lowed by the enraged Meg Dods, with no less a weapon in her hand
than a broom-stick, with which she was striving to belabor the
shoulders of the unhappy McTurk.

"_Hegh_, sirs!" she cried, brandishing it above her head, "I'll gar ye
to know ye're not coming flisking to an honest woman's house setting
folks by the lugs. Keep to your ain whillying hottle here, ye
ne'er-do-weel, or I'll mak' windle-strae o' your banes--and what for
no?"

Happily for the gallant captain, Old Touchwood here interposed, and by
dint of coaxing and threats of joining himself to the gay company at
the Spring, the irascible Meg was finally marched off.

A deep sigh near me caused me to look around, and there, as pure and
as lovely as the water-lily drooping from its fragile stem, sat poor
Lucy Ashton. And like that beautiful flower, the lily of the wave,
seemed the love of that unhappy maid:

"Quivering to the blast
Through every nerve--yet rooted deep and fast
Midst life's dark sea."

Her eyes were cast down, and her rich veil of golden tresses sweeping
around her. At a little distance, with folded arms and bent brows,
stood the Laird of Ravenswood, yet unable to approach the
broken-hearted girl, as her proud, unfeeling mother, the stately Lady
Ashton, kept close guard over her; and it made me shudder to behold,
also, the old hag, Ailsie Gourley, crouching down by her bonny
mistress, and stroking the lily-white hand which hung so listless at
her side, mumbling the while what seemed to me must be some
incantation to the Evil One.

"Wae's me--wae's me!" exclaimed that prince of serving-men, Caleb
Balderstone, at this moment presenting himself before his master; "and
is your honor, then, not ganging hame when Mysie the puir old body's
in the dead thraw! _Hech, sirs_, but its awfu'! Ane of the big sacks
o' siller--a' gowd, ye maun ken, which them gawky chields and my ain
sell were lifting to your honor's chaumer, cam down on her head! _Eh_!
but it gars me greet--ah! wull-a-wins, we maun a' dee!"

"Ah, she is a bonny thing, but ye ken she is a wee bit daft, puir
lassie!" cried Madge Wildfire, smirking and bowing, to catch the eye
of Jeanie Deans, who, leaning on the arm of her betrothed, Reuben
Butler, stood gazing with tearful eyes upon that wreck of hope and
love exhibited in the person of the ill-fated Lucy of Lammermoor.

Bless that sweet, meek face of Jeanie Deans! Many a lovelier--many a
fairer were in that asse