The thistle, by guile, Preferred the rose’s smile To all the gay flowers of the plain; She threw off her sharp spears, Unarmed she appears— And then were united the twain. But one cold, stormy day, While helpless she lay, No longer could sorrow refrain; She gave a deep moan, And with many an "Ohone! Alas for the days when a Stuart filled the throne— OH! WERE I A THISTLE AGAIN!" Sir Nigel clapped his hands in applause, and said to the M.P.— "Lickspittal, my boy, I consider that an anti-centralization song—but, of course, your sympathies and mine are widely apart." "It is decidedly behind the age, at all events," said the member, laughing. "You have a delightful voice, Cora—soft and sweet as ever," said I in her ear. "Thanks, Cora," added Sir Nigel, patting her white shoulder with his strong embrowned hand. "Newton seems quite enchanted; but you must not seek to captivate our lancer." "Why may I not, papa?" "Because, as Thackeray says, ’A lady who sets her heart on a lad in uniform, must prepare to change lovers pretty quickly, or her life will be but a sad one.’" "You are always quoting Thackeray," said Cora, with a little perceptible shrug of her plump shoulders. "Is such really the case, Mr. Norcliff?" asked Lady Louisa, who had approached us; "are you gentlemen of the sword so heartless?" "Nay, I trust that, in this instance, the author of ’Esmond’ rather quizzes than libels the service," said I. "How beautiful the conservatory looks when lighted up," I added, drawing back the crimson velvet hangings that concealed the door, which stood invitingly open. "Yes; there are some magnificent exotics here," said the tall, pale beauty, as she swept through, accompanied by Cora and myself. I had hoped to have a single moment for a tête-à-tête with her; but in vain, for the pertinacious Berkeley, with his slow, invariable saunter, lounged in after us, and, with all the air of a privileged man, followed us from flower to flower as we passed critically along, displaying much vapid interest, and some ignorance alike of botany and floriculture. Without the conservatory, the clear, starry sky of a Scottish winter night arched its blue dome above the summits of the Lomonds; and within, thanks to skill and hot-water pipes, were the yellow flowering cactus, the golden Jobelia, the scarlet querena, the slender tendrils and blue flowers of the liana, the oranges and grapes of the sunny tropics. "What is that dangling from the vine branch overhead?" asked Lady Louisa. "Just above us?" said Cora, laughing, as she looked up with a charming smile on her bright girlish face. "Haw—mistletoe, by Jove!" exclaimed Berkeley, looking up too, with his glass in his eye, and his hands in his pockets.