CHAPTER II.

DAVIE DUNMORE.

"Till now thy soul hath been All glad and gay;

Bid it awake, and look

At grief to-day.

But now the stream has reached

A dark, deep sea;

And sorrow, dim, and crowned,

Is waiting thee."

THE scene changes. Round the gray old castle of Dunmore, in the kingdom of Fife, a thick mist had arisen, just such a mist or haur as rises at the present day from the German Ocean, near which the castle stood. Bleak enough it looked that autumn day, in the year 1425, its gray ivy-mantled towers looming through the vapoury mist. Close by its arched gateway stood a party of people gazing after some horsemen, who apparently had recently left the castle. There was a lady in the group, so young, so bright, so airified (if there be such a word), that she seemed strangely out of keeping with the solid grim-looking castle, and even the clumsylike men, some of whom were gazing eagerly after the horsemen, who were fast disappearing from view. The lady carried a baby-girl in her arms, holding her up high to catch a sight of the riders. "There, ma petite," she said in a foreign accent; "voila, how fast they go; is it not pretty?"

But as she spoke, a tall handsome boy of some thirteen years old, of singular beauty, ran up, dashing aside some of the serving-men who stood in his way.

66

'Mother," he said eagerly, almost passionately, in the broad old Scotch, which we will not attempt to initate," why was I not told that my father had gone?Idiots," he said, turning to the men, "could you not have come and told me, instead of loitering about the court here, wasting time! Where is William? Bid him saddle Black Bob quickly, and I'll give chase, and overtake them yet."

"No, David," said the lady, putting her hand gently on his shoulder, "you must not. It was your father's wish you should remain; he feared the east wind and rain would bring back your cough. Indeed you must not, mon fils."

The boy stamped his foot impatiently. "What of a cough!" he said; "who minds? And the falcon-had my father the falcons with him?"

"Yes; he wished to try them, and—” "Took my one too," broke in the boy; shame! Mother, I must go."

"what a

"Nay, David, nay," she said, with a sweet smile. "See, the little one-n'est-elle pas jolie?—is holding out her arms to you. Take her; is she not better than twenty falcons?"

The boy smiled, the imperious passionate look changing to one of almost womanly tenderness, as he took the child in his arms, saying, "Come, donc-Marie, come and see Rover."

A strange boy was the young laird of Dunmore, almost as strange a medley in his own spirit as the household in which he lived, composed as it was of members of French, English, and Scotch origin. Passionate and impulsive to a fault, refusing to be governed by force, after the rude fashion of the day; yet with a heart full of tenderness and affection to those he loved, and submitting to their authority like a child. Spurning everything that was cruel and mean; yet ever ready with the sharp blow to any who oppressed those unable to fight for themselves. Thoughtful and studions. Such were the contradictory elements which made up the character of Master Davie Dunmore. Left motherless at the early age of four years, he and his sister Maude, some three years his senior, had lived, till three years before the time we write of, with their father's mother in the town of Crail, during their father's absence in France, whither he had gone to uphold the failing fortunes of the French king, Charles VI.; on his return from whence he brought with him a new mother to his children, in the person of as pretty a little French woman, of noble birth, as could be seen. It was a change indeed to bring that little, blithe, dancing creature, full of life and mirth, from the sunny south to the gray dismal Scottish castle by the rocky coast. Mist was enveloping it on the day she entered it as a bride; and when the drawbridge was up, and they entered the thick walled abode, can we wonder if she felt she had left all brightness and life in her own fair country? The unpolished manners and want of refinement observable in even the best Scotch households in those days contrasted strangely with the luxuries and refinements of French life. The long oaken dining-tables, groaning under the weight of victuals of every description, served up in the most primitive manner, sometimes even without trenchers, whilst a table-cloth was an almost unknown rarity; the rude jests of the serving-men, only separated from the laird and his family by the salt,-all jarred on the young bride, accustomed as she was to manners courteous and refined. And yet even then the household of the Laird of Dunmore was better ordered than that of many another castle in those days; for its former mistress, the mother of Maude and Davie, had been a lady of English birth, and had introduced some of the gentle customs into her Scottish home. The young French bride by degrees became accustomed to the gray castle; and although she never failed, when asked how she liked it, to shrug her shoulders, and say, with an arch smile, "Ah, it is triste, so triste, this country of yours!" still the love she bore her husband, and, ere long, the affection she conceived for his motherless children, made the grim castle dear to her also.

