. A sort of light glimmered in upon 
 Michael's mind. As Ewebank was a very lonely place, 
 it was possible that his daughter had been wiled away 
 thither by some pretence; and he called to mind, too, 
 that it was now inhabited by a person of no very good 
 character, who hung loose on society, and did not follow 
 any regular profession. Such place, and such person, 
 seemed well fitted for the nefarious wickedness he feared ; 
 and the blind man, taking his staff, requested Miles Col- 
 inson to accompany him to Ewebank. 
 
 When they reached that solitary house, no smoke came 
 from the chimney, and nothing was stirring about it any 
 more than if it had been uninhabited. The door was 
 locked, the window-shutters closed, or rather the light 
 excluded by boards, and branches of broom and fern. 
 Miles Colinson heard nothing ; but Michael said — 
 " There are people in the house : I hear footsteps and 
 whispering." No answer being given to their words, 
 Michael Forester put his hand and foot to the door, and 
 it flew open like that of a childish plaything. Wat Arm- 
 strong met him in the passage with a fierce countenance ; 
 but Miles Colinson was not a man to be intimidated, and
 
 THE FORESTERS. 265 
 
 Stepped forward between the blind rfian and his opponent. 
 " Is the tenant of this house at home?" said Michael; 
 "and if so, why has he barricaded his door?" It was 
 too late to offer resistance to the resolute blind man and 
 his friend; for Lucy had heard their voices, and was 
 already in her father's arms. There too was Henry 
 Cranstoun, the representative of an ancient and honorable 
 family, standing like a condemned felon, in a clay-built 
 hut, on his own hereditary estate. 
 
 Lucy Forester's eyes were red with weeping — her 
 cheeks dim in the rosy beauty which no agony could alto- 
 gether blanch — and her silken hair, which almost one 
 single touch of her hand could trick into graceful wreaths, 
 sorely dishevelled. But now there was perfect restora- 
 tion brought to her disturbed spirit — her kindling smiles 
 revived; and, kneeling down, she gave thanks to the 
 Great Power that had protected her innocence. " I 
 offered no violence to your daughter, Mr. Forester — I 
 loved her, and I repent of my gross misconduct. What 
 more can I do ? — Tell what amends I can make. The 
 best farm on the estate will be yours, rent free." — " Base 
 robber, speak not to me of farms and rents — the dead 
 ground, and the worthless dross; but look into my face 
 — behold how God has been pleased to extinguish these 
 eyes within their sockets, and then tremble lest his ven- 
 geance smite you dead in your sins. Lucy, my beloved 
 child, rise up — rise up ; " for Michael felt her clasped 
 hands resting on his knees, and his tears of thankfulness 
 fell down upon her forehead, as her eyes, that had just 
 been turned to heaven, now calmly contemplated her fa- 
 ther's countenance. Miles Colinson gazed on that sight, 
 and so received it into his very soul, that fade away would 
 it never more till the last hour of his life. But the be- 
 trayer could not endure the scene before him, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Rescued from that horror, Lucy looked on Miles Col- 
 inson as her deliverer. He it was that now raised her in 
 his arms from the floor, and felt privileged, in her father's 
 presence, to press her to his bosom. There was no one 
 23
 
 266 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 in the hut but themselves, the storm was over, and there 
 was now almost a perfect cahn ; nor was Lucy released 
 from that gentle embrace, till she heard an earnest prayer 
 breathed close to her cheek, that Heaven would inspire 
 her heart with affection, and grant such a wife to one 
 who would cherish and guard her like a sacred thing. 
 That prayer was not unheard by the blind man ; and he 
 blessed them both, as they stood together by his side, and 
 called them by one name — " My children ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 Michael Forester would have spared him who had 
 wickedly designed to rob him of his all, the shame of ex- 
 posure ; but rumors soon ran from house to house among 
 the braes, like echoes ; and, before night, the whole parish 
 was stirred with indignant reprobation. Such profligacy 
 appalled every parent — the rescue of the innocent came 
 home to every heart ; and here, there was not a single 
 circumstance of extenuation — on the contrary, all was 
 hideously and impiously cruel. Will Michael Forester 
 continue to live, after such an outrage, at Bracken Braes? 
 Ought not punishment to be inflicted on the criminal ? 
 Such thoughts were at every fireside ; and he, who could 
 so easily have had his name pronounced with constant 
 blessings, was now cursed as an evil spirit that had come 
 to ruin the peace of families, and to spread corruption 
 over the whole country side. 
 
