would have refused cousin Margaret's kindlyintentioned gift." "Poor little bird," echoed a sad little voice beside him; t'was that of little Nelly. Her face, usually so joyous, was bedewed with tears-tears of self-reproach. She put some food into the bird's beak, for he seemed unable to feed himself.

The same evening, Mr. Pryor took down Dicky (who was no v much revived), and ordered him to be given to the little daughter of his gardener, as he considered Annie Besant a very thoughtful child, and who would, he felt assured, take every care of the poor bird. But Nelly was in despair at the idea of parting with him. "Oh papa dear, don't punish me so severely as to take Dicky away; let him stay. I will promise you faithfully to take care of him for the future, and I will not be so heedless if you will only let me have my pet again." So earnestly entreated, Mr. Pryor could not refuse his child, and allowed her to have the bird again, hoping it would be a lesson to her, and the means of curing her of so much forgetfulness.

"You must remember, my love," said her papa, "that being confined in this cage, it is impossible for the bird to supply his own wants. If you need anything you ask for it, but poor Dicky has no language with which to tell he has neither water nor seed near him. Do. my dear child, bear in mind that he must suffer hunger and thirst in silence; think what an awful death you consign him to, by omitting to feed him."

you

Overwhelmed by the severe, yet sad tones, of Mr. Pryor, poor Nelly promised, with many tears, to do better, and saying in a most piteous tone, "I did not mean to be cruel-indeed, dear papa."

Thus she became the mistress once more of Dicky, and he soon became as well as ever, and rewarded her on her approach, as formerly, with his pretty, shrill whistle. A few weeks elapsed, and then Mr. and Mrs. Pryor went to spend a few days with some friends who resided at some distance. On leaving, Mrs. Pryor earnestly urged her little girl not to forget or neglect her bird.

As soon as her parents had gone, she ran into the dining-room to give him some biscuit, for he had become so tame as to hop on her finger. "Dear little thing, I shall never forget you again." And with this exclamation, Nelly went to ask some of her young friends to come and pass the evening with her. Several games were proposed on their return, and at a late hour (for her) Nelly went thoroughly tired to bed.

The next morning she began, on awaking, to think how she should amuse herself for that day; and as soon as her lessons were over, and her

dinner finished, she rushed off to join her playfellows, and was soon immersed in the enjoy ments of "Hunt the Slipper," &c.

And Dicky?-where was he! Ah! he was in his cage in the dining-room, and had to do without the breakfast he was anxiously expecting.

The next day passed in the same way; either Nelly was with her young friends the Misses Bond, or they with her. And poor Dicky? he was again forgotten. Thus passed two more days, and then Mr. and Mrs. Pryor returned; and after having kissed Nelly, Mr. Pryor's first words were-" Well, my darling, and how is your bird?"

Nelly, who until that moment had forgotten there was such a thing in the world as her canary, answered in haste, "Oh! very well;" for the poor little creature was no longer alive; he was lying at the bottom of his cage quite dead; his once bright eyes closed, and his pretty yellow plumage, now soiled and dull. Yes, "birdie" was dead! quite dead; never more would he welcome his young mistress with his sweet notes; they were silent for ever. When she saw the piteous sight, she let the cage fall, and burst into a torrent of tears, which soon brought her mamma to her. "Poor bird!" said Mr. Pryor, "your fate has indeed been a sad one; better far, if I had killed you the day I left home: you would then have suffered but a momentary pang; while now, you have endured many days of agony. But you are happy now, poor little starved thing, and out of the power of your cruel little mistress." Saying this, and without looking at Nelly, Mr. Pryor left the

room.

Little Nelly felt utterly miserable; she knew but for her wicked thoughtlessness her dear little bird would be now alive. She would have given all her playthings, even her magnificent She was so utterly ashamed that she determined, doll's house, to recall poor Dick back to life. if possible, to cure herself of the deep-rooted fault which had caused all this sorrow.

Mr. Pryor had the bird stuffed, and placed in a shade over the mantel-piece. Poor Nelly could never look at it, and if by chance her eyes did rest upon it, they always filled with tears, for she knew that her cruel carelessness was the cause of its being there, and at last she begged her papa to have it removed.

