‘O speed not to our bonny braes To cool dark Passion’s heat; Nor think each stream, that wildly strays, To every eye is sweet: The fairest hues yon mountain wears No sunshine can impart; The brightest gleams, the purest airs, Flow from a pious heart! Clear be thy breast as summer breeze, And tender be thy feeling, ’Twill give fresh verdure to the trees, ’Neath winter’s snow congealing! Then speed not to our bonny braes To cool dark Passion’s heat; The glittering stream, that wildly strays, Is sweet—but to the sweet!’ “How shall I paint to you the feelings which crowded upon my mind as I wended my way homewards on that memorable evening! The darkening scene, as I crossed the rugged crest of WALNA, was magnificent; and I have always felt that the heart and imagination expand with the prospect. How the littleness of human possessions strikes the mind, when we look over the successive boundaries of a hundred lordships, and feel for the moment permitted to possess, or at least to enjoy them, as much as their legal owners! How do human passions die away under the balmy breath of heaven; and the soul feel its original relationship to its eternal Author. Yet anxiety for my sister’s welfare pressed upon my mind at that moment with double force, because I alone was privy to her secret, and as yet only knew it in a way which prevented me from employing my knowledge for her good. Yet why should I interfere? was she not capable of regulating her own conduct, and was there anything in what I had discovered inconsistent with the prospect of a long course of happiness before her? With these thoughts I reached home, and was soon after followed by my sister, whose unusual absence had been quite unobserved by any other part of the family, nor did I give any token that it had been noticed by myself.” CHAPTER X. The sun is bright, the fields are gay With people in their best array, Through the vale retired and lowly Trooping to the summons holy. And up among the woodlands see What sparklings of blithe company! Of lasses and of shepherd grooms That down the steep hills force their way, Like cattle through the budded brooms; Path or no path, what care they? WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. “You recollect that in our interview with Robert Walker on the top of WALNA, we were directed by him to assemble at his church on the following Sunday, the children to commence their preparation for Confirmation, and the parents to present their offspring and themselves to derive comfort and instruction from the occasion. Never did a brighter sun shine on the world than that which rose on that memorable morning! Why, sir, does the sun shine brighter on a Sunday than on any other day in the week?”