'He is a true saint! he is just about to preach,' said the landlady, who had come out with her gayest apron, her whitest cap, and all her gold chains. 'Ah! the poor lady, it would do her heart good to hear him preach; and by that time the roast would be ready-an admirable piece of venison, sent for the occasion. There he is, the blessed man!'

And as I had just alighted from the carriage, for our mules had made a double stage and could not go further, I saw coming from the presbytère three or four priests, with the sexton and the serving boys. One of them, a spare thin man, with a little bronze Crucifix in his hand, paused as he saw the hearse drawn up, clasped his hands in prayer, and then lifted them in benediction of him who lay within. I saw his face, and there was in it an indescribable heavenly sweetness and pity which made me say to my brother, 'I must go and hear him.'

My brother was so glad to hear me express any wish, that I believe if I had asked to go and dance on the village green he would almost have permitted it; and leaving my little one to play in the garden under Tryphena's care, he gave me his arm, and we went into the Church, crowded-crowded so that we could hardly find room; but my deep mourning made the good people respectfully make place for us and give us chairs.

Ah! that sermon ! I cannot tell you it in detail; I only know that it gave the strongest sense of healing balm to my sore heart, and seemed in a wonderful way to lift me up into the atmosphere where my Philippe was gone, making me feel that what kept me so far— far from him was not death, nor his coffin, but my own thick husk of sin and worldliness. Much more there was, which seems now to have grown into my very mind; and by the time it was over I was weeping tears no longer bitter, and feeling nothing so much as the need to speak to that priest.

M. de Solivet promised that I should, but we had long to wait, for the saintly Abbé de Paul would not postpone the poor to the rich; nor could my grief claim the precedence, for I was not the only broken-hearted young widow in France, nor even in that little village.

I cannot be grateful enough to my brother that he put up with all the inconveniences of sleeping at this little village that I might carry out what he thought a mere woman's enthusiastic fancy; but in truth it was everything to me. After Vespers, the holy man was able to give me an hour in the Church, and verily it was the opening of new life to me. Since my light had been taken from me all had been utter desolate darkness before me. He put a fresh light before me, which now, after fifty years, I know to have been the dawn of better sunshine than even that which had brightened my youth-and I thank my good God, Who has never let me entirely lose sight of it. Very faint, almost disappointing, it seemed to me then.

I came

away from my interview feeling as if it had been vain to think there could be any balm for a crushed heart, and yet when I awoke the next morning, and dressed myself to hear Mass before resuming my journey, it was with the sense that there I should meet a Friend and Comforter. And when I looked at my little son, it was not only with dreary, passionate pity for the unconscious orphan, but with a growing purpose to bring him up as his father's special charge; nay, as that from even a greater and nearer than my Philippe.

While, as we journeyed on, I gradually dwelt less on how piteous my arrival would be for myself, and thought more and more of its sadness for the poor old Marquis who had loved his nephew so much, till, instead of merely fearing to reach Nidemerle, I began to look forward to it, and consider how to comfort the poor old man; for had not my husband begged me to be the staff of his old age, and to take a daughter's place to him?

KEEPING THE VOW.

BY THE AUTHOR OF JOINED TO AN IDOL,' &c., &c.

PART I.

HOW THE VOW WAS MADE.

CHAPTER XII.

LADY MARJORIE HEPBURN was one of that distinguished class of high-born Scottish women which, with all its generic characteristics and striking qualities, has been so well and charmingly described by Sir Walter Scott and other writers of note, that it seems presumptuous to follow in their wake, and even to endeavour to set before the reader a picture of only one particular individual of that well-known class; and yet it is impossible to omit speaking of one who helped to influence the fortunes of our hero in whom we are greatly interested. She was born in the year 1715, and was the only child of the second marriage of her father, the Earl of Rowanbank, who in his youth had accompanied Monk on his celebrated march into England which ended in the restoration of the Stuart family to the throne; and had fought side by side with Bonnie Dundee' at Killiecrankie, and who, at the time of her birth, was a hale, magnificent man of seventy-five years of age. His second countess, almost a girl-being scarcely twenty-had received her education abroad, and was something of an heiress, owning a house (which even then was deemed a curious remnant of antiquity) in Ennerleddie, and an estate in the immediate neighbourhood of that city. Both the aged father and the youthful mother were very proud of their first-born darling, and great were the rejoicings in the old castle which stood in the very heart of the Ross-shire Highlands. The sons and daughters of the first countess, grown up men and women, also rejoiced with their father and stepmother, who had been the bosom friend of the only unmarried sister amongst them. There was the more of mirth and gaiety because all knew that a terribly troublous time was close at hand. Amongst the merriest of the feast-keepers was Lord Hepburn, who had come of age only a few months before, and whose long-orphaned minority had been spent at Rowanbank Castle, the earl having been his guardian. This young man was present when the little Marjorie was baptized, and indeed stood at the font as proxy for her godfather, no less a personage than the Chevalier S. George, or, as he was called in that house, King James VIII. After the ceremony, the baron gave back the little maiden saying, laughingly, as he threw a string of costly pearls round her neck

'Take gude care o' her for my sake, nurse, for may-be, she'll be a wife to me some day!'