At length Mr. Pryor, seeing that Nelly was really trying to overcome her sad fault, consented to remove the bird; but if ever Nelly is guilty of any forgetfulness, it is immediately replaced. I am glad to say it has the desired effect, and I have every hope that our dear Nelly is nearly cured of those heedless habits which have hitherto caused so much pain to her parents.

I had resided for some time in Callander before making out the customary pilgrimage to the Trossachs and Loch Katrine, the omission of which by any visitor would infallibly stamp him a heathen and a publican. Think not the fact could remain unknown: everyone knows everything that passes, or that should pass and does not, in this little highland village. Meanwhile, O my Public, do you know Callander? Probably, for in these days of Hero-and-Intellect-worship the adjacent lochs and mountains have become a modern Holy Land, and many are the pilgrims that throng thereto. The palmer's amice, staff and scallop-shell, have their appropriate successors in plaids, shawls, kilts of tartans, real and fancy possible and impossible, sported by Smiths, Browns, and Robinsons, with a jaunty audacity that must make the dust of many a chieftain start and tremble under their feet with mingled wrath and wonder. Relics abound-watch-cases, books, stockings, spectacle-cases, ribbons, lockets, papercutters-nay, we verily believe night-caps and Wellington-boots, all of that unceasing tartan, not only tartan-proper but tartan-improper, including, I mean, the vast variety of fancy checks, stripes, and glaring combinations that make one long for a temporary attack of colourblindness!

Tartans should only be worn upon their native heath, and there only by those who can prove an indisputable and time-honoured right to the privilege. Let me not be suspected of highland pride and exclusiveness. My forbears, Anglicé ancestors, for whom I bear a truly Scottish love and veneration, were Borderrievers, or in plain terms gentlemen-thieves (start not, O prejudiced Sassenach !), first in many a bloody foray, and clever at lifting many a fine herd of cattle from the English side of the Debatable Land peace to their gallant memory!

But I must not let my virtuous indignation carry me wandering further. Know, then, if ignorant of the fact and, if you do know, acknowledge-that the village of Callander consists of one long backbone of a street, with irregular ribs branching off, to the river on the one hand, to the cliffs on the other. There is nothing in the village itself to distinguish it froin a hundred

others of the same stamp; but architectural beauty is neither missed nor wanted where the eye has such a wealth of natural beauty to rest upon on every side. To me Ben Ledi, standing sentinel in the background, is a neverfailing source of interest and admiration. To watch sunshine and shadow chasing each other on its slopes, or the mist creeping like white smoke in and out amidst its fissures, or in rain the thousand water-courses foaming white among its rocks, whether the soft pink clouds of dawn blush upon its heathery breast, or the sunset glory crimson its lofty brow, or when, as now, its dark outlines stand out in bold relief against the daffodil sky of evening, at all times and at all seasons Ben Ledi exercises a nameless fascination over me.

Thou art no false prophet, O daffodil sky: the morn has dawned, soft aud fair to look upon With staff in hand (umbrella), and wallet (excessively neat travelling-bag), I stand at the hospitable gate, talking to the lord of the castle (Mr. of the Dreadnought Hotel), while a curious nondescript vehicle is being prepared for the reception of myself and fellow-pilgrims. A few moments more the horn sounds (entirely a figurative expression), and away we start; past silver Vennachar, with its rowans dipping their scarlet treasures in its clear waters-up hill and down dale for sundry miles between wattled hedges, overhung with slender birches, then

"Merrily through the ferny dell,

And down to the sleeping lake, The sunbeams dance and whisper low, The water-lilies to wake."

Achray, gleaming amid its fringe of alders and birches, with its rugged guardian Ben Venue watching, with a jealous care, the Sleeping Beauty at his feet. On-on, through the farfamed Trossach glen, and ere many minutes have passed we have reached our goal, and Katrine lies before us.

