almost before he began to write. The Scotch
have their own version of it, "Quhen thieves
reckon, leal men come to their geir."

When we brought forward that remarkable
couplet,

When the rayne rayneth, and the gose wynketh.
Lytyll wotyth the goslyng what the gose thynkith,

it did not occur to us that it should not have
been allowed to go without a companion we
had purposely provided for it, videlicet, "The
fat man knoweth not what the lean thinketh."

It is satisfactory to know that at Marlow (a
very handy distance)

    Is fish for catching,
    Corn for swatching,
    And wood for fatching.

There is one article which, we are sorry to
state, does not fulfil, in our judgment, the most
important of the regulations laid down for
proverbs, that they shall be true:

    If I could hear, and thou could'st see,
    Then should none live but you and me,
        As the adder said to the blindworm.

—Which happens to be true only of the
blindworm, and so the whole fabric collapses.

But we must not outrun our quantity, for we
are not "everybody," as some one has put it.
So let us conclude with a saying of Roger
North's: which, however, might have been a
saying of his grandfather's: "He who has been
in the oven himself, knows where to find the
pasty."

TWELVE MONTHS OF MY LIFE.

IN TWELVE CHAPTERS. CHAPTER VI.

IT is needless to set down here how often at
this time Mrs. Hatteraick came to see me, how
many cream cheeses and sweet shortbreads, how
many baskets of strawberries of their own picking,
and nice new books just fresh from London,
were carried triumphantly into my room by the
good Samaritans, Polly and Nell. And invariably
with these other gifts came the bouquet, of
which Polly was not unreasonably proud as the
handiwork of Uncle Mark. "He matched the
colours himself," this little woman would cry,
"and you should have seen him going picking
and snipping round the greenhouses, gardener
John following him with tears in his eyes."
These flowers used to oppress me in my small
room sometimes. They were richer and of
stronger perfume than any about the Mill-house.
Often during these visits of Mrs. Hatteraick's,
when Sylvia had carried off the children, and
the old lady and I sat alone, she talked to me
sweetly and wistfully about her tall soldier son,
of his goodness and bravery, and her desire to
see him married to some one who could
appreciate him and be worthy of him, some one he
and she could love. When should I be able to
go back to Eldergowan? was her constant cry.

And as often as she talked to me in this
manner, just so often had I right impulses to
open my heart to her, and tell her all about
Luke. But physical weakness and suffering
had made me a coward, and I still kept putting
off the evil day. Each visit was too short and
precious to be darkened by the cloud which I
felt must come between me and that gentle
face whenever my story should be told. I
cheated myself with fair promises and the finest
reasoning in the world. I said that by-and-by,
when I was stronger, and less foolishly nervous
and lackadaisical than I found myself now, I
should be able, in the telling my news, to speak
up with a better dignity, and guard the honour
of my father, my future husband, and myself.
I felt that I could never confess to Mark's
mother that I did not like Luke Elphinstone,
and, as I was determined to hold up my head
and walk with pride in the way I had to go, I
had better have no slipping and hesitating, no
goading commiseration and counsels. Advice
could not avail me, and sympathy could only
sting.

One golden afternoon, I sat alone in my own
room at the open window. The grass, the
trees, the river, and sky, all were golden.
The very rolling monotony of the distant dashing
wheels was molten gold poured out in
sound upon the air. Idleness and sunshine
are sore irritants to a troubled heart. Many
disturbing questions had been teasing me all
morning with oft-silenced "whys" and
"wherefores." The birds and the fiowers had been
giving me bad advice, and my solitude had
obliged me to listen to them.

Elspie came hobbling in with her knitting,
and sat down beside me in her privileged way,
"speering" at my face, though I kept it
turned from her till the sun had dried it. But
Elspie's eyes, with the help of a pair of huge
wry spectacles, were as keen as any I have met
with.

"It's sair to see you sittin' greetin' here for
lonesomeness," said Elspie, "when there's ane
o' yer ain years i' the house might bide wi' you
for company."

"You are very cross, Elspie," I said. "I
thought you had given up your ill-will to Miss
Ashenhurst. Do you think I would sit in-doors
on such a day as this if I could help it? And
it is new to her, you know. You never were
in London, Elspie, and how should you understand
why she loves to be so much in the open
air here."

"She no' i' the open air the noo," said Elspie,
grimly. "She's doon there," pointing with her
thumb towards the drawing-room below. "I
saw her yonder awhile ago, walkin' aboot the
floor, and singin' and talkin'to hersel', just daft-
like. She's no' sae fond o' the open air unless
when she's ane to walk wi' her."

I smiled at Elspie as she tugged her needles.

"I don't think she'll find any one to walk
with her here," said I, "except it be the dogs
or the crows."

"Oh ay! that indeed!" said Elspie. "Wait
till the sun's a bit low, an' she's off to meet
Luke, wi' her hat on her arm sae simple, an' her
bare locks shining like a wisp o' goud. You