Over the impetuous Davie she exercised from the first a powerful influence. A word, a look of grief, from her would stay him amid every outbreak of passion, and bring him to her side, saying, “Ah, petite mère, look not so triste! Je suis fâché, bien faché !"-and the book,

thrown most likely across the room, would be picked | up and his studies renewed. Truly had Sir Thomas Godwin, his priestly preceptor, good reason to bless the day that brought the Lady Louise to the Castle of Dun

more.

Nor did Maude-Mistress Maude, as she was calledbear less love to her step-mother than did her brother. To the young girl (immured as she had been between the walls of the Castle of Dunmore and the less stately but as stiff abode of her grandmother's at Crail, seeing no society save that of a few neighbouring friends), the bright little creature that her father called wife seemed like some princess of romance, if not a being strayed from fairyland. Maude herself bade fair to have great personal charms. Graceful and tall in figure, with large, soft blue eyes and sunny brown hair, with an expression of intellect and sweetness combined, she was promising, in a different style, to rival her pretty French step-mother.

Of the laird himself there is not much to be said. He was a good type of a well-born Scotch gentleman of the time; more cultivated in mind than many, and with an unwonted degree of chivalry learned during the years spent in France; passionately fond of his children, a good husband, and a good son: such was the character borne by the elder Dunmore of that ilk. And, moreover, he bore the name of a religious man. His son's preceptor acted as chaplain in the household; the Ave-Marias were repeated, beads were told, fasts kept, the knee bent in form at least before the crucifix, and mass when possible attended. Many in the household lived up to the light they possessed. Did it never strike them that that light was darkness? Likely not. That which could alone have shown them the darkness which surrounded them-even the Book of Life-was kept from them by those who feared, too truly, that the knowledge of its precious truths would open the eyes of the reader to the wicked vices of those who pretended to be teachers of religion, priests of Him who was holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners; whilst all the while they lived for the most part in open, flagrant sin, and imposed on the ignorant by their wicked devices-oppressors of the fatherless and the widow, corrupt trees bringing forth evil fruit, ravening wolves in sheep's clothing.

At the time we write of, Maude Dunmore had for more than a year been with her mother's friends in England, not far from the city of York, but was expected home in the course of a few months. During her absence a baby-sister had been born, and anxiety had begun to be felt about the health of the young master. A constant pain in his side, accompanied by a hacking cough, had set in: yet the boy was at times so bright and well, scorning the idea of a cough being of consequence, yet wondering why he could not run as of old, why even riding brought on the pain in his side, and why at times, boy though he was, he felt so weary, as if life had all of a sudden grown a burden. On the

very day we have written of, after chasing Rover with his baby-sister in his arms, he felt so weary that he went in-doors, and threw himself down exhausted; not on a luxurious couch-for such things were then unknown-but on the rush-strewn floor of the room where he pursued his studies. His cheeks burned, and he breathed with pain. He lay for some time; then rose and went to the narrow casement and looked out. The mist had thickened, hiding even the sea from view, though he could hear

"The billows burst in ceaseless flow
Upon the precipice below."

How gloomy it looked! The boy stood lost in thought. Just then his own life looked as gray as the mist around him. Could he be going to die? Never before had the thought entered his mind; but the evening previous he had overheard Sir Thomas say to his father, "We must not forget that Master David's mother died of decline." Was this pain, that racking cough, signs, then, of decline? And if he died, what then? At the very thought the boy shuddered and crossed himself, muttering the words, "Virgin Mother, save me!-But oh, if I only knew! 'Tis all so dark, so uncertain-everything veiled; just as yon mist hides the sky-all dark!" Poor boy! The mist is all from below-light above is shining clear; and it is man, not God, who is keeping down the thick veil that hinders the beams of the Sun of Righteousness, the light of the glory of God in Christ Jesus, from shining in your heart.

