hich meanness
she had just touched, but never crossed. Perhaps, also, she was too
conscious of her own loveliness, and admired herself too ardently to
care for attracting the petty admiration of others. She took it quite as
a matter of course; and was no more surprised at being worshipped than
if she had been the Goddess of Beauty herself.

But if Sybilla Rothesay gloried in her own perfections, she no less
gloried in those of all she loved, and chiefly in her noble-looking
husband. And they were so young, so quickly wed, and so soon parted,
that this emotion had no time to deepen into that soul-united affection
which is independent of outward things, or, rather, becomes so divine,
that instead of beauty creating love, love has power to create beauty.

No marvel, then, that not having attained to a higher experience,
Sybilla considered beauty as all in all. And this child--her child and
Angus's,--would be a deformity, a shame to its parents, a dishonour
to its race. How should she ever bear to look upon it? Still more, how
should she ever dare to show the poor cripple to its father, and say,
"This is our child--our firstborn." Would he not turn away in disgust,
and answer that it had better died?

Such exaggerated fancies as these haunted the miserable mother, when she
passed from her long swoon into a sort of fever; which, though scarce
endangering her life, was yet for days a source of great anxiety to the
devoted Elspie. To the unhappy infant this madness--for it was temporary
madness--almost caused death. Mrs. Rothesay positively refused to see
or notice her child, scorning alike the tearful entreaties and the stern
reproaches of the nurse. At last Elspie ceased to combat this passionate
resolve, springing half from anger and half from delirium----

"God forgie ye, and save the innocent bairn--the dochter He gave, and
that ye're gaun to murder--unthankfu' woman as ye are," muttered Elspie,
under her breath, as she quitted the room and went to succour the almost
dying babe. Over it her heart yearned as it had never yearned before.

"Your mither casts ye aff, ye puir wee thing. Maybe ye're no lang for
this warld, but while ye're in it ye sall be my ain lassie, an' I'll be
your ain mammie, evermair."

So, like Naomi of old, Elspie Murray "laid the child in her bosom and
became nurse unto it." But for her, the life of our Olive Rothesay--with
all its influences, good or evil, small or great, as yet unknown--would