Well, then, the important day arrived, when the father of the two sons was destined either to recover his lost son, or to lose the only son he had, and, anxious as the father felt, Donald Macgillivray, the intended adventurer, felt no less so on the occasion.  The hour of midnight approached when the drama was to be acted, and Donald Macgillivray, loaded with all the charms and benedictions in his country, took mournful leave of his friends, and proceeded to the scene of his intended enterprise.  On approaching the well-known turret, a repetition of that mirth and those ravishing sounds, that had been the source of so much sorrow to himself and family, once more attracted his attention, without at all creating in his mind any extraordinary feelings of satisfaction.  On the contrary, he abhorred the sounds most heartily, and felt much greater inclination to recede than to advance.  But what was to be done?  Courage, character, and everything dear to him were at stake, so that to advance was his only alternative.  In short, he reached the “Shian,” and, after twenty fruitless attempts, he at length entered the place with trembling footsteps, and amidst the brilliant and jovial scene the not least gratifying spectacle which presented itself to Donald was his brother Rory earnestly engaged at the Highland fling on the floor, at which, as might have been expected, he had greatly improved.  Without losing much time in satisfying his curiosity by examining the quality of the company, Donald ran to his brother, repeating, most vehemently, the words prescribed to him by the “wise man,” seized him by the collar, and insisted on his immediately accompanying him home to his poor afflicted parents.  Rory assented, provided he would allow him to finish his single reel, assuring Donald, very earnestly, that he had not been half an hour in the house.  In vain did the latter assure him that, instead of half an hour, he had actually remained twelve months.  Nor would he have believed his overjoyed friends when his brother at length got him home, did not the calves, now grown into stots, and the new-born babes, now travelling the house, at length convince him that in his single reel he had danced for a twelvemonth and a day.

THE HAUNTED SHIPS.

         “Though my mind’s not
   Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think
   There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood,
   Yea, and the charnelled earth, than what wise man,
   Who walks so proud as if his form alone
   Filled the wide temple of the universe,
   Will let a frail mind say.  I’d write i’ the creed
   O’ the sagest head alive, that fearful forms,
   Holy or reprobate, do page men’s heels;
   That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o’er
   The murderer’s dust, and for revenge glare up,
   Even till the stars weep fire for very pity.”