“Mademoiselle,” said I, “permit me to point out a plan to avoid that difficulty.” “Ah, will you! Dear doctor, tell me this plan!” “Will you swear to act according to it?” “I swear it!” “You will keep your oath?” “I will.” “Well, Mademoiselle, take them all.” The divine _danseuse_ raised her arms gracefully, threw back her queenly head, and her bosom of ivory palpitated with sudden gladness, like the throat of a bird that sings with very happiness. “You are a rare fellow,” cried she; “after your death, your body should be embalmed, and your tomb be a ‘Mecca’ for all true gallants from thenceforth forever. But, dear doctor, remember that I am a woman. You do not know to what you expose yourself. Suppose I were to take you at your word?” “I should say you were a woman of your word, and knew how to keep an oath.” “No, no, dear doctor, no joking! you wish to try me!” “Not in the least; I speak seriously. All these curiosities belong to me no longer—they are yours.” “Then you must be the brother of the sun and moon and cousin to the seven stars in disguise. Long live the Emperor!” [_Conclusion in our next._ * * * * * THE HIGHLAND LADDIE’S FAREWELL. BY AUGUSTA. Come an’ sit thee doon langside me now, my ain, my darling Sue, Let your laddie view those e’es, lass, that match yon heaven’s blue: Dearie, pit that wee saft han’ in mine, whiles swear that ye’ll be true To Willie when he’s gane awa’, to fight for hame an’ you. Here’s a bonnie sprig o’ broom, I plucked it yander on the lea, Pit it in the auld ha’ Bible, ’twill mind thee aft o’ me, Ken ye weel the motto o’ the broom? ’tis “hope an’ constancy;” An’ dinna, lass, forgit me when I am far awa’ frae thee. Ye will roam where we hae roamed, lassie, langside the mountain rill, An’ think how aft thegither we hae watched the brooklet fill: Ye will miss my step come bounding ’mang the heather on the hill, But in spirit I’ll be there, lass, an’ guard thee frae all ill. When the moon is saftly beaming, love, an’ a’ are wrapt in sleep, When starlets frae the curtains o’ the sky come forth an’ peep, When the heath-bell bends its tiny head, while dew-draps o’er it weep, ’Tis then my spirit shall its welcome vigil o’er thine keep. When the haly Sabbath morn comes roun’, an’ sweet the kirk bells ring, When wee birds wake the dingle with the songs o’ praise they sing, When ye bend before the throne o’ HIM to whom all praise we bring, Oh! ask him then to guide me, lass, an’ guard me with His wing. * * * * * A TWILIGHT LAY. BY W. HORRY STILWELL.