CHAPTER XXX.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

"O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still."

Tennyson.

A SWEET, Sweet lassie was dear loved Annie Glen. With a light and graceful figure, a winning and engaging manner, and an education much above her rank in life, Annie might have graced the home of any squire in the parish. And she was not without her woers in that high station, for all forgot the miller's daughter in the sylph-like being who moved as a queen among her compeers.

Squire Grahame, whose small estate was only a short distance from the mill of Airniefoul, seemed to be more smitten than all others with the charms of the lovely maiden; and many a basketful of rare and beautiful fruit did the miller get from the prolific garden of Kincaldrum, accompanied always with a rich bouquet of flowers, grouped with much taste and skill, and which Annie, with a blush, would unhesitatingly receive from her good-natured, but not farseeing father. In riding past, Mr Grahame never omitted calling on the miller, nor of exchanging, if he could, a glance with his lovely daughter. For Annie had now reached that period of girlhood at which it was not unnatural that her little heart should flutter, and her cheek redden, at the sight of such a gallant cavalier, whose attentions to her father could not be misconstrued or mistaken. Then, again, wherever she was seen in the mill, or in the field, in the garden among her flowers, or seated, at her little window, trellised with roses and honeysuckle-she was ever graceful in the pure simplicity of nature.

The Laird of Kincaldrum was considerably older than Annie, but yet in the full bloom of manhood. Tall, stately, and of truly noble carriage, with handsome, if not very regular features, eyes of hazel, and locks as black as ebony, he was no unfit personification of the brave and loving hero of young maidens' mystifying yet enchanting dreams. But what captivates a woman's heart is not so much the outward graces of the man, as the inward workings of the mind. The expression of the eye, the lip, the brow, can speak more truly and more effectively than all the charms, however bewitching, of mere external beauty. Of all these graces and arts a thorough master was Mr Grahame. To the sentiments which flowed from his silvery tongue, now rapid as a cataract, then gentle as a low, quiet stream, his dark sparkling eyes corroborated by their lustre or their softness the truth of his eloquent words; and yet, in my conscience, I believe he loved, sincerely loved, Annie Glen.

About this time you might have seen, in the summer even ings, a pale, slender, thoughtful-looking lad in the miller's garden, weeding and dressing the flowers, or entwining the creepers and honeysuckle around the cottage windows, while Annie knitted or sewed in the green-leaved summer-house, reared also by his industrious hands. Tired, or affecting to be so, he would now seat himself beside Annie in the bower, and in a little while, when the shadows of evening gathered around, they would slowly leave their seat, passing silently along the garden, and at the little wicket bid each other an affectionate adieu. This was William Osler, the son of a poor but pious widow, whose lowly cottage is situate on the brow of the Hunter Hill on the other side of the wood. The great ambition of his parents had been to make their son “a minister." The death of the father, however, caused their removal from the farm they had so long occupied in the glen, and apparently for ever blighted the hopes so long and so fondly cherished. Inheriting the enthusiasm of his father, the boy, however, studied on, and at the time of our story had

been several sessions at College. William and Annie had been playmates from childhood, and devoutly and affectionately attached to each other. They had sat on the same form at school, had paddled in the burn, and gathered blaeberries on the hill together. As they grew in years their attachment increased; they were seldom away from, and seemed to live to and for, each other.

It began to be observed, however, that Annie now became more reserved and silent in the presence of her youthful lover, and seldom, if ever, sang any of those sweet songs with which, unknown to herself, she had kept spell-bound, as with a charm, his thrilling, trembling heart. She began to experience a strange, luxurious kind of joy when he was with her, and a feeling of loneliness and settled sadness when he was away.

Ah! these were the first emotions of young love in Annie's heart. Sweet, indescribable, never-to-be-forgotten first love, it becomes us not to check thine aspirations, for thou visitest us only once in our life-time, leaving on some fond hearts impressions which shall never pass away!

