went there to receive her husband, and remained with him for a day or two, occupying rooms no better than his. The house belonged to a dependent of Bothwell's. Mary slept in a room immediately below that of her husband, with a staircase between them, which was left open and unprotected. For was not the queen the guardian of the invalid?

One night, the Sunday after his arrival, Mary, who was with Darnley, suddenly recollected that she must go back to Holyrood, to the marriage supper of one of her servants. She had either forgotten it or pretended to have forgotten it till the last moment, and she and her train of attendants then swept away, leaving the sick man lonely and alarmed in his room with his page. Down-stairs, in the room which Mary ought to have occupied, her bed had been pushed out of the way, and heaps of gunpowder laid in its place.

me.

What happened in the darkness of that night is imperfectly known. Darnley was a wretched creature, not much worthy of pity, but when you think of him there in that desolate room all alone. with only one poor page to take care of him, sick and weak, and full of fears, you will be sorry for the unhappy young man. It is said that the two doomed creatures read the 55th Psalm together, before they went to bed. Do you remember that psalm? “Fearfulness and trembling are come upon The fear of death has fallen upon me. It is not an open enemy that has done me this dishonor; but it was even thou, my companion." Perhaps, as they read it, they heard the heavy steps below, the rustle of the powder emptied out of the bags. A number of Bothwell's men were in full possession of the house, occupying the room which Mary had left vacant. Darnley went to bed and fell asleep, with these enemies under the same roof; but woke by and by, and stumbled to the door in the darkness, where he was seized and strangled, he and his page, and their bodies were thrown into the garden. Then there was a blaze of light, an explosion, and the house was blown up to conceal the secret crime. But the bodies were found unharmed next morning, notwithstanding this precaution ; the secret was not one that could be hid.

You may imagine what a tumult and confusion was in Edinburgh next morning, when the dreadful news was known. Everybody had heard the explosion, and the people were wild with excitement. Mary shut herself up in Holyrood, as if overwhelmed with grief, and saw nobody but Bothwell, to whom every suspicion pointed as the murderer.

If she were really innocent, it is impossible to understand her conduct at this time. While the town was ringing with this one subject, and the names of the conspirators were bandied about from mouth to mouth, she took no steps against any of

them, and kept Bothwell, the chief of them, constantly with her. In a little while she went out of Edinburgh to Seton Castle, the house of Lord Seton, one of her most faithful servants, and there recovered her gayety all at once, and resumed her favorite amusements,-Bothwell always remaining with her, her companion and closest counselor. Edinburgh, meanwhile, was wild with horror and rage, putting up placards in the streets, with the names of the murderers, and beginning to suspect and to loathe the queen also, who had been so much loved in her capital. This horror and suspicion ran like fire through all the courts of Europe. Wherever the story was told, Mary was suspected. Everywhere, from England, from France, from her own kingdom, entreaties came to her to investigate the murder, and bring the murderers to justice. But time went on, and she did nothing; she who had been so energetic, so prompt and rapid in action. It was not until a month after that she would do anything. Then there was a mock trial of Bothwell, before a jury of his partisans, where no one dared to bring evidence against him, and he was acquitted shamefully.

After this trial, the course of events was very rapid. Three months after Darnley's death, Mary married his murderer. In the interval, she had been like a creature in a dream, and all that happened to her was feverish and unreal. To veil the haste and horror of the marriage, Bothwell pretended to carry her off by force, and the nobles of his party advised and urged her to marry him; but these were things which deceived nobody at the time. The two had scarcely been separate since the moment of Darnley's death, and no one doubted what their intention was. One of Mary's most devoted friends, Lord Herries, took a long journey to entreat her on his knees not to take this step, which would convince all Europe of her guilt. But no argument had any effect upon her. She had taken her own way and done her own will all her life hitherto, without much harm; but the same rule was her destruction now.

