wept, and he also burst into tears.  Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of a young passion that might terminate in sorrow; and taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him, and bade him farewell.  She was leading him to the door, when Elizabeth raised her tearful eyes; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and, leaping forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the first kiss on her forehead!  “Do not forget me, Elizabeth,” he cried, and hurried from the house.

Seven years from this period passed away.  The lovely girl was now transformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty.  For four years Elizabeth had kept a school in the village, to which her gentleness and winning manners drew prosperity; and her grey-haired benefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence.  Preparations were making at Thorndean Hall for the reception of William, who was now returning as Lieutenant Sommerville.  A post-chaise in the village had then become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled before the inn to welcome the young laird.  He arrived, and with him a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age.  They had merely become acquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way northward, had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle’s for a few days.  The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard, about a quarter of a mile from the village.  It was a secluded path, and Elizabeth was wont to retire to it between school hours, and frequently to spend a few moments in silent meditation over her mother’s grave.  She was gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her attention, saying, “Elizabeth—­Miss Morton!” The speaker was Lieutenant Sommerville, accompanied by his friend.  To the meeting of the young lovers we shall add nothing.  But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and looked on her mother’s grave and wept.  “Morton!” he repeated, and read the inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and again wept.  “Lady!” he exclaimed, “pardon a miserable man—­what was the name of your mother?—­who the family of your father?  Answer me, I implore you!” “Alas!  I know neither,” said the wondering and now unhappy Elizabeth.  “My name is Morton,” cried the stranger; “I had a wife; I had a daughter once, and my Isabella’s face was thy face!” While he yet spoke, the elder Sommerville drew near to meet his nephew.  His eyes and the stranger’s met.  “Sommerville!” exclaimed the stranger, starting.  “The same,” replied the other, his brow blackening like thunder, while a trembling passed over his body.  He rudely grasped the arm of his nephew, and dragged him away.  The interesting stranger accompanied Elizabeth to the house of Mrs. Douglas.  Painful were his inquiries; for, while they kindled hope and assurance, they left all in cruel uncertainty.  “Oh, sir!” said Mrs. Douglas, “if ye be the faither o’ my blessed bairn, I dinna wonder at auld Sommerville