After this, preparations for the charade party go on with great energy. Liddy is in her element, for Walter comes every day to consult and rehearse. The expensive dresses are ordered; invitations are sent out; the drop-scene is being painted by a local artist; and the erewhile solemn stately shades of Government House re-echo at all hours with unwonted strains of melody and mirth.
(To be continued.)
[A LEGEND OF 'THE FORTY-FIVE.']
The news of the expected landing of Prince Charles Edward Stuart in Scotland to attempt to recover the crown of his forefathers had reached a secluded glen, and many were the hopes and fears that animated the breasts of the Highlanders.
There dwelt in a small sheeling on the hill-side a young girl of eighteen, the only daughter of a Highlander. Her rare beauty and gentle manners had won her the admiration and approval of both young and old in the glen; many were the suitors that had sought young Flora's hand, and many were the sad hearts that had left the sheeling with the gentle yet firm refusal of the Highland lassie. Her companion from childhood had been young Donald of the clachan. The children had grown up together from their earliest years, had wandered among the bonnie heather braes, and sat beside each other in the primitive school of the glen, for years before either had known the meaning of the word love. On stormy days, when winds were high and the blinding snow-drift swept over the glen, young Donald would wrap the pretty child in his plaid, and though only two years her senior, seemed to consider himself the guardian of the mitherless bairn.
Thus years had passed away in all the innocent attachment of childhood. When the hours for play came, these children, instead of romping with the others in the school, would wander to some sunny brae and twine the purple heather in a necklet for the fair white neck of the little Flora, or to deck the blue bonnet of young Donald. Their natures seemed formed in the same mould—calm loving natures, cheerful and sunny, yet not impulsive, nor boisterous, nor cruel. Years had fled without a cloud to darken the sky of their young existence; Flora had fulfilled the promise of her childhood, and had grown in beauty both of person and mind. Hers was the same innocent and loving nature that had nestled in childhood beneath the plaid of the young Donald, who had now grown to manhood. A finer specimen of a young Highlander could not be seen; strength, agility, comeliness, and the proud bearing which is so native to the mountaineer, were his; but the artless confidence of childhood had been usurped by the deep strong power of love, and they met with more reserve as time went on.
Flora's father was proud of his only child, who so reminded him of her mother, his first and only love, that he had laid in the grave years ago. Proud of the admiration and respect that his child met with on all hands, he reasoned with himself that it was his duty as a father to endeavour to get his daughter to make a good match, which to his idea was a wealthy one. He had liked Donald, and encouraged him when they were children in the care he took of young Flora. But Donald was a shepherd, the only son of a widowed mother; and why should any foolish feeling on the part of Flora prevent her marrying some one of the well-to-do farmers who had sought her hand?
It was a winter's night; the fire was burning brightly on the hearth; and Donald, who had been spending the evening with them, had just left, when the first shadow came over young Flora's life. Her father spoke words which went like arrows to her heart, and brought tears to her glorious eyes. Donald was forbidden to come to the house again; and the name of a wealthy man whose suit she had rejected, but who had again asked her father for her hand, was pronounced with the sternness of parental authority to be the one he had selected for her future husband.
Flora loved her father, and at first only gazed at him with a look of incredulity; but the words were repeated, harsher and more stern than formerly. The tears were gone; there was an expression in Flora's eyes, not of anger, but it spoke volumes. She rose, kissed her father's forehead, and left the room.