 Next morning was the Sabbath, and the family from 
 Bracken Braes went, as usual, to the place of worship. 
 In the kirkyard, one subject alone was spoken of among 
 the various groups assembled there ; and when Mr. For- 
 ester appeared, walking between his wife and daughter, 
 although no one alluded, in the most distant way, to the 
 events of the preceding day, the salutations they received
 
 THE FORESTERS, 26'j' 
 
 from every quarter were most earnest, and sufficiently 
 expressed the general sympathy. There, too, was the 
 Lady of the Hirst, evidently looking around for one family. 
 She soon discovered Lucy, and, putting her arm within 
 her's, she took her up to her own seat in the gallery. 
 The eyes of the whole congregation approved ; and Mr. 
 Kennedy himself gave Lucy a look of kind recognition 
 from the pulpit. 
 
 As the congregation was dismissing, words of shocking 
 import spread from one person to another, till there was 
 a general consternation. The lady's brother had been 
 found, during the very time Divine worship had been per- 
 forming, lying in a lonesome place within the Hirst woods, 
 mortally wounded. It was rumored that there had been 
 a duel, and that all the gentlemen residing at the hall had 
 fled. Emma Cranstoun's ears could not but receive the 
 fatal tidings, even before she had left her seat in the kirk, 
 and while she was whispering in a low voice to Lucy 
 about the unhappy man now dying or dead. 
 
 Before evening, Michael, Agnes, and Lucy, were all 
 three at the Hirst. The lady had indeed need of comfort 
 now, for her brother's eyes were shut for ever — his ca- 
 reer of guilt at an end — without more than a few — a 
 very few agonized, or fainting hours, for repentance. 
 Two strangers had that morning come to the Hirst, and 
 they had again left it, but not till, from the hand of one 
 of them, Henry Cranstoun had received his death wound. 
 Emma had not even the melancholy comfort to know that 
 his fate had been undeserved ; for, almost his last words 
 were to say, that Captain Lorimer had behaved like a man 
 of honor, and that he had justly punished with death his 
 sister's seducer. 
 
 The feelings which now wrung Emma Cranstoun's 
 heart were not those of grief and pity alone, but of a more 
 awful and overwhelming nature. Till within these very 
 few months, she had never been with her brother, except 
 that one week at Rome. But natural affection does not 
 wait even for worth to awaken it ; and her heart had 
 yearned towards him in the midst of those vices which it
 
 268 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 bled to think of, and would have died to cure. Not a 
 pleasing, or fine, or good trait in his character, but she 
 had fixed her eyes upon it alone, with the loving hope of 
 being able to exaggerate it into a virtue. But now, there 
 he lay, with all that once ardent blood, cold as the frozen 
 stream — that face, whose changeful features kindled 
 every hour with the expression of so many passions, had 
 now but one meaning — rest, eternal rest ! The soul — 
 the immortal soul — had gone to judgment ; and even in 
 the Book of Mercy are there not dreadful images of the 
 world to come 1 
 
 The Lady of the Hirst had many friends in her own 
 rank of life, for she never had had any wish to seclude 
 herself from society, which she both enjoyed and adorned ; 
 and in this great distress there were more than one whose 
 presence would have been a comfort. But during the 
 first days of death, the house stands silent ; and dearest 
 friends do not feel privileged to look on the mourner's 
 face till the final ceremony is over, and all vanished. 
 Lucy Forester, however, remained on that Sabbath even- 
 ing when the others went away, and for several nights 
 occupied the bed where she had so often lain whole nights 
 without sleeping when it was thought the lady was dying 
 of a consumption ; and her presence was again a greater 
 blessing than could be told, during the midnight hours, 
 when grief comes upon the very' dreams of those who 
 weep. 
 
 There was a burial place about half a mile from the 
 hall, in an old wood ; an open space had been left, cen- 
 turies ago, when the acorns were planted, and in it a 
 mausoleum had been built. The arms of the oaks had 
 extended farther, perhaps, than had been contemplated, 
 and one enormous tree flung a mossy limb across the 
 melancholy lawn, quite close to the gateway of the tomb. 
 All about the dark walls were yews that shrouded it in 
 perpetual gloom ; and the sound of a stream, flowing in 
 the forest, might sometimes be heard, and sometimes not, 
 by any solitary person wandering into that stern seclusion. 
 The martins built their nests in crevices of the somewhat
 
 THE FORESTERS. 260 
 
 dilapidated building; and the roes, knowing how unfre- 
 quented was the place, harbored below that grove, and 
 among its surrounding thickets. 
 
