f the quiet time, to relapse back into the
bosom of nature, through insensible and unperceived decay.

These Huts belonged to brothers--and each had an only child--a son and a
daughter--born on the same day--and now blooming on the verge of youth.
A year ago, and they were but mere children--but what wondrous growth of
frame and spirit does nature at that season of life often present before
our eyes! So that we almost see the very change going on between morn
and morn, and feel that these objects of our affection are daily brought
closer to ourselves, by partaking daily more and more in all our most
sacred thoughts, in our cares and in our duties, and in knowledge of the
sorrows as well as the joys of our common lot. Thus had these cousins
grown up before their parents' eyes, Flora Macdonald--a name hallowed of
yore--the fairest, and Ranald Cameron, the boldest of all the living
flowers in Glenco and Glencreran. It was now their seventeenth birthday,
and never had a winter sun smiled more serenely over a hush of snow.
Flora, it had been agreed on, was to pass that day in Glencreran, and
Ranald to meet her among the mountains, that he might bring her down the
many precipitous passes to his parents' hut. It was the middle of
February, and the snow had lain for weeks with all its drifts unchanged,
so calm had been the weather, and so continued the frost. At the same
hour, known by horologe on the cliff touched by the finger of dawn, the
happy creatures left each their own glen, and mile after mile of the
smooth surface glided away past their feet, almost as the quiet water
glides by the little boat that in favouring breezes walks merrily along
the sea. And soon they met at the trysting-place--a bank of birch-trees
beneath a cliff that takes its name from the Eagles.

On their meeting seemed not to them the whole of nature suddenly
inspired with joy and beauty? Insects unheard by them before, hummed and
glittered in the air--from tree-roots, where the snow was thin, little
flowers, or herbs flower-like, now for the first time were seen looking
out as if alive--the trees themselves seemed budding as if it were
already spring--and rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song,
a faint trill for a moment touched their ears, and the flutter of a
wing, telling them that somewhere near there was preparation for a nest.
Deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills
unreached by the frost--and merry, thought