66

Poor Mary! She was as much disappointed in Bothwell as she had been in Darnley. The one was too feeble and too fickle to be worth her consideration, the other was harsh and cruel, and treated her like a master from their wedding-day. She desires only death," the French embassador says; "ever since the day after her marriage she has passed her time in nothing but tears and lamentations." And now everybody was against her, Elizabeth of England, the king of France, all her relations and allies; and, within a month, all Scotland was roused in horror of her and her new husband. She summoned her forces round her, an appeal which always, heretofore, had placed

her at the head of a gallant army; but this time no one heeded the summons; and she had to flee in disguise from one castle to another, in order to escape the hands of her revolted nobles. To give a color to their rebellion, they represented Mary as being "detained in captivity" by Bothwell, so that she was "neither able to govern her realm, nor try the murderer of her husband." How many then, and how many even now, would be glad to believe that this was the case! In June, Bothwell and she together managed to collect a little army, quite unable to cope with that of the indignant nobles.. They met at Carberry Hill, but the queen's little force melted away before the other army, and she was left at last with a forlorn guard of sixty gentlemen, who would not forsake her. Then Bothwell and she had a last interview apart. They took leave of each other "with great anguish and grief"; they had been a month married, and it was for this that they had shown themselves monsters of falsehood and cruelty before all the world. They parted there and then for the last time. Bothwell rode away with half a dozen followers, and Mary gave herself up into the hands of those nobles who had opposed her so often, who had been overcome so often by her, but who now were the victors in their turn.

You must remember, however, that though these nobles had justice on their side, this had not been always the case, nor was it the first time that a Stuart had been a prisoner in their hands. Almost all her forefathers had known what it was, like Mary, to struggle with this fierce nobility, often for selfish, but sometimes, too, for noble ends. But now the people, as well as the nobles, were against her. They waved before her eyes a banner on which was painted a picture of the slain Darnley, with the baby prince kneeling beside him and praying: “Avenge my cause, oh Lord!"; they hooted her in the streets; they had adored her, and now they turned 'upon her. She was taken to Holyrood, not as a queen, but as a criminal, surrounded by frowning faces and cries of insult. Thence she was sent a prisoner to the castle of Lochleven; Lochleven is a lake in Fife, full of little islands. On one of these there was a monastery, on another a little castle. The island was just big enough to make a green inclosure, a little garden round the old walls, now in ruin. Low hills stretch round, and, excepting in summer, the landscape is dreary and stormy. The house was small, with narrow, bare rooms, and shut round by the waters of the lake, which is, at times, almost as rough as the sea. Here Mary was placed in the most rigorous confinement. She had two of her ladies with her to take the place of the gay court and all its amusements, and she was not allowed to step forth once from this prison, nor

No imprison

to send letters, nor to receive them. ment could have been more rigid or more hard. She was but twenty-five, most beautiful, most fascinating and accomplished; the fairest queen in Europe, the admired of the whole world.

What a bitter change from all her mirth and amusements, her gay and free life, her royal independence and supremacy! Do you not say 66 poor Mary!" notwithstanding all the wrong she had done? And can you wonder that those who thought she had done no wrong (and there are many still who do), those who think she was only imprudent, and that she had been forced to marry Bothwell, and knew nothing about Darnley's death?-can you wonder that they are still almost ready to weep over Mary's sufferings, though they have been over these three hundred years? She lived for twenty years after this, but, excepting for a very brief interval, was never out of prison again. Nor did she ever again see Bothwell, for whom she had suffered so much.

You will find the story of the queen's captivity in Lochleven in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels called "The Abbot." No one else could give you such an idea of what that was, and what Mary was. Sir Walter loved the Stuarts, and persuaded himself that Mary had not done much wrong. In his description, you will see her at the best, most winning, most charming, with her sympathetic mind and her beautiful smile, and the kindness which made people love her, and the wit which made them fear her. If you read it, you will be angry with all of us who do not believe in Mary; and, when I read it, I should like to forget that miserable Darnley, and try to think what a woman she might have been had she married a man who was her equal, or had she been like her cousin Elizabeth, wise and crafty and clever, and never married at all.

She remained about a year in Lochleven, suffering all kinds of indignities; was forced to sign her abdication, and was allowed no communication with her friends save when she could, by elaborate artifices, elude the vigilance of her jailers; but at last, in May, 1568, she escaped with one small page, a boy of sixteen, who rowed her across the lake to where her friends awaited her.

In a moment she was again the Mary of old, with courage undaunted, and hope that was above all her troubles. She rode all through the summer night to Niddry Castle, knowing neither fatigue nor fear; and there issued a proclamation, and called, as so often before, her nobles round her. This time many answered the call, and she was soon riding in high hope at the head of a little army. But the Regent Murray, on the other side,-who was a wise and great statesman,-collecting a large force, hurried after her, and at once gave battle.