At this time William would long and eloquently expatiate to Annie on the bright prospects which lay before him as the reward of all his privations and toils, and pictured himself as the happy pastor of some sequestered parish, with its little church embosomed among venerable elms, and its snug, quiet manse, with its garden and its giebe, on the banks of some gentle flowing burn. But he never hinted that she had been the unacknowledged cause of all this spirit of emulation, nor that his future happiness depended on her consent to share with him the joys and sorrows of life. A circumstance, slight and unimportant in itself, nerved his mind, however, at this time to the determination of an immediate declaration of his love. He was seated with Annie and her family one afternoon in the miller's cottage, when a servant from Kincaldrum entered, as was her wont, and laid on the table a basketful of plums and apricots as a present from the Squire. The miller immedi

ately opened the basket and took out the usual bouquet of flowers, and, in his own pawky manner, presented it smilingly to Annie, who eagerly grasped the more than usually beautiful nosegay; but presently encountering the gaze of William's eye, she blushed more deeply than she had ever done before, and hastily placed it in the crystal vase in silence, not daring again to cast her eye where he sat in a new and dreamy state of sadness and reflection. Annie's mother emptied the contents of the basket in a pretty little dish, and caressingly importuned William to partake of the tempting fruit; but with a full, heavy heart, no wonder that he could not eat. Annie also declined, and, as if the feeling had become sympathetic, the miller himself did not seem to enjoy with his usual relish the gift of his kind patron, while the mother, with more penetration and sagacity than her husband, immediately comprehended the true meaning of the pantomime—she read the enigma at once. The cloud, however, apparently soon passed away, and Annie and William's adieu that evening at the little wicket was more than usually fervent, he extracting from her a sacred promise to meet him on the evening of the next day, in the wood about half-way between his mother's house and her own.

Not knowing of the appointment, I was next evening carelessly leaning over our garden gate, when Annie passed me with a smile, and took her way by the side of the stream, and along the wooded banks of the Hunter-hill till she was lost to sight among the thick foliage of the wood. I do not know what possessed me, but I thought I had never seen her look so surpassingly beautiful, nor wearing such a radiant expression of happiness. Her graceful step, light as that of the nimble fawn, seemed hardly to come in contact with the ground, so eager and impatient did she seem to embrace some hidden, unrevealed, yet distant and mysterious joy!

Annie and William met. With hearts o'erflowing with tenderest love, they vowed to be each other's for ever, and called on heaven to witness the solemn compact. What a

load was now removed from each other's minds! How supremely happy did they feel! How dazzlingly bright and beautiful did the world appear! What graspings of the handwhat gazings into each other's eyes-what long, long draughts from sweet and honied lips of pure, unsullied, rapturous love! But the shades of twilight reminded William of two things -of his duty to see Annie home, and of his engagement, that evening at the manse of Glamis. The particulars of this engagement, which had reference to their future prospects, he truthfully confided to Annie, who gently insisted on her returning home alone, to enable him to fulfil his promise to Dr Lyon, who, as his pastor and friend, took a great interest in his welfare. Not like some gay cavaliers who depreciate the prize when the victory is won, William was loth to part with the jewel of his heart, now dearer to him than ever. They walked homewards on the pathway together, and never to either had the soft winds brought such fragrant sweets, or the murmuring streamlet beneath, such low-breathed songs of melody.

They had now come in sight of the mill, and within a short distance of her father's cottage, and Annie again firmly insisted on William's return to fulfil his engagement at the manse. They paused. William looked first on the angel face of his beloved, then on the heavens above-looked again through the tear-bedimmed eye, to the very depths of her inmost soul, received a silent yet truthful response, commended her to the care of the Good Shepherd, and, with a long, long rapt embrace, they parted.

William, it may well be conceived, would go home with a glad heart, and for a time he did luxuriate in all the ecstatic bliss of his new-born joy; but, as if suddenly calling to remembrance the inestimable value of the prize he had won, and that it was evidently his first and paramount duty to protect and guard her who now to him was dearer than his own life, he quickly retraced his steps, that he might overtake his Annie, and conduct her in safety to her father's cottage.