Hastily securing a small skiff (the "Helen," of course), we launch forth upon its storied waters. Hour after hour slips by unnoticed as we glide in and out among the purple islands,

Wherever the eye wanders it is greeted by perfection of colour and outline, be it silvery strand or heathery cliff. At last we bid an unwilling farewell to the Queen of Lochs, and resign our boat to the care of its owner, a fine old specimen of a Highlander. With the air of a prince he invites us to a seat beside him on his rustic bench, where we accordingly ensconce ourselves and smoke the pipe of peace. Shrewd, with a keen perception of humour, our old boatman is by no means a companion to be despised. A slight touch of condescension is visible, perhaps, in his otherwise perfect manners; but can you wonder? for is not his foot on his native heath? and is not his name MacGregor? His unmitigated contempt for poor MacSmith, who is pacing up and down before us, waiting for the steamer, is most amusing. His glance, at first coldly contemptuous as it rests on neck-tie of one tartan and kilt of another, becomes actually withering as it dwells upon the knees, which the unwonted presence of the dirk in the stocking seem to have rendered of a sickly pallor.

"Yous a puir sight, sir," he says at last; "is he paid for making sic a fule o' himsel, think ye?"

Then comes the homeward drive, and thoroughly do we enjoy it. The deep silence around us, the mountains looming from a sea of shadow, the red lights gleaming from solitary farm-houses, the sweet odour of the bog-myrtle. Ah, how the miles fly past! Then the lights of the village, a final flourish, and the pilgrim stands once more within the hospice, extremely ready for the repast, consisting not solely of parched peas, the odours of which meet him with a hearty welcome.

It is evening. The sun has gone down behind the mountains, leaving a rosy track upon the heavens: Nothing breaks the stillness save the lapping of the water against the boats moored among the ferns, or the occasional chirr chirr of the partridges hid in the heather. Around us the lake spreads its quiet waters, while behind our mossy-seat, dimly visible through the summer foliage, tower the ruined arches of a long-past age. Ah, surely through the parted branches of yon grand old chestnut there gleams on us a sweet childish face, with wilful rosy lips and sparkling eyes, rich with budding promise of the fatal beauty that "where'er it came brought destruction." Yes, this is Inchmahone, the little island on Menteith, on whose heathery slopes the infant-queen and her Maries passed many a merry hour, shouting at their baby-play. Surely in after-years, when gazing from the lonely tower of Leven on the dark waters below, or later still, when weeping the weary hours in Fotheringay, this quiet island would rise before Marie's aching eyes,

with the vain regret that she had not died there, in her innocent childhood, and been laid beneath the daisies in her own child-garden. Fade away, O lovely childish face! fall back, O drooping branches, and veil that fairy figure beneath your pitying shade! spare us the scenes of blood and horror that come crowding in the train of that ill-fated lady!

Let us wander round the islet, picking our steps through the debris of ruined wall and tower. Passing beneath an arch, which still stands perfect in sculptured beauty amid the surrounding decay, we find ourselves in the roofless precincts of the chapel. At our feet, half hidden among the long grass, with upturned faces to the heavens, lie the stone figures of knight and lady. No name, no recordnothing but the sculptured forms lying side-byside. Looking down on their motionless rest one longs for some fragment of the history of these two. Perchance, he, that stately knight, had bound the red cross upon his brest, and, who knows, fought side by side with the Lion King in the bloody siege of Acre. And she, that gentle lady, had she passed her peaceful hours in household offices of love, concocting simples for her people, or sitting among her maidens, at the eternal tapestry, embroidering with "skeely" touch the deeds of her warrior lord; or in gazing wearily from her turrets out upon the wild mountains, watching for his return from the far eastern land?

But while we gaze at knight and lady with the refrain of the records of 'old, And he died' ringing in our ear, the shades of night deepen over the haunted island, and the stars one by one come gleaming forth in the dark blue above. So we rouse ourselves, and laying a hand with a reverential touch on the forms at our feet, we leave them to their quiet rest.