Soon, it became apparent that Mary's day was over. Her army was defeated, her followers dispersed. She herself, thinking it better, to take refuge with her cousin Elizabeth, in England, than to fall once more into the hands of her enemies at home, crossed the Border, and there ended all her hopes. She was promised hospitality and help. She found a prison, or rather a succession of prisons, and death. She thought she was to be received by Elizabeth herself, but, on the contrary, she was removed from one castle to another, from one set of keepers to another, and never was admitted to the presence of the Queen of England. I have not space to tell you all the story of her long bondage. All the events of her life which I have told you occupied scarcely ten years.

For twenty years longer she lived a prisoner, and if I were to tell you about all the schemes on her behalf, and all the plots that were thought of, and how many times she was to have made a new marriage and begun a new life, I should want a whole book to do it in.

But all Mary's schemes and hopes were now in vain. For she had Elizabeth to deal with, who was stronger than she was, and she had no loyal and loving nation behind her, but only enemies and stern judges wherever she turned. She was never free of guards and spies and jailers, who watched everything she did, and reported it all to the English queen.

You must remember, at the same time, that it was very difficult for the English government to know what to do with this imprisoned queen. Had Elizabeth died, Mary was the next heir, and she was a woman accused by her own subjects of terrible crimes. And she was a Catholic, who would have thrown the whole country into commotion, and risked everything to restore the Catholic faith. If they had let her go free, she would have raised the Continent and all the Catholic powers against the peace of England. In every way she was a danger. What was to be done with this woman, who was braver and stronger and more full of resources than almost any other of her time? They could not break her spirit nor quench her courage, whatever they did. They moved her from one castle to another, and gave to one unfortunate gentleman after another the charge of keeping her in safety. Some men who loved her and took up her cause, had to die for it. And every year she lived was a new danger, a continued difficulty. At last, after twenty years, Elizabeth pronounced against this dangerous guest, this heiress whom she feared, this cousin whom she had never seen.

Mary was removed to Fotheringay Castle, in Northamptonshire, and there tried for conspiring against Elizabeth, and trying to embroil the

kingdom. She was found guilty, and, indeed, it was true enough that she had conspired, and endeavored, with every instrument she could lay her hand on, to get her freedom. She was left alone to defend herself against all the great lawyers and judges brought against her—one woman among all these ruthless men. Even her papers were taken from her, and nothing was heard in her favor excepting what her own dauntless voice could say. She was as brave then, and as full of dignity and majesty, as when all the world was at her feet. But her condemnation was decided on, whatever there might have been to say for her. She appealed to the queen; but of all unlikely things there was none so unlikely as that Elizabeth should consent to see or hear her kinswoman. After her condemnation, however, a considerable time elapsed before Elizabeth would give the final order for her execution.

It was sent at last, arriving suddenly one morning in the gloomy month of February. Nothing is more noble and touching than the story of her end. The sweet and gracious and tender Mary of Scotland, who had taken all hearts captive, seemed to have come back again for that conclusion; her gayety all gone, but none of her sweetness, nor the grace and kindness and courtesy of her nature. She thought of every one as she stood there smiling and looking death in the face; made her will, provided for her poor servants who loved her, sent tender messages to her friends, and then laid down her beautiful head, still beautiful, through all those years and troubles, upon the block, and died. It was on the 8th of February, 1587, almost on the twentieth anniversary of that cruel murder of her husband, which had been the beginning of all her woes.

Thus died one of the most beautiful and renowned, one of the ablest and bravest, and perhaps the most unfortunate, beyond comparison, of queens. A queen in her cradle, an orphan from her youth, every gift of fortune bestowed upon her, but no happiness, no true guidance, no companion in her life. The times in which she was born, and the training she had, and the qualities she inherited, may account for many of her faults; but nothing can ever take away the interest with which people hear of her, and see her pictures, and read her story. Had she been a spotless and true woman, she might have been one of the greatest in history; but in this, as in everything else, what is evil crushes and ruins what is great. As it is, no one can think of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, but with interest and sympathy, and there are many in the world, and especially in Scotland, who even now, three hundred years after her death, are almost as ready to fight for her as were the men among whom she lived and on whom she smiled.

"THERE 'S a new stone just been put into the grindin'-room, an' Thompson says that some one will have to be taught to run it."