 The whole tenantry followed the bier to this burial- 
 place ; the iron gate once more recoiled on its rusty hin- 
 ges, and the remains of Henry Cranstoun were left to 
 moulder away among the bones of his ancestors. All re- 
 proachful thoughts were dead. Had he lived, he might 
 have become a better — a good man — even a Christian ; 
 for what revolutions have taken place in those spiritual 
 kingdoms, the souls of men ; and with these, and such 
 reflections, silent or expressed, the funeral party dissolved 
 away among the woods. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 Lucy remained for a week after the funeral with Emma 
 Cranstoun ; nor did one strong wish to be at Bracken 
 Braes, notwithstanding the presence thereof one so dear, 
 enter a heart so filled as her's was with pity and friend- 
 ship. The rueful calamity was such as to hinder, during 
 its first dark days, the movement of all deep feelings on 
 any other subject ; and although there were, in both their 
 breasts, feelings so very deep as never again to be obliter- 
 ated, yet the images of Edward Ellis and Miles Colinson 
 either did not rise up before them at all, or if they did, 
 each image was contemplated with perfect freedom from 
 any agitating emotion, by her to whom it was more es- 
 pecially interesting; for in such hearts as theirs, love, 
 instead of swallowing up in its own passionate selfishness 
 every other feeling, strengthens and purifies them, lend- 
 ing to them all much of its own enthusiastic and spiritual 
 nature. At the end of a week, Lucy returned to Bracken 
 Braes. 
 
 Almost unconsciously had these lovers been betrothed ; 
 23*
 
 270 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 but on their very first meeting, they remembered that the 
 betrothment had received the fervent blessings of their 
 father. Few words had been uttered at that disturbed 
 time, but these few bound their hearts for life with all 
 the sanctity of an oath, felt to be inviolable. Little or no 
 agitating passion had preceded their declarations of ever- 
 lasting attachment — indeed, with Lucy, the charm of her 
 love to her own spirit was its perfect peace. Since last 
 summer, when her lover began first to be dear, she had 
 been carried away down the quiet hours imperceptibly 
 into the final calm of their affection — as a boat, in which 
 two friends are sitting, may drift away down the dream- 
 like scenery of some river, till it is found anchored in a 
 beautiful lake. 
 
 All their roamings, last summer, over the braes, and 
 through the woods, had been as happy as ihey had then 
 desired life to be ; but the earth was now greener to their 
 eyes, and the heaven bright even without its sunshine. 
 Then, their parties had been larger — for Ruth, and 
 Mary Morrison, and Martha, were generally there ; and 
 the spirit that seemed chiefly to animate them, was the 
 natural gaiety of youthful existence. But now Lucy and 
 Miles walked all alone into the secluded glens — and all 
 alone reclined by the murmurs of the solitary rivulets. 
 There was no merriment — no laughter — sometimes not 
 many words. Thoughts and feelings often rose up into 
 looks and smiles ; and when the lovers were mute in the 
 solitude, the silence was divine. Day after day they felt 
 themselves more and more belonging exclusively to one 
 another — and dreams of the future brought a tenderer 
 light upon the sunshine of their present happiness. " O 
 beautiful Ellesmere !" breathed Lucy in a whisper to her 
 lover; and as her head rested on his bosom, she asked 
 her heart with a self-upbraiding sigh, if it were, indeed, 
 possible that hour had come when she could think of 
 leaving her blind father without his Lucy at Bracken 
 Braes ! 
 
 The long-continued and habitual moderation of spirit 
 belonging to Michael Forester in his resigned blindness, 
 was scarcely proof against the intense happiness which
 
 THE FORESTERS. 271 
 
 rose from the prospect of Lucy's marriage. Although 
 his daughter had been, from the first day of his loss of 
 sight, so necessary to him, that, without her guiding voice 
 and hand, he would, probably, never have learned to ex- 
 tend the circle of his unattended walks beyond the gate 
 of the avenue, and although her presence in the room 
 had, for years, been a sort of sunshine, which even the 
 blind could see, yet Michael felt, on the present occasion, 
 that it had, all along, been her happiness that was his 
 comfort, and that to lose her, since that happiness was 
 about to be increased, so far from being any rational 
 cause of sorrow, ought, and assuredly would, increase 
 tenfold the gratitude of those left behind at Bracken 
 Braes. The events of the last few days had shewn what 
 evils might gather around her beauty ; and if her father 
 should die, what might become of Lucy in this bewilder- 
 ing world ? But now there were to be two nests for the 
 dove ; and should the winds injure or blow down the one 
 at Bracken Braes, the other might still be her's in the 
 sheltered vale of Ellesmere. 
 
