"After the funeral was owre, an' the mourners a' gane, I stood beside her grave, thinking owre the days o' my boyhood, when she an' I were happy weans, an' used to pu' the gowans together, on the heathery hills o' dear auld Scotland. An' I tried in vain to understan' the mysterious providence o' God that had stricken her, who seemed sae guid an' pure, an spared the like o' me, who was mair deservin' o' his wrath, when I heard a deep groan, an' I saw Willie Robertson standin' near me, beside the grave. "'You may as weel spare your grief noo,' said I, for I felt hard towards him, 'an' rejoice that the weary is at rest.' "'It was I killed her,' said he; 'an' the thought will haunt me to my last day. Did she remember me on her death-bed?' "'Her thoughts were only ken'd by Him, Willie, wha reads the secrets of a' hearts. Her end was peace; and her Saviour's blessed name was the last sound on her lips. If ever woman died o' a broken heart, there she lies.' "'Ah, Jeanie!' he cried, 'my ain darlin' Jeanie! my blessed lammie! I was na worthy o' yer luve. My heart, too, is breakin'. To bring ye back ance mair, I would gladly lay me doon an' dee.' "An' he flung himsel' upon the fresh piled sods, an' greeted like a child. "When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past; an' truly I think that the man was na in his right senses, when he married yon wife. At ony rate, he is nae lang for this world; he has fretted the flesh aff his banes, an' afore mony months are owre, his heid wul lie as low as puir Jeanie Burns." My Native Land. "My native land, my native land! How many tender ties, Connected with thy distant strand, Call forth my heavy sighs! "The rugged rock, the mountain stream, The hoary pine-tree's shade, Where often in the noon-tide beam, A happy child I played. "I think of thee, when early light Is trembling on the hill; I think of thee at dead of night, When all is dark and still. "I think of those whom I shall see On this fair earth no more; And wish in vain for wings to flee Back to thy much-loved shore." CHAPTER XIII Lost Children "Oh, how I love the pleasant woods, when silence reigns around, And the mighty shadows calmly sleep, like giants on the ground, And the fire-fly sports her fairy lamp beside the moonlit stream, And the lofty trees, in solemn state, frown darkly in the beam!" S.M. There was a poor woman on board the steamer, who was like myself in search of health, and was going to the West to see her friends, and to get rid of (if possible) a hollow, consumptive cough. She looked to me in the last stage of pulmonary consumption; but she seemed to hope everything from the change of air.