"I pray for you all--my father, Euphemia, Beatie, and Sybie--" said the little girl, in a whisper, as she tied up a bouquet of white roses, "and for my new doll, when it is good, and for kind Robert Barton, and Sir David Falconer, when they are on the sea. Do I not, sweet mother?" said the child, looking up at a beautiful white image of the Madonna, which, with the infant Jesus in her arms, stood above the altar, draped by a veil, and crowned by a circlet of gold. "Oh, sister Lizzie," whispered Beatie, "is not that a dear, dear wee baby?" "How I should like to have just such a baby, for my doll fell and broke its nose," responded the other; "if you had such a baby, would you not love it, sister Maggie?" Margaret thought of her little babe that slept in the secret alcove, and her tears fell fast. "Say one prayer especially for me, for indeed the wishes of such pure souls as yours must be like unto those of angels," replied Margaret, as she kissed her pretty little sisters on the forehead, and lest they should perceive her tears, though the oak oratory was but dimly lighted by a silver lamp suspended from the roof, she hurried away to her own apartment, where she found Rothesay hanging over their sleeping offspring, which lay within its curtained alcove, like a waxen doll. She threw herself into his arms, and gave vent to a long and passionate fit of weeping; Rothesay did all in his power to console her, and after a time succeeded. Rousseau remarks, that to the woman who loves truly, there is no _man_ in the world; for to her the object is _more_, and every other less; and such was sweet Margaret's love for Rothesay! As they sat with their arms as closely entwined as their hearts, "Dearest Maggie," said he, gazing tenderly and conscience-stricken upon her pure and pale Madonna face, and with that expression of eye that speaks of a love verging on idolatry, while he smoothed the thick tresses of her rich soft hair, "dearest Maggie, I must end this painful and unmanly secrecy, by avowing my passion, and our marriage, to the people." "Alas! then how shall I, a poor weak girl, withstand the power of two ambitious kings?" "Thou wrongest my good father, dear Margaret. His heart is as free from ambition as from guile!" "But not from the cold policy that would wed you to a princess." "I am not the first of our royal line who has wedded the daughter of a baron." "No--but from that I can gather but little hope," sighed Margaret. "David II. married Margaret Logie, the daughter of a knight." "Ah! and how fared she? Repudiated by her husband when his love grew cold--banished from his court, penniless and poor, she sought the protection of Urban V. at Avignon, and died of a broken heart among strangers; so that we know not where she, a queen of Scotland, found a grave. Better far, had she wedded in her own degree, to die beloved, and sleep among her kindred in the old chapel of Rattray."