“When I came home, Jeanie met me at my uncle’s gate.  ‘Tell me,’ she said in a low anxious voice, ’tell me, cousin Jamie, what passed atween ye.  Had he nae word for me?’

“‘Naething, Jeanie, the man is lost to himsel’, to a’ who ance wished him weel.  He is not worth a decent body’s thought.’

“She sighed deeply, for I saw that her heart craved after some word fra’ him, but she said nae mair, but pale an’ sorrowfu’, the very ghaist o’ her former sel’, went back into the house.

“From that hour she never breathed his name to ony of us; but we all ken’d that it was her love for him that was preying upon her life.  The grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, always lies ne’est to the heart.  Puir Jeanie! she held out during the simmer, but when the fall came, she just withered awa’ like a flower, nipped by the early frost, and this day we laid her in the earth.

“After the funeral was ower, and the mourners were all gone, I stood beside her grave, thinking ower the days of my boyhood, when she and I were happy weans, an’ used to pu’ the gowans together on the heathery hills o’ dear auld Scotland.  An’ I tried in vain to understan’ the mysterious providence o’ God, who had stricken her, who seemed sae gude and pure, an’ spared the like o’ me, who was mair deservin’ o’ his wrath, when I heard a deep groan, an’ I saw Willie Robertson standing near me beside the grave.

“‘Ye may as weel spare your grief noo,’ said I, for I felt hard towards him, ‘an’ rejoice that the weary is at rest.’

“‘It was I murdered her,’ said he, ‘an’ the thought will haunt me to my last day.  Did she remember me on her death bed?’

“‘Her thoughts were only ken’d by Him who reads the secrets of a’ hearts, Willie.  Her end was peace, an’ her Saviour’s blessed name was the last sound upon her lips.  But if ever woman died fra’ a broken heart, there she lies.’

“‘Oh, Jeanie!’ he cried, ’mine ain darling Jeanie! my blessed lammie!  I was na’ worthy o’ yer love—­my heart, too, is breaking.  To bring ye back aince mair, I wad lay me down an’ dee.’

“An’ he flung himsel’ upon the grave and embraced the fresh clods, and greeted like a child.

“When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past, and truly I believe that the man was not in his right senses when he married yon wife; at ony rate, he is not lang for this warld; he has fretted the flesh aff his banes, an’ before many months are ower, his heid will lie as low as puir Jeanie Burns’s.”

While I was pondering this sad story in my mind, Mrs. H—–­ came in.

“You have heard the news, Mrs. M—–?”

I looked inquiringly.

“One of Clark’s little boys that were lost last Wednesday in the woods has been found.”

“This is the first I have heard about it.  How were they lost?”

“Oh, ’tis a thing of very common occurrence here.  New settlers, who are ignorant of the danger of going astray in the forest, are always having their children lost.  This is not the first instance by many that I have known, having myself lived for many years in the bush.  I only wonder that it does not more frequently happen.