losophers may have encountered, but which they certainly have not yet explained. No two human beings born and bred in a civilised country could be more different than the Chief and his lady; and as both were independent, and both had arrived at years of discretion, it seemed but natural that they should remain as fate seemed to place them-perfect antipodes. The lady had been accustomed to a gay London life, and she had also lived abroad. She had seen much of the world, and the world had seen much of her. She had been admired for her talents, her manners, her music, her taste, her dress; and although the admiration had long been on the wane, the craving still continued. She was, in fact, when without her adventitious aids, a mere showy, superficial, weak woman, with a fretful temper, irritable nerves, and a constitution tending to rheumatism, which she imputed entirely to the climate of Scotland. In direct opposition to all this, Glenroy detested London; despised every part of the globe save Scotland; hated all music except that of the bagpipe; had little enjoyment in any society but that of his friends and followers; and when he spoke of the world, meant only his own country and clan. He had also become subject to attacks of the gout, which he ascribed to his visits to London, and therefore vowed he never would set foot in it again. Although Glenroy saw much good company at his hospitable mansion, yet it was only during a short period of the year; for the Highlands may be said to open for the season as the King's Theatre shuts; and, thanks to grouse and deer, the one has become almost as fashionable a place of amusement as the other. During this season, therefore, Lady Elizabeth lived pretty much in her own element; but when that was over, a long and dreary interval ensued: not that the house ever emptied of visiters, be the season or weather what they might, but the company was not suited to her taste, for it must be owned Glenroy was not nice in the choice of his associates. Although his vanity was gratified with occasionally entertaining the best in the land, still the same principle, together with his love of ease, made him prefer in general being what is called the king of his company. Amongst sundry of his adherents, whose persons and manners were particularly obnoxious to the Lady Elizabeth, the most offensive was the Laird of Benbowie, a friend and clansman of the Chief's, who, from having been all his life in the habit of paying long and frequent visits at the castle, had gradually become domesticated there, to the infinite annoyance of its mistress. The Laird of Benbowie was an elderly man, of the most ordinary exterior, possessing no very distinguishing traits, except a pair of voluminous eyebrows, very round shoulders, a wig that looked as if it had been made of spun yarn, an unvarying snuff-coloured coat, and a series of the most frightful waistcoats that ever were seen. Benbowie's mental characteristics were much upon a par with his personal peculiarities. He was made up of stupidities. He was sleepy-headed and absent. He chewed tobacco, snored in presence, slobbered when he ate, walked up and down with a pair of creaking shoes, and drummed upon the table with a snuffy hand. Nay, more; with that same obnoxious snuffy hand he actually dared to pat the head or shoulder of the elegant, refined, Miss Waldegrave, as often as she came within his reach. But all these things were mere leather and prunella to his Chief, whose feelings and perceptions were by no means so refined as his lady's. Benbowie was the very apple of his eye, for he was devoted to him. He never contradicted him, or rather he invariably coincided with him. He rode with him, or walked with him, or sailed with him, or sat still with him. He played at backgammon with him, and when there was no one else, did well enough to be beaten at billiards. Yet no one could call Benbowie a hanger-on; for he had a good estate, and a pretty place of his own, both of which he neglected for the sake of living with his friend; and although he was not profuse of his own money, yet, to do him justice, he was equally sparing of his Chief's. What pleasure or profit Glenroy could find in Benbowie's company no one could discover. But so it was, and Glenroy could have better spared a better man; although, if pressed for a reason of his preference, he could only have resolved it into that unanswerable argument, "Je l'aime parceque c'est lui," &c. Lady Elizabeth had at once attempted to expel Benbowie from the house; but she might as well have attempted to move one of his own brown mountains. Benbowie was invulnerable in his stupidity and obtuseness, and nothing less than the united efforts of the fairy and the genie, who lifted up Prince Camaralzaman, and carried him a thousand leagues without waking him, could have made Benbowie dream of leaving a house where habit had completely domesticated him, and where his instinct made him feel comfortable and happy. Some one has well said, "Lorsqu'on ne peut éteindre une lumiére, on s'en laisse éclairer;" but Lady Elizabeth did not adopt this wise maxim. She could not extinguish Benbowie's light, faint and dark as it was, neither would she permit it to shine even in its native dim eclipse. The consequence was, that poor Benbowie, who seemed to have been born without a single spark of fire in his composition, became a sort of smouldering brand in the family of his friend. As neither the Chief nor his lady were young enough to be moulded anew, or wise enough to make the most of what each mutually thought a bad bargain, it may be supposed their lives did not glide away like that of Parnell's hermit, in one clear unruffled stream, but rather resembled the course of their own mountain torrents, which chafe, foam, murmur, and take their own way. Time rolled on, but did nothing to smooth the asperities of Glenroy and his lady. Pride was the ruling passion of both; and unhappily there was no mutual object on which they might concentrate this predominant principle. The Lady Elizabeth added no branches to the family tree; and thus the unjust and overweening partiality of each parent for their own separate offspring continued to grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength. Such was the state of the Chief's family when he received a visit from his brother-in-law, Sir Angus Malcolm, with his only son, a spoiled handsome boy about the same age as his cousin Norman. Sir Angus was a widower, and had been recently appointed to a high command in India, whither he was to proceed when he should have found a situation for his son, suited to the anxieties of a fond parent. But that was a matter of difficulty, as indeed it must be to any one to part with his choicest treasure, and commit it to untried love and alien tenderness. Why did he leave it? For wealth-that which tempts so many to "leave each thing beloved most dearly." Sir Angus had a fine