 The same feelings possessed the maternal bosom of the 
 gentle Agnes. She had never feared for Lucy, except 
 when she thought of her somewhat warm and impetuous 
 character, rather too apt to give way to sudden emotion, 
 and to urge her forwards incautiously at least, if not im- 
 prudently, upon the path her heart had chosen. Yet Lucy 
 had never yielded to, or obeyed any strong impulse, unless 
 it prompted to deeds of kindness and humanity ; and her 
 mother rather trembled at the possibility of her being led 
 astray, than from the recollection of any instances in 
 which her conduct could be justly reprehended. Lucy's 
 ardor and fearlessness in all innocent pursuits — her dis- 
 position to revel in joy the very instant she left her blind 
 father's side — her utter incapacity of suspicion, or of 
 belief in guile or wickedness — her quick, eager temper, 
 whose anger was neither more boisterous nor permanent 
 than the breeze that comes rustling down the birch wood 
 and in a minute forsakes the leaves — and her readiness 
 to sacrifice anything, however sweet to herself, to the 
 more insignificant interests of her friends — nay, even
 
 272 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 her acquaintances. All these traits in her character, at 
 once endearing to others, and dangerous to the lovely 
 creature herself, had often disturbed her mother's sleep. 
 But under the safeguard of such a husband as Miles Col- 
 inson, all these qualities would be sources of happiness 
 alone — time, instead of blighting, would beautify such 
 flowers as these — and she could not but be a happy wife 
 who had, in the sight of men, angels, and the Almighty, 
 been the best and most blessed of daughters. Already 
 was the expression of her bright eyes somewhat subdued ; 
 her steps were gliding into a slower gait, in its gentleness 
 almost matronly ; the tears were sometimes seen on her 
 cheek, probably as she dreamed of leaving them all at 
 Bracken Braes; and, in truth, Lucy Forester sometimes 
 already bore almost the placid, quiet, and thoughtful 
 countenance of a bride. 
 
 The month of August had gone, and the first half of 
 the beautiful September, that seemed almost to court the 
 first stealing touches of the frost. It was time for Miles 
 Colinson to return to Ellesmere, and Lucy was contented 
 not to see him again till the following June. Why should 
 they hasten their marriage? Lucy was not yet eighteen, 
 although she wanted but a few months of that age — 
 months that could bring no accession to her loveliness, 
 although they would, doubtlessly, bring knowledge and 
 wisdom to a heart awakened to a new and sacred passion. 
 A few months' longer possession of their dutiful child, 
 was something to her father and mother ; and Lucy, in 
 the blissful calm of her aflfection for Miles Colinson, 
 could have been happy so long as he was so, in years of 
 betrothed separation. Next summer, then, they were to 
 be married ; and Aunt Isobel, who frequently spoke of 
 her own death with as much cheerfulness as she could do 
 of going to bed after a busy day, said that she would pray 
 to be allowed to be present at that wedding, and then 
 care not about seeing another Christmas. " The dear 
 bairn will be little more than eighteen years old on that 
 day, and I upwards of fourscore and five — but. Heaven 
 preserve us ! what fine madam is this at the door ? Come 
 ben, Miss or Mistress — how is your lady, owre by yon-
 
 THE FORESTERS. 273 
 
 (ler at the hall ?" This fine madam, as Aunt Isobel call- 
 ed her, was Emma Cranstoun's Swiss maid — a very ex- 
 cellent, kind creature, in her way, although fond of lace, 
 veils, and feathers, to a degree that excited the wonder 
 of the whole parish. Her head, at this particular time, 
 nodded lugubriously like the plumes of a hearse ; although 
 her face was all one smile, and her gesticulation, as she 
 gave Lucy a letter, expressive of a general delight — not 
 so much proceeding from any one specific cause, as from 
 the vivacity of her own peculiar and national character. 
 The letter merely informed Lucy that the Lady of the 
 Hirst would, by the time it was received, be on her way 
 on foot, and with a friend, by the Gowan Green path, to 
 Bracken Braes. 
 
