ich her
secluded life afforded. At last, she resolved on an exploit at which
Elspie looked aghast, and which made the quiet Mrs. Johnson shake her
head--an evening party--nay, even a dance, at her own home.

"It will never do for the people here; they're '_unco gude_,'" said the
doctor's English wife, who had imbibed a few Scottish prejudices by a
residence of thirty years. "Nobody ever dances in Stirling."

"Then I'll teach them," cried the lively Mrs. Rothesay: "I long to show
them a quadrille--even that new dance that all the world is shocked at
Oh! I should dearly like a waltz."

Mrs. Jacob Johnson was scandalised at first, but there was something in
Sybilla to which she could not say nay,--nobody ever could. The matter
was decided by Mrs. Rothesay's having her own way, except with regard to
the waltz, which her friend staunchly resisted. Elspie, too, interfered
as long as she could; but her heart was just now full of anxiety about
her nursling, who seemed to grow more delicate every year. Day after
day the faithful nurse might have been seen trudging across the country,
carrying little Olive in her arms, to strengthen the child with the
healing springs of Bridge of Allan, and invigorate her weak frame with
the fresh mountain air--the heather breath of beautiful Ben-Ledi. Among
these influences did Olive's childhood dawn, so that in after-life they
never faded from her.

Elspie scarcely thought again about the gay party, until when she came
in one evening, and was undressing the sleepy little girl in the dusk,
a vision appeared at the nursery door. It quite startled the old
Scotswoman at first, it looked so like a fairy apparition, all in white,
with a green coronet. She hardly could believe that it was her young
mistress.

"Eh! Mrs. Rothesay, ye're no goin' to show yoursel in sic a dress," she
cried, regarding with horror the gleaming bare arms, the lovely
neck, and the tiny white-sandaled feet, which the short and airy robe
exhibited in all their perfection.

"Indeed, but I am! and 'tis quite a treat to wear a ball-dress. I, that
have been smothered up in all sorts of ugly costume for nearly five
years. And see my jewels! Why, Elspie, this pearl-set has only beheld
the light once since I was married--so beautiful as it is--and Angus's
gift too."

"Dinna say that name," cried Elspie, driven to a burst of not very
respectful reproach. "I marvel ye daur speak of Captain Angus--and ye
wi' your havers and your