And Sheila did.  And her father chose the songs for her, and they were the blithest he could find, and the girl seemed really in excellent spirits.  They had their pipes and their hot whisky and water in this little parlor; Mr. Mackenzie explaining that although his daughter was accustomed to spacious and gilded drawing-rooms where such a thing was impossible, she would do anything to make her friends welcome and comfortable, and they might fill their glasses and their pipes with impunity.  And Sheila sang again and again, all cheerful and sensible English songs, and she listened to the odd jokes and stories her friends had to tell her; and Mackenzie was delighted with the success of his plans and precautions.  Was not her very appearance now a triumph?  She was laughing, smiling, talking to every one:  he had not seen her so happy for many a day.

In the midst of it all, when the night had come apace, what was this wild skirl outside that made everybody start?  Mackenzie jumped to his feet, with an angry vow in his heart that if this “teffle of a piper John” should come down the hill playing “Lochaber no more” or “Cha till mi tualadh” or any other mournful tune, he would have his chanter broken in a thousand splinters over his head.  But what was the wild air that came nearer and nearer, until John marched into the house, and came, with ribbons and pipes, to the very door of the room, which was flung open to him?  Not a very appropriate air, perhaps, for it was

  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho! 
  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho! 
  The Campbells are coming to bonny Lochleven! 
  The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!

But it was, to Mr. Mackenzie’s rare delight, a right good joyous tune, and it was meant as a welcome to Sheila; and forthwith he caught the white-haired piper by the shoulder and dragged him in, and said, “Put down your pipes and come into the house, John—­put down your pipes and tek off your bonnet, and we shall hef a good dram together this night, by Kott!  And it is Sheila herself will pour out the whisky for you, John; and she is a good Highland girl, and she knows the piper was never born that could be hurt by whisky, and the whisky was never yet made that could hurt a piper.  What do you say to that, John?”

John did not answer:  he was standing before Sheila with his bonnet in his hand, but with his pipes still proudly over his shoulder.  And he took the glass from her and called out “Shlainte!” and drained every drop of it out to welcome Mackenzie’s daughter home.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP

MR. E. LYTTON BULWER.