 Lucy and Miles Colinson immediately set out to meet 
 the lady ; and, before they had gone two miles, the par- 
 ties were all together in a lonesome nook among the hills 
 — Emma Cranstoun and Edward Ellis, Lucy Forester 
 and Miles Colinson, meeting at the Hawk Stane Spring! 
 Edward and Lucy had a dream of their own ; and, after 
 the first emotion, it was fiir from being undelightful. 
 There they had stood, a few years ago, as they thought, 
 as indeed they were — in love — the pure, imaginative, 
 visionary love of youth, as yet equally ignorant of itself 
 and the world. There were innocent and blameless se- 
 crets, that needed not to be revealed to any ear ; too dim, 
 in the distance of the past, to be distinctly remembered, 
 even by their own hearts ; too vague and worldless to be 
 communicated ; and, as Edward turned towards his Em- 
 ma, and Lucy looked at Miles Colinson, without any per- 
 ceptible embarrassment, and with sentiments of mutual 
 admiration and esteem — they who had journeyed togeth- 
 er over the moonlight hills, and almost slept in each 
 other's innocent arms — saluted each other as friends, 
 who at last possessed the happiness appropriate to their 
 condition, and would remain friends, in the best sense of 
 the word, throughout life.
 
 274 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Whether has the lover of nature's works — the soli- 
 tary pvedestrian, who finds beauty everywhere without 
 seeking for it — had most delight, in his roaming reveries 
 among the pastoral paradise of Scotland, where his ima- 
 gination, lending its own light to the scenery and the 
 people, has restored the age of gold — or among some of 
 the richer valleys of merry England, where there is little 
 need for fiction to embellish or change the truth, but al- 
 most every human habitation is indeed a perfect picture, 
 ready formed to the eye of taste or genius ? Perhaps 
 remembrances come in such crowds upon the mind, that 
 delights to embody all its visions of the past, that there is 
 a confusion of feelings, leaving no distinctive judgment 
 of the peculiar characteristics of those two beautiful 
 kingdoms. Then too, for one scene vividly remerhbered, 
 a hundred are well nigh forgotten. Entire days — walks 
 by the sides of lochs and rivers, are as if they had never 
 been — unnumbered glorious sunsets have been in vain 
 shewn to ungrateful worshippers — cataracts are pealing 
 in the solitude, once visited in awe, and since heard no 
 more — and the thunder storms that shook the everlasting 
 mountains, have not left in the imagination so much as a 
 whisper. Which country then shall be said to be the 
 most impressive — and what pilgrim shall declare the 
 judgment ? 
 
 But let the decision of such questions be left to the 
 poet and the painter ; and let Agnes, and Lucy, and 
 Mary Morrison, and even old Aunt Isobel, judge for 
 themselves of the comparative merit of Ellesmere and 
 Bracken Braes. For Michael Forester and all his fami- 
 ly are at the Vicarage; and a brighter, perhaps so bright 
 a June never glittered on the lone banks of the sweet 
 Heriot Water and the braes of Holylee, as now glitters 
 on Risedale Beck, wherever its streams and pools are 
 open to the day, among meadows forever losing them- 
 selves in the overshadowincr woods of Ellesmere.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 275 
 
 It was no less than four years ago since Agnes and 
 Lucy were at the Vicarage ; and much as they had then 
 loved and admired it, it seemed now to them both a place 
 whose delightful character they had not in tlie least un- 
 derstood. Every day gave them an insight into the mean- 
 ing of every object they beheld ; and they discovered, of 
 themselves, reasons why the beauty of the vale was so 
 various, and never could be injured. Miles Colinson 
 showed them the very spirit of the place; and Lucy every 
 night lay down with some new charm mingling in the 
 scenery of her dreams. Here she was to live — here 
 most probably die — and in the church-yard of the chapel, 
 at the foot of those great mountains, her bones would be 
 laid along with those of the Colinsons, who had been 
 dwellers in the vale of Ellesmere for several centuries. 
 Melancholy thoughts often arise out of our very happiest 
 hopes, and indeed seem almost inseparable from them ; 
 for hopes are onward gazing, and the vista has, and can 
 have at last, but one termination. But this union of the 
 sweetness and the sadness of fancy is perhaps the most 
 blissful of all moods of mind ; and youthful lovers feel it 
 to be so, when to their approaching happiness there seems 
 to be no other alloy, but the knowledge of the frailty of 
 human nature, and of the sudden obscuration or eclipse, 
 to which the light of all human happiness is everlastingly 
 exposed. 
 
