ipes with
impunity. And Sheila sang again and again, all cheerful and sensible
English songs, and she listened to the odd jokes and stories her
friends had to tell her; and Mackenzie was delighted with the success
of his plans and precautions. Was not her very appearance now a
triumph? She was laughing, smiling, talking to every one: he had not
seen her so happy for many a day.

In the midst of it all, when the night had come apace, what was this
wild skirl outside that made everybody start? Mackenzie jumped to his
feet, with an angry vow in his heart that if this "teffle of a piper
John" should come down the hill playing "Lochaber no more" or "Cha
till mi tualadh" or any other mournful tune, he would have his chanter
broken in a thousand splinters over his head. But what was the wild
air that came nearer and nearer, until John marched into the house,
and came, with ribbons and pipes, to the very door of the room, which
was flung open to him? Not a very appropriate air, perhaps, for it was

The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
The Campbells are coming to bonny Lochleven!
The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!

But it was, to Mr. Mackenzie's rare delight, a right good joyous tune,
and it was meant as a welcome to Sheila; and forthwith he caught the
white-haired piper by the shoulder and dragged him in, and said, "Put
down your pipes and come into the house, John--put down your pipes and
tek off your bonnet, and we shall hef a good dram together this night,
by Kott! And it is Sheila herself will pour out the whisky for you,
John; and she is a good Highland girl, and she knows the piper was
never born that could be hurt by whisky, and the whisky was never yet
made that could hurt a piper. What do you say to that, John?"

John did not answer: he was standing before Sheila with his bonnet in
his hand, but with his pipes still proudly over his shoulder. And he
took the glass from her and called out "Shlainte!" and drained every
drop of it out to welcome Mackenzie's daughter home.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP

MR. E. LYTTON BULWER.

In looking over, not very long since, a long--neglected, thin
portfolio of my twin-brother, the late Willis Gaylord Clark of
Philadelphia, I came across a sealed parcel endorsed "London
Correspondence." It contained letters to him from many literary
persons of more or less eminence at that time in the British
metropolis; among o