“Well, my good---- excuse me, but I forget your name.” “Elspeth, or mair commonly, Elspie Murray. And no an ill name, doctor. The Murrays o' Perth were”---- “No doubt--no doubt, Mrs. Elsappy.” “_Elspie_, sir. How daur ye ca' me out o' my name, wi' your unceevil English tongue!” “Well, then, Elspie, or what the deuce you like,” said the doctor, vexed out of his proprieties. But his rosy face became rosier when he met the horrified and sternly reproachful stare of Elspie's keen blue eyes as she turned round--a whole volume of sermons expressed in her “Eh, sir?” Then she added, quietly, “I'll thank ye no to speak ill words in the ears o' this puir innocent new-born wean. It's no canny.” “Humph!--I suppose I must beg pardon again. I shall never get out what I wanted to say--which is, that you must be quiet, my good dame, and you must keep Mrs. Rothesay quiet. She is a delicate young creature, you know, and must have every possible comfort that she needs.” The doctor glanced round the room as though there was scarce enough comfort for his notions of worldly necessity. Yet though not luxurious, the antechamber and the room half-revealed beyond it seemed to furnish all that could be needed by an individual of moderate fortune and desires. And an eye more romantic and poetic than that of the worthy medico might have found ample atonement for the want of rich furniture within, in the magnificent view without. The windows looked down on a lovely champaign, through which the many-winding Forth span its silver network, until, vanishing in the distance, a white sparkle here and there only showed whither the river wandered. In the distance, the blue mountains rose like clouds, marking the horizon. The foreground of this landscape was formed by the hill, castle-crowned--than which there is none in the world more beautiful or more renowned. In short, Olive Rothesay shared with many a king and hero the honour of her place of nativity. She was born at Stirling. Perhaps this circumstance of birth has more influence over character than many matter-of-fact people would imagine. It is pleasant, in after life, to think that we first opened our eyes in a spot famous in the world's story, or remarkable for natural beauty. It is sweet to say, “Those are _my_ mountains,” or “This is _my_ fair valley;” and there is a delight almost like that of a child who glories in his noble or beautiful parents, in the grand historical pride which links us to the place where we were born. So this little morsel of humanity, yet unnamed, whom by an allowable prescience we have called Olive, may perhaps be somewhat influenced in after life by the fact that her cradle was rocked under the shadow of the hill of Stirling, and that the first breezes which fanned her baby brow came from the Highland mountains.