 The lovers thought themselves happy — the happiest 
 living beings on all the earth; but Michael Forester and 
 his Agnes were far happier. The blind father had always 
 been a thoughtful, never a melancholy man ; yet if all the 
 sad feelings that had assailed his heart on Lucy's account 
 for the last seven or eight years had been collected to- 
 gether, they would have made up a great sum of sorrow. 
 All were now at an end ; and not only so, but vivid and 
 rejoicing emotions took their place, so that even Agnes 
 herself, whose eyes had never been off her blind husband's 
 countenance for one daylight hour together, since the 
 lightning had passed over it, could not help wondering at 
 the change, and felt as if the same sedate cheerfulness of 
 his manly beauty, which won her heart at Dovenest so
 
 276 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 long ago, had been restored. But just as great a change 
 had been wrought on Agnes herself, and Michael per- 
 ceived it in her voice. Much of that same glad tone re- 
 turned to it, with which she had charmed every heart in 
 the years of her maidenhood — and for years too of her 
 wedded life, when Lucy was a mere sportful child, for 
 whom it was needless yet to cherish any mournful fears. 
 Agnes Hay was indeed almost in the very prime of life; 
 and Michael believed Aunt Isobel, when she said, that 
 her child was still as beautiful as the day when she was 
 a bride. 
 
 The marriage day was now near at hand ; and there 
 was not in all Westmoreland a prettier cottage than the 
 one ready for the reception of Miles Colinson and his 
 Lucy. It had been built, about two years before, by the 
 vicar's only brother, Mr. Brathwaite Colinson, a London 
 solicitor, who had returned, rich, to pass his latter days 
 in the quiet of his native valley. But the old gentleman 
 felt Oldfield to be somewhat too dull and lonely for one 
 of his metropolitan habits, and had taken refuge in the 
 Vicarage. There he had his own parlor looking into the 
 orchard — a room full of many giracracks — for the so- 
 licitor was something of a mechanician — and had a box 
 of tools, by means of which, he bodied forth many things 
 unknown, and invented very extraordinary pieces of orna- 
 mental furniture. Few men made angling rods better 
 than he ; and he had been engaged for nearly three years 
 on a fiddle, which it seemed likely he would leave in an 
 unfinished state. But Brathwaite Colinson had a heart 
 as warmly affectionate as when he left Ellesmere fifty 
 years ago in a suit of country gray ; and although he had 
 loved to accumulate money, he himself now rejoiced to 
 feel that he was no miser, and determined to make his 
 nephew, Miles, independent before his marriage. At the 
 very first sight of Lucy Forester, his heart was more than 
 ever expanded with an emotion of permanent generosity, 
 and he loved her as well as his own niece Ruth. 
 
 But although Oldfield had seemed a dull residence to 
 an old bachelor like the solicitor, it was in truth one of 
 the most cheerful places imaginable, and the most beauti-
 
 THE FOKESTEIiS. "2/7 
 
 fill too ill all Ellesmere. The house seemed to be situa- 
 ted low, for it was surrounded by knolls, rocks, hills, and 
 mountains ; but it in fact stood at a considerable eleva- 
 tion above the stream ; and a sloping lawn carried the 
 eye gently down to a waterfall — for the close nibbling 
 sheep had made a lawn of a field, whose daisies and clover 
 had not been disturbed by *he plough in man's memory, 
 although ridges were still visible. Brathwaite Colinson 
 loved too well the picturesque architecture of the West- 
 moreland cottages, to build on his farm of Oldfield a 
 town house, or suburban box, or rural villa. He had only 
 to look at the Vicarage itself, and an edifice rose up, 
 another and the same, with such varieties, as imagination, 
 in this case little more than memory, easily created. 
 The roof might almost bo said to undulate, when the eye 
 looked down on its angular and irregular terraces — lat- 
 ticed windows peeped out unexpectedly, each upon its 
 own home view or far mountain prospect — and the round 
 tall chimneys carried the smoke well up an)ong the trees, 
 that, in a year or two, must be felled, else they would in- 
 fallibly overshadow the house in the strongest sunshine. 
 During each of the years that the Foresters had lived 
 at Bracken Braes, some small new article of furniture 
 had crept into the house; so that, at an expense quite im 
 perceptible — even to them who were almost poor — it 
 was, within, like the ornamented cottage of some tasteful 
 man of fortune. Lucy had the whole furnishing of Old- 
 field left entirely to her own judgment ; and, on consult- 
 ing her lover, was pleased to be told, "make it as like as 
 you can to Bracken Braes." But this Lucy did not wish 
 altogether to do ; for she loved the old, glossy, dark oak- 
 wood furniture of the Westmoreland houses, with all its 
 ancient and not inelegant carved work, and, fond as she 
 was of Scotland, and all that belonged to it, she did not 
 forget that the taste and imagination of every one are 
 formed in those delightful days, when every household 
 object has a charm which will belong forever to all that 
 is peculiar to the country where Ave were born and passed 
 our youth. 
 