Unloosing the boat from its moorings, we push noiselessly from the shore; listening to the soft splash, splash of the oars in the water; we pursue our way till the boat grates upon the pebbly strand. But ere we quit the lake, we turn for one last look at the dark island we have left behind us; and as we stand by the water's edge and hear its ripples on the shore, in thought we stand upon another shore, even the sands of time, and through the moaming of the restless wavelets at our feet, there is wafted over the gleaming waters the low murmur of strange voices, the echo of unearthly music. Many and varied are the tones that blend in that wild strain. Sorrow and mirth, joy and woe, the distant sound of battle and the joyous harvest song, the infant's murmuring accents, the clear tones of youth, and the trembling voice of age; we hear them, separate and yet combined, in that strange melody-the sounds of Life and Death.

This circle will form a pretty cover for a toilet-pincushion. It may also be used as a centre for a couvrette, with smaller circles round it.

loop. At the end of the round fasten off and cut the cotton.

1st round. 20 double within the circle.

2nd. 1 double, 17 chain, 1 slip-stitch in the one double to form a loop; work round the loop in double crochet. Increase once on each side, and once at the top. Work once more in double crochet round the loop, increasing as before, and working one slip-stitch at the bottom of the loop. Six purl are worked in this second round over the loop, three on either side. Each purl is composed of 4 chain. At the end of this round fasten off and cut the cotton. There should be four leaves similar to the first, each divided by 4 double.

*

3rd. Fasten the cotton at the point of one of the four leaves, and work 1 double, 5 chain, 1 purl, 5 chain. Now for the small pattern, joining two leaves together; make 3 chain, 1 purl placed downwards, 1 chain, 1 purl placed upwards, 2 chain, 1 double between the two first purl of one leaf, 2 chain, 1 purl, 2 chain, 1 double between the two first purl of next leaf, 2 chain, 1 purl placed upwards, 1 chain, 1 pur downwards, 3 chain, 1 slip-stitch in the first of the three chain at the beginning of the pattern to complete the pattern, then 5 chain, 1 purl, 5 chain, 1 double in the point of the next leaf, and repeat always from *.

4th. Between each leaf and each pattern which divides them you have 10 chain, with a purl in the centre; work 1 double in each of these chains, and 1 in the lower part of the purl; also work 1 double in the point of each leaf, and of each triangular pattern, so as to form an entire circle of double stitches.

5th. All double crochet, increasing here and there.

6th. 5 double, 1 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain, 1 purl, 3 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain, i purl, 1 chain, fasten the loop of chain and purl by 1 slipstitch, and repeat from *. There must be 16 loops in the round, and 5 double between each

8th. The same as the 5th.

9th. Double crochet with 1 purl over every 10th stitch.

small circles of the outer border, which are Before beginning the 10th row, prepare the made separately, as follows:-Begin in the centre. Make 4 chain for a first long double, 7 chain, 1 long double in the first of the 4 chain forming the first long double; work 2 more long double, always divided by 7 chain; then again 7 chain, and fasten the last to the top of the first long double. Nowwork in close crochet all round the star, adding one purl over every fourth stitch. When you have completed sixteen similar small circles, continue to work round the large one.

10th. Begin upon the 3rd stitch after 1 purl, and work I slip-stitch, 7 chain, 1 slip-stitch in one stitch of a circle, between 2 purl; turn, and 1 long double, 1 short treble, 1 treble, 1 long over the 7 chain work one slip stitch, 1 double, treble, miss 3 stitches under the leaf thus formed, and work 1 double in the fourth; now begin a loop, formed of 1 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain, 1 purl, 3 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain; under this loop miss two stitches, 1 purl, and two more stitches of preceding round, and then begin another leaf similar to the first. Work alternately one of the pointed leaves, and one loop with purls. There should be sixteen leaves in the round, and one of the smaller cirles is fastened on to the point of each leaf. To render the work firmer, insert the needle at the back of one circle, in the first space, from the Make a chain of six or seven stitches, and fasten point where the circle was joined on to a leaf. it by a slip-stitch in the point of the nearest loop. Make a second chain of the same length, and join it on in the nearest space of the next circle. Repeat the same process for each circle. They are also joined together by a stitch worked in one purl on either side.