estate, but it was loaded with debt. Time, self-denial, and management, might have retrieved it; but to wait on the one, and submit to the other, was not in the nature of an impetuous, open-hearted, open-handed Highlander; and he preferred the easier task of retrieving his fortune by methods more congenial to him in a foreign land. His only care was to secure a safe and happy asylum for his child; and as, besides being allied to Glenroy by marriage, he was also his nearest kinsman by blood, he flattered himself the Chief would take charge of his son, and educate him with his own. His only doubt was with regard to Lady Elizabeth, of whom he had not heard the most favourable reports; but he was a sanguine, good-natured, undiscerning man, and his little misgivings were quickly dispelled by the affectionate and gracious reception he met with. Glenroy was more than hospitably kind; and his lady, won by the admiration expressed for her darling, and the beautiful presents bestowed upon her, acted a most amiable and delightful part. Glenroy at once anticipated the subject uppermost in the breast of the parent, by inviting him to leave his boy with him during his absence; and in a few minutes all was settled, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. Lady Elizabeth was flattered by seeing that it was to her the father looked for care and protection to his son; and her vanity was gratified at becoming the patroness of the young heir to an ancient title and noble fortune. But, above all, her favour was secured by the predilection evinced by the young Reginald towards Florinda. Upon being asked by his father which of his two cousins he would choose for his wife, he declared instantly in favour of Florinda, as being by far the prettiest; he then followed up the avowal of his admiration with an offer to marry her, which was no less promptly agreed to on the lady's part, especially when she heard of the gold, and diamonds, and pearls, that were awaiting her. The little Florinda was indeed an uncommonly pretty child, with a skin of dazzling whiteness, a profusion of golden ringlets, large blue eyes, a sylph-like figure, and an air of distinction, which, although not always the accompaniment of high birth, is rarely to be seen except among the true patrician orders. She was also of a gay sportive disposition, and winning manners: thus her natural endowments and early acquirements rendered her a perfect epitome of feminine grace and beauty. Edith, on the contrary, possessed no uncommon attractions for the superficial observer. Her features were soft and delicate, her countenance mild and thoughtful, and her manners more grave than is usual at her age; for no fond mother's heart had ever pillowed her infant head, no tender mother's hand had wiped away her childish tears, and even a father's arms were seldom open to her, for Norman's place was there. Disregarded or checked in the natural expression of her feelings, she gradually learnt to repress them within her own breast; and while, to careless observers, the feelings themselves seemed wanting, the roots had only struck the deeper into the heart, while the shoots were thus carelessly trodden down. Edith was too much accustomed to see Florinda preferred to her, to feel any of the envy and heart-burnings of an offended rival, but meekly yielded up the prize. Lady Elizabeth was silly enough to feel gratified at this childish fancy, and continued so kind and caressing to her little son-in-law (as she styled him) during the week his father remained, that he departed with a mind relieved from all doubts and fears as to the situation in which he had left his son and heir. CHAPTER III. Alas! and is domestic strife, COWPER. FOR a little time all went on smoothly in the youthful circle of Glenroy; but, unhappily, inconstancy is known in childhood as well as in manhood, and Reginald began to discover that even the beautiful Florinda had her faults. She was very greedy, and was too much petted, and wanted every thing her own way: and as he had been accustomed to be no less despotic, many a childish squabble ensued. At length, not having the fear of damages for breach of promise of marriage before his eyes, he in a transport of indignation one day declared that he had quite changed his mind; that she was not to be called his wife any more, for that he was going to take Edith; she was much better tempered, would part with any of her playthings to him, and never cried when she was contradicted; and, at any rate, brown hair and pale cheeks were much prettier than yellow hair and pink ones; in short, "for any other reason why," his affections were transferred. Lady Elizabeth was weak enough to resent this affront, and to enter into all the childish feuds that followed, aggravated as they often were by nursery maids, to whom a spoiled unruly boy is always a subject of torment, and, of course, of blame. The consequence was, her fondness for Reginald, which had always been of a very precarious nature, now turned into downright aversion; while he, unused to control at home, and encouraged by Glenroy in all his freaks, set her authority completely at defiance. Even Benbowie, his tobacco, his snore, his shoes, and his waistcoats, almost all ceased to be objects of animosity, compared with this new annoyance. At length matters came to a climax, and threatened to add one more to the many proofs that great events do often spring from trivial causes. One day, when the two boys and Edith were engaged in some play, in which Florinda was deemed incompetent to join, to get rid of her importunities Reginald lent her his watch, the parting gift of his father; receiving many assurances in return that she would take the greatest care of it. These promises, however, were soon forgotten; the watch was opened, examined, wound up, and broken. Summary revenge is always the first impulse of the childish heart; and Reginald, in his rage, shook Florinda with all his might, slapped her on the cheek, and even left the print of his nails on her arm. Her shrieks soon brought Lady Elizabeth to the spot, when she found her darling almost convulsed with terror and indignation at this rude assault. The extreme fairness and delicacy of her skin rendered the slightest touch at all times perceptible, and on the present occasion showed the offence in glowing colours, and told a tale of outrage that raised all the mother in Lady Elizabeth's breast. In vain did Norman and Edith attempt to palliate the offence by detailing the provocation, and declaring that Reginald had not meant to hurt her. They were sure he had only just given her a slap for breaking his watch. Lady Elizabeth would listen to nothing but the sobs and exclamations of her darling; till at length she worked herself up to assert, and of course to believe, that her child had been seriously hurt, and would have been killed, had not she come to her rescue; the whole was wound up with the |