 24
 
 278 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 Ruth Coliiison was not. to be, as she had raslily prom- 
 ised, bridesmaid to Lucy Forester ; and for the best of 
 all reasons — she was to be married herself, on the same 
 day, to Captain Marshall of Seathwaite Hall, Ullswater. 
 Well did Lucy yet remember his kind and manly coun- 
 tenance, and that too of his pretty sister, the joyful Aga- 
 tha. Agatha was now already engaged to be brides-maid 
 to Ruth; and Lucy had, therefore, in that extremity, to 
 apply to Ellinor Elleray of Rydal, half-afraid — and not 
 more than half-afraid — that her own beauty might be 
 eclipsed by that celebrated May-day dueen. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Ellesmere had dawned forth into faint and softest 
 beauty, " under the opening eyelids of the morn," as the 
 dewy hours melted away before the bolder light ; the 
 woods and groves were all crowned with their green and 
 yellow glories ; and, by ten o'clock — the appointed time 
 for the marriage party to leave the Vicarage and proceed 
 to the chapel — all nature was rejoicing in a summer 
 forenoon, as bright, blue, and cloudless as ever shone over 
 heaven. 
 
 There had, for more than one hour, been a pleasant 
 agitation at the heart of the Vicarage. Not a few hands 
 had been busily and tenderly engaged in adorning the 
 the brides. That duty had been left to the young. Agnes 
 and the vicar's wife sat with their husbands; while Aunt 
 Isobel and the old solicitor were strolling in the orchard. 
 How blessed was the composure of this solemn morn ! 
 Two young, innocent, and happy creatures were about to 
 enter on the paths of a new life. Some troubles must 
 attend those paths — many might infest them ; but when 
 Lucy and Ruth appeared in their white bridal dresses.
 
 THE FORESTERS. 279 
 
 simple as simple might be, yet not without their appro- 
 priate ornaments, the hearts of their parents burned within 
 them, and all the future seemed full of sunshine. Michael 
 would fain have beheld his Lucy — grateful would he 
 have been to Heaven for one glimpse of vision — but that 
 was a transient wish of exceeding love, and, kissing her 
 cheek as she sat on the same chair, her blind father was 
 satisfied. 
 
 The marriage party were just about to leave the Vicar- 
 age, when all the dogs about the place, no small number, 
 including several nondescripts belonging to the solicitor, 
 set up a barking, that was answered by a general caw 
 from the rooks on the Elm Grove. The narrow avenue, 
 or approach, was not formed for such splendid equipage 
 as that which now appeared at the gallop. The kine 
 stared and wondered from beyond the high stone wall, 
 or scampered off unwieldily in distant imitation of the 
 motions of the four beautiful blood horses that wafted 
 along the Lady of the Hirst; while wide open eyes, from 
 kitchen, byre, and barn door, devoured the miraculous 
 spectacle. A stronger sensation could not have been 
 produced by the descent of the grand coronation bal- 
 loon. 
 
 The Lady of the Hirst, now no more Emma Cranstoun, 
 descended gracefully from her carriage, assisted by her 
 husband, Edward Ellis, and embraced Lucy Forester. 
 Lucy had written to her as soon as she had fixed her 
 marriage day; and the lady, being on her own bridal 
 tour, had come to grace the nuptials. But no time was 
 to be lost; for the chapel bell, so calm and clear was the 
 atmosphere, was absolutely heard tinkling with joy far 
 away up the glen ; not a few flags were seen raised up 
 over the tops of cottages, in honor, probably, of the gal- 
 lant captain ; and now and then was heard a discharge 
 of small artillery, borrowed for the occasion from Bow- 
 ness and Lowood, whose tourists, for one day, would 
 be cheated out of their somewhat extravagant echoes. 
 The Lady of the Hirst — for so let her still be called — 
 took her beloved Lucy into her landau, along with her 
 bridesmaid, Ellinor of Rydal, and meek Mary Morrison,
 
 2bO THE FORESTERS. 
 
 the faithful and aifectionate, whom she had recognised 
 and siiluted with her most gracious smiles. Other vehi- 
 cles, neat enough in their way, formed in the rear; and, 
 although the road to the chapel was rather rough and 
 angular, and at many turns seemingly shut up by old 
 ivied pollard stumps, or moss-grown walls, built up, cairn- 
 like, of stones cleared from the fields they enclosed, yet 
 the chapel was soon gained in safety, and, in about one 
 hour, Lucy and Ruth returned to the Vicarage, as Mrs. 
 Colinson of Oldfield, Ellesmere, and Mrs. Marshall of 
 Seathwaite Hall, Uilswater. 
 