The boy's pensive mood soon passed; for just then his father, with his horsemen and the falcons, rode into the castle court. In a moment he was outside, eagerly questioning how the falcons had done, and patting the strong horses as they stood panting. He stood with uncovered head, unheeding the cold and rain which had begun to fall. A hand was laid on his shoulder, and Sir Thomas Godwin spoke:

"Master David, you were better in-doors on such an afternoon as this. See how heated you are! Come in!" The boy chafed impatiently.

"What if I am? Do you suppose I'm a girl, to be afraid of cold and rain?-Father, mayn't I stay? Fine kind of a soldier I'll make, if I'm to be pent up in the castle every day the sun's not shining!"

The laird looked at the boy. His cheeks were certainly flushed and his eyes sparkling; but of illness the hardy soldier knew nothing, and he regarded both Sir Thomas and his wife's fears about Davie's health as visionary.

"Well, Sir Thomas," he said, "'tis a pity to shut up the boy for a little rain; he seems so well and his colour so good. There, Davie, mount and lead Le Roy to the stable." And in a moment the boy vaulted on the saddle, and rode off on the fiery steed.

Sir Thomas stepped forward.

"Indeed, my lord," he said anxiously, "you little wot what you are doing in letting Master Davie act

I complain of, though, methinks, that were no wise action; but, in truth, I fear much the young master's health is in a more serious state than you wot of." "Is it really so, Sir Thomas?" said the laird. "I see nought amiss with him. The boy grows fast. But I shall recall him.-Here, Lyndsay, tell Master Davie not to loiter in the stables, as Sir Thomas is awaiting him.— Ah, here comes a welcome guest - Miretown of Miretown!"

Just at that moment the blast of a horn was blown, the gateway was opened, and a handsome man of some twenty years of age rode in. His greeting and manner were hearty, but courteous as well.

"How now, Dunmore," he said, returned already from the chase? And where is Davie? Left in the woods again, eh?"

"Not so far off," said the father, laughing, as the boy dashed round, feeling aggrieved at his sudden recail. But at the sight of the young horseman he paused, and going up to him, shook him heartily by the hand.

"Come in, William, and rest a bit," said the laird; and the young man, nothing loath, dismounted, and, giving the horse to one of his attendants, entered the castle with the laird and his son. In a chamber termed the keeping-room they found the Lady Louise. She greeted them cordially. Young Miretown was a favourite with her, being the acknowledged suitor for the hand of Mistress Maude, girl though she was. It was no secret indeed, according to the fashion of those days. It had been settled long ago that a marriage would take place between the Master of Miretown and the Laird of Dunmore's eldest daughter. Little romance there was in the matter. Maude and he had regarded it as a settled affair since ever they could understand such things, and quietly took their fate. They liked one another pretty well, and no doubt was felt that all would be right. So now young Miretown asked not over-anxiously, but kindly, concerning Maude's welfare, as of one who belonged to himself. Then suddenly breaking off in the midst of his inquiries, he said abruptly, “Davie, lad, what's the matter?" for the boy had staggered where he stood, and, pale as death, would have fallen to the ground, but for the strong arm thrown around him.

He rallied, saying, “Oh, it's nothing; only my side pains me so, and I can't breathe right; it will be off in a minute."

The Lady Louise rose, begging the boy to come with her to Sir Thomas, and see if he could prescribe for him. Somewhat unwillingly, he went; and his father, who for a moment had been alarmed, said,—

""Tis nothing; only a passing spasm."

But William interrupted him. "Laird," he said, "that boy's worse than you're thinking. He ought to see some physician. It's nothing short of tempting

now done for months. Take my advice, and send to St. Andrews for the foreign physician, Paul Crawer. Every one lauds his skill, and he may yet be able to do something to save the lad."

"Save the lad! young Think you, if I believed

The laird started to his feet. master. What do you mean? there was aught wrong with my son, my only son, the best advice that Scotland, ay, or France, could get, would I not have for him?" But he calmed down as he spoke. "I know you meant kindly; and maybe, as the boy does seem not so strong as he used to be, it may be well to let this Paul Crawer see him. If to-morrow be fine, Davie shall ride with me to St. Andrews, and we'll see what the foreigner can do for him. By the way, he is from Bohemia, is he not?"