'And why not?' cried the countess, somewhat irritated by the amused laughter of all present which followed the young man's speech. Certainly she who had married for love a man fifty-four years her senior-could not think that a difference of twenty-one years between a husband and wife was anything to speak of.

Lord Hepburn remembered this, and feared that she might really feel hurt; being a true gentleman in nature, as well as in name, he went to her side, bending over her chair, and lifting her hand to his lips, he said, in low tones

'I thank you, indeed, dear madam, for what is almost a promise that if I should venture to pay my addresses to the daughter of one of the most perfect of her sex, and therefore certain herself to be perfect, I shall have your gracious consent and favour.'

But little more of laughter, or of courtly compliment, passed in that castle for many a long month. Almost immediately after the baptism of the little Lady Marjorie, came the great rising of '15, led by the Earl of Mar, and which Lord Rowanbank, spite of the great age that might well have excused him from such efforts, thought it his duty to join; his loving young wife not attempting to hold him back, for, though she loved him right well, yet loved she honour more.' Poor girl! she lived to be thankful that her dear and honoured lord perished at Sheriffmuir, rather than by the axe of the executioner; the brave old soldier died a soldier's death; and after some time his young widow retired with her baby girl, and her favourite stepdaughter, to her own house of Gowanbraes, attended and escorted thither by the Lord Hepburn, who, though he also had fought at Sheriffmuir with his faithful retainer David Hepburn, had contrived, through the interest of friends, and on account of his youth, to escape the vengeance of the Government. He frequently visited the three ladies in their retirement, and the little Marjorie found that all the pleasures of the outer world which came to her, came through him. He it was who brought her quaint Dutch toys, and 'wooden babies' as dolls were then called. He trained and gave her her first pony, he taught her archery, he presented her with the newest-fashioned harpsichord, and with many of the little gauds and vanities dear to all girls hearts.

A sweet and lovable maiden was the Lady Marjorie at fifteen ; simple in heart and innocent in mind as one brought up in almost cloistered seclusion, which yet was rendered wholesome and natural by occasional intercourse with the outer world, ought to have been. She was healthy in mind and body, with a heart brave enough for any fate, and yet purely feminine in word and manner. Simply, innocently, and heartily, as such a girl would do, did she fall in love with Lord Hepburn; and did not guess that her love could clearly be seen

by all around her; in good truth did not herself know that her feeling for him was love in its technical and generally understood sense, until a rumour reached Gowanbraes that Lord Hepburn had met with a fearful accident, likely to prove fatal, that a tree had fallen upon him, crushing his back to such an extent that it was impossible that he could live.

'Madam, we must go to him at once!' cried Marjorie to her mother. 'I implore you let there be no delay.'

Not quite in an hour's time, but very early the following morning, the heavy family coach was plodding along the deeply-rutted roads on the Inverness-shire side of Ennerleddie, whilst three or four armed servants, mounted on horseback, followed close behind. Presently the coachman came to a stop, and a gentleman, who had been riding rapidly towards the cavalcade, dismounted, and, coming up to the coach windows, showed himself to be Lord Hepburn. Marjorie fainted from excess of joy, and for a few minutes all was confusion. Water from a burn flowing conveniently near soon revived her, and then, the horses' heads having been turned back towards Gowanbraes, Lord Hepburn made the fourth in the coach, and told the whole and true story of the accident. He had been in a wood watching the felling of timber, and had been in imminent danger of being thrown down and crushed by a falling tree, but had been promptly pushed aside by his faithful follower, David Hepburn, who unfortunately had not managed altogether to save himself, for he had received a severe injury to the thigh and leg, and was now, Lord Hepburn said, in bed, suffering much, and therefore he must soon return to him-as soon in fact as he had seen the ladies safely home.

'That is the second time that that good man has probably saved your life,' said the countess.

'When was the other time?' inquired Lady Marjorie.

'When you were an infant, dear lady,' replied her betrothed. 'At Sheriffmuir he threw himself in front of me, and received the wound intended for me; and he was only eighteen then, a mere boy, who might well have been excused had he thought only of his own safety. Your honoured husband, Lady Rowan bank, did wisely in letting him always be my companion and share my childish pursuits and pleasures.'

'Yes, my lord thought highly of him, only he regretted that he was not a Highlander.'

'Ay, and that regret extended to myself. Alas! that my estates should only be on the borders of Inverness-shire, and that my family should not be genuinely Celtic.'

Lady Rowanbank smiled. 'There are good people who are not Highlanders; but your excellent friend David is your distant kinsman, is he not? I think I have heard my lord say so.'

'Yes, his father and my father were first cousins. My grandfather had an immense family; the daughters he contrived to marry well,