The superintendent of the File Works looked up from his paper at the speaker, and a smile broke over his face as he scanned the grotesque figure before him. It was a boy of thirteen, who seemed to have been suddenly plunged up to the neck in a pair of men's overalls. His sleeves were rolled up, and the small arms had tide marks around the wrists, showing how high the water rose when he washed his hands. A similar mark encircled his neck. A square paper-cap adorned his head. There was an air of anxiety about him that at once fixed the attention of his listener, who said:

"See if you can detect flaws in any of these." The boy took them one by one, and, holding them deftly between thumb and finger, struck the "tang" a ringing blow upon the iron radiator. Five of them rung as clear as silver bells; the sixth had a slight jar in its music. The boy rang it again.

"That one 's cracked," he said. He next took them one by one, and, holding them up to the light, looked into the lines of parallel grooves. He laid two more beside the cracked one, and, pointing to the others, said:

"Those are perfect."

"What is the matter with those two beside the cracked one?" was the question.

"They wer' n't ground true." "How do you know?"

"Well, ye see," said the little fellow, assuming, unconsciously, the important air of an experienced workman,-"ye see, when ye look through the grooves they all ought to look dark and nice, but there are light streaks in some of these. Now, this is an awful pretty file," he continued, taking up a perfect one; "just as good a piece of work as ever was done in this place!"

"I suppose if you got this job you could afford to use more tobacco, and drive a better team on Sundays?"

"I s'pose I could," said the boy, "only I don't happen to use tobacco, sir, an' a fellow like me, that has a sick mother an' seven young ones to help along, is n't apt to hanker after top-buggies on Sundays."

"Send Old Sunset here," said the gentleman, turning to his desk with a smile.

The boy departed, and soon a tall, raw-boned Scotchman, wearing a pair of immense green glasses, entered the room.

"McFadden," said the superintendent, “do you know a boy named Will Storrs, who runs a truck from the annealing-room?"

"Wull Storrs?" was the deliberate reply. "Wull Storrs? I ken a lad named Wull, but I dinna ken what his surname may be."

"This is a little fellow about thirteen, who looks as if he wore his grandfather's overalls."

"Oh, aye-I ken him weel; but ye 're wrong aboot the overalls bein' his grandfeyther's. They belonged to mysel', but were too sma', so I sold them to him for fufteen cents, simply to make him feel that they were not a gift, ye ken."

"What kind of a workman is he?" "The verra best. There's not a job that he lays hand on but he can do as weel as any aboot the eestablishmunt.”

"Could he learn to grind small files, do you think?" was the next query.

"Lerrn? He kens the whole notion already. One mornin', when most o' the grinders were oot on a spree, he took one o' the worst stanes in the room, and dressed it sae weel that ye could na' tal whether it was going or stoppit, when it was running at full speed !”

"Well, I think he can be trusted to run Number Eight, then. He might just as well commence Suppose you tell him that he can spend the rest of the day in dressing the stone, and getting ready to grind small files and cutters to-morrow.”

now.

Will was standing in the door-way of the grinding-room when the Scotchman delivered his message. The news seemed too good to be true. Το run Number Eight! That meant a dollar and a half a day,- perhaps more, for the grinders all worked by the piece. His mother would be able to have her washing done for her, after this, and his brothers and sisters could go to school looking as if they belonged to somebody.

The grinding-room was long and narrow, ironroofed and well lighted. Twelve grindstones stood side by side, with only passage-ways between them. These massive stones, some weighing several tons, were monsters compared with the grindstones that are frequently seen on the farms, or in the machineshops. When they were all in motion, each with a man sitting on a small wooden saddle above his stone, it seemed to an outsider as if twelve men always abreast were racing on twelve stone bicycles.

Will's Number Eight was one of the largest stones in the room, and thought to be the best. After he had told the foreman of his good luck, he took some pieces of charcoal, a blunt chisel, and a kind of steel adz, and, climbing into the saddle, set the great stone in motion. Resting his hands on the pommel of the saddle, he held a piece of charcoal toward the stone, moving it nearer till the first rough bumps on its wide face were blackened; then he threw off the belt, and cut down these blackened places with the adz. Starting the great wheel again, he let it turn for a while against the blunt chisel, after which he again tried the charcoal. It was hard work- the adz. was heavy, the chisel would "gouge" a little when his hands grew tired; but he kept at it, and, some time before the whistle sounded for noon, the charcoal made an even black line around the whole circumference.

Old Sunset, who ran a "donkey grinder" on the stone next to Will's, told him that it was "weel dune," which meant that it was perfect.

The boy, indeed, felt proud of his work, as, standing a little way off, he looked at the beautiful proportions of the revolving stone. As there was still a part of the day remaining, Will began to get. the tools and fixtures necessary in file-grinding.