DRAWING NEARER.
She is all alone on deck. The morning sun shines on the beautiful blue bay; on the great castle perched on the rocks over there; and on the wooded green hills beyond. She has got a canvas fixed on her easel; she sings to herself as she works.
Now this English young lady must have beguiled the tedium of her long nursing in Edinburgh by making a particular acquaintance with Scotch ballads; or how otherwise could we account for her knowledge of the "Song of Ulva," and now of the "Song of Dunvegan?"
Macleod the faithful, and fearing none!
Dunvegan—oh! Dunvegan!
—she hums to herself as she is busy with this rough sketch of sea and shore. How can she be aware that Angus Sutherland is at this very moment in the companion way, and not daring to stir hand or foot lest he should disturb her?
Friends and foes had our passion thwarted,
she croons to herself, though, indeed, there is no despair at all in her voice, but a perfect contentment—
But true, tender, and lion-hearted,
Lived he on, and from life departed,