his son.

The laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well
was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he
loved.

As for Lizzie Lindsay, she sent to Edinburgh to fetch her father
and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their
daughter had been to follow Donald MacDonald to the Highlands.

THE GAY GOSHAWK

Lord William sat alone in his grey northern castle. He had come
but lately from the sunny South, and the room in which he sat
struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown
used. Little joy had Lord William in his old grey castle, for his
heart was far away in the sunny South.

All alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk.
And it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye
as it peered into Lord William's gloomy face, blinked and peered
again, so pale and lean had his master grown.

'Now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its
feathers in its distress.

Lord William looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay
goshawk.

'Be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said Lord William, 'and I
will smooth your ruffled wings.'

The goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of
his master. Then he began to speak.

'Have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you
lost them in sunny England?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale
with grief because your true love is far away?'

'By my troth!' cried Lord William, 'I have lost nor sword nor
spear, yet do I mourn, for my true love whom I fain would see.

'You shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can
fly over hill and dale. You shall carry a letter to my love, and
you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said Lord William, 'for you
can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.'

'But how shall I know your true love?' said the bird. 'Never have
I seen her face or heard her voice.'

'O well will you know my true love,' cried Lord William, 'for in
all England lives there none so fair as she. The cheeks of my
love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than
new-fallen snow.

'Near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble
in the breeze. There shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall
sing to her as she goes to holy church.

'With four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know
my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. You shall
know her, too, by the gol