Hushing her little one, whose piteous cry would almost have made one think it was uttered in sympathy with its mother’s distress.  Casting one more despairing glance, she was, apparently, about to retrace her weary steps with a look that completely baffles description, when her eye fell on a boat returning from the vessel, which that moment neared the water’s edge, and she saw Captain Ormsby jump out.  Hastily going up to him, she exclaimed, in a tone that seemed almost to forbid comfort.

“Oh, Sir, I am ashamed to be so troublesome, indeed I am, and I fear to ask you if I have any chance this time?”

“Why Kitty, my good girl, had you asked me that question half, nay, a quarter of an hour ago, I could not have given you any hope, but I can now put you in place of Timothy Brennan’s wife, who has just altered her mind.”

“Sergeant Browne,” cried he, “here is Hewson’s wife, who went out in the ‘Boyne.’  Do the best you can for her, she can take Hetty Brennan’s place.”  Joyfully did Kitty Hewson step into the boat, beckoning to a lad who was holding a small deal box, which he placed beside her; but she seemed as if she could hardly believe herself about to follow her husband, till actually on board.

The worthy Captain was, indeed, to be envied such a disposition to lessen the aggregate of human misery, by entering into their feelings.  In how very short a space (three hours) had he the power of cheering the desponding hearts of several fellow creatures, without either detriment to the service, or swerving, in the least, from his duty.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

This Narrative is supposed to be addressed by an aged Highlander to his Grandson shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie.

  Come hither, Evan Cameron,—­
  Come stand beside my knee;
  I hear the river roaring down
  Towards the wintry sea. 
  There’s shouting on the mountain side;
  There’s war within the blast;
  Old faces look upon me,
  Old forms go riding past. 
  I hear the pibrock wailing
  Amidst the din of fight,
  And my dim spirit wakes again
  Upon the verge of night.

  ’Twas I, that led the Highland host
  Through wild Lochaber’s snows,
  What time the plaided clans came down
  To battle with Montrose. 
  I’ve told thee how the South’rons fell
  Beneath his broad claymore,
  And how he smote the Campbell clan
  By Inverlocky’s shore. 
  I’ve told thee how we swept Dundee
  And tamed the Lindsay’s pride;
  But never have I told thee yet
  How the great Marquis died.

  A traitor sold him to his foes: 
  Oh, deed of deathless shame! 
  I charge thee, boy, if e’er thou meet
  With one of Assynt’s name,
  Be it upon the mountain side,
  Or yet within the glen,
  Stand he in martial gear alone,
  Or backed by armed men;
  Face him as thou wouldst face a man
  That wronged thy sire’s renown;
  Remember of what blood thou art,
  And strike the caitiff down