"Yes; he came from there more than two years ago, and bears excellent credentials from the University of Prague."

"What induced him to come here ?"

"Who

The young man shrugged his shoulders. knows?" he said. "Perchance a love of change, or of adventure, or of seeing other lands than his own. But be it as it may, here he is settled down, much thought of, I hear, a man of learning, and one with whom the young men attending the university like to converse." "Have you seen him?"

A strange glow suffused the young man's face as he answered, "I have, more than once; not as a physician though," he said with a laugh.

"Well, 'tis settled then," said the laird. "I'll tell Louise my plan, and take Davie with me to-morrow."

Truly has it been said, "Man proposes, but God disposes." Hardly had the words passed the laird's lips, when the door opened, and Sir Thomas Godwin entered hastily.

"My lord, the master is very ill. He has broken a blood-vessel. We must have medical aid at once."

No words were wasted. The laird was alarmed enough now

"Get Lyndsay instantly," he said; "bid him saddle the freshest horse, and ride to St. Andrews, and bring back the Bohemian physician, Paul Crawer."

William Miretown sprang up. "Let me go! I know where he lives; and, trust me, I'll lose no time on the road." And ere many minutes had elapsed, he was mounted and off.

Midnight saw Paul Crawer at the bed-side of the young Laird of Dunmore. A cloud had indeed fallen on the whole household, for all loved the impulsive, affectionate lad; and it was known that he lay at the very gates of death. The waves of sorrow had risen high, and none knew of Him, save by name, who alone could say, "Peace, be still."

(To be continued.)

He counted threescore years and ten

His dim blue orbs had lost their sight, And yet he turned his faded eyes Up to the blue unclouded skies, And smiled, as though the heavens still His aged heart did move and thrill With wonder and delight

His grandchild stood beside his knee
A handsome fair-browed boy,
Who watched his grandsire thoughtfully,
And marvelled much and long to see
His face so full of joy.

The boy was grave beyond his years, A quiet, thoughtful lad ; "Grandfather," thus the boy did say, "Your face is very bright to day;

What makes you look so glad?

"Your limbs are weak, your breath is faint,

You cannot walk or run,

You cannot see the clear, deep sky,
Nor the swift clouds go sailing by,
Nor the soft changing lights that lie
Around the setting sun.

"You cannot see the flowers or trees,

And yet you are not sad; Sometimes I know you suffer pain, And yet you fret not nor complain;

What keeps you always glad?"

The old man laughed a gentle laugh,
But a tear stood in his eye;
A little while he did not speak,
Then stroked the boy's soft ruddy cheek,
And thus he made reply :-

"My life has lain 'mid fields and woods, I loved them from my earliest age;

And by degrees I learned to look
On Nature's face as on a book,
Wherein I traced in every line
The working of the Hand divine

That wrote the wondrous page.

"All day I roved the woods and glens, And when at length I grew

Of strength to help my father, still
My work was on the field and hill
Beneath the heavens blue.

"And so with manhood's graver years

My thoughts a deeper vision took,
And Nature's fairest sights impressed
Their image deep within my breast,-
Her every look I knew.

"I learned by heart her varying shapes,
All forms of loveliness and grace,
Of stream and forest, tree and flower;
While fe shall last no earthly power
Their image can efface.

"Shut your eyes, Willie, for a while,
And still in memory you will see
The sights that filled your open eye,
The woods, the sunshine, and the sky,-
So, Willie, 'tis with me.

"Since first I lost my sight, you know,
Five years have passed away,
Yet from my heart can never fade
The glowing pictures that were made
In boyhood's early day.

"I see the wood and river still;

And when the day is nearly done,
In memory's eye I still behold
The colours lying fold on fold,
The crimson melting into gold
Around the setting sun.

"And still I ever tried to look

From Nature up to Nature's God, To see his Spirit breathed through all His wondrous works, or great or small, In forest-brook, and mountain-flood, And in the tiniest daisy bud

That decks the blossoming sod."

The old man ceased; the listening boy,
With earnest face upraised,
Drank in his grandsire's every word,
And wondering much at what he heard,
In thoughtful silence gazed.