 Two or three hours of quiet converse passed away, 
 during which Miles Colinson cheerfully resigned his Lu- 
 cy to the Lady of the Hirst ; but as it was not a very short, 
 and by no means a very level road to Seathwaite Hall, 
 over Kirkston and Place Fell, an entertainment which, in 
 deference and respect to the fashionable world, let be 
 called a Dejeunc a lafourchette, was with no delay spread 
 below the yew tree. The vicar's wife and Agnes sat to- 
 gether at the head — the vicar and Michael Forester at 
 the foot of the table. The blushing Lucy and Ruth were 
 seated beside their respective bridesmaids ; and Mary 
 Morrison was not far from the side of her who was dear- 
 est and kindest on the earth to that widow and orphan. 
 The bridegrooms assumed already a somewhat important 
 air, and endeavored to seem as becomingly composed as 
 Edward Ellis, who was now quite an old married man ; 
 for the beauty of his bride had disturbed the Sabbath de- 
 votion of two congregations — one in town, and the other 
 in country. Uncle Brathwaite and Aunt Isobel were the 
 merriest of the company. 
 
 But who were those three humble looking persons en- 
 tering the gate, while a young woman advanced a little 
 before the others, with familiar but not obtrusive steps, 
 towards the Vicarage? "Good heavens!" cried Mary 
 Morrison, " can that be Martha, and Hamish, and Flora 
 Eraser ! " It was so indeed — and Martha had an infant 
 at her bosom ! The emigrants had returned from Cana- 
 da; but old Donald Eraser was not with them: They
 
 THE FOKESTERS. 281 
 
 had left his bones in a burial-place in the woods. Mar- 
 tha soon told her story. The brother whom Donald had 
 gone to visit, had died soon after the old soldier, and left 
 property to Hamish and Flora worth nearly three hundred 
 pounds. With such a sum they resolved to return to 
 their dear Highlands; and having landed at Liverpool, 
 Martha could not think of passing on to Scotland without 
 stepping aside for a day to see the old people with whom 
 she had formerly lived, and her friends at the Vicarage. 
 Had such a meeting as this been described in a novel, it 
 would no doubt have been criticised as too improbable; 
 but Martha and Lucy had each her own romance of real 
 life, and thus far it had been, although sometimes a little 
 dim or dark, on the whole not undelightful. Martha was 
 happy at the thought of passing her days in the Highlands, 
 somewhere in the Glen of Dee, or in Glen Tilt, or on the 
 banks of the Bruar, or by the waterfalls of the Tummel, 
 or the sylvan shores of Loch Rannoch. Those names 
 she pronounced readily, and even with something of a 
 Highland accent — for her husband Hamish had taught 
 her some Gaelic, and in that language she now hushed 
 her little Canadian, awaking from his dream in her bo- 
 som. 
 
 The Lady of the Hirst bade them all farewell, not 
 without Miles Colinson's promise to bring his wife to 
 Holylee next summer. Captain Marshall bore off his 
 Ruth in triumph; and Miles and Lucy, attended by Ma- 
 ry Morrison, had walked away unnoticed to their own 
 house at Oldfield. The emigrants were most welcome 
 indeed at the Vicarage, in the silence of that evening. 
 Martha had not a little to tell, and Aunt Isobel did not 
 let her rest a minute, with questions put half in kindness 
 and half in curiosity — since the old lady, in the perfect 
 satisfaction of her spirit, could afford to forget her Lucy, 
 and keenly interest herself about Martha's past and fu- 
 ture concerns ; for short as her time was now to be in 
 this world, she still regarded those whose term there 
 be might a prolonged one, with the unabated warmth of 
 a heart that could be made cold only in the grave.
 
 282 THE FORESTERS. 
 
 As for Michael and Agnes, they retired that evening 
 sooner than usual to their own room. They had not lost 
 a daughter, but they had found a son. Should Provi- 
 dence permit, the families at Oldfield and Bracken Braes 
 were to visit each other year about ; and to that Provi- 
 dence, whatever might be its decrees, they knelt down 
 in prayer as happy as any of its creatures below heaven.
 
 J 
 
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