t. Does he know, for
instance, that she had a daughter by her third marriage, whom, as an
infant, she despatched to France to be reared in a nunnery, "that she
may not," said the unhappy queen, "run the risk of having such a lot
as I have"? Does he know that John Knox was possessed by a mad passion
of love for Mary Stuart? It has always been thought otherwise--that
in point of fact he held her in contempt; but as it is proverbial that
"nippin' and scartin' (figurative of course) is Scotch folks' wooin',"
there may be truth in the new discovery. But true or not true, it
is enough to make the bold Reformer blush standing on the top of his
pillar in the necropolis of Glasgow: perhaps he _is_ blushing, if he
were near enough to see.

Be that as it may, there is no manner of doubt that Mary Stuart
honored Cockhoolet Castle by abiding under its roof when it suited her
to do so. Have not I, the present writer, stood in the room she slept
in--looked from the small windows set in the ten-foot thick wall from
which she looked? Have I not gazed over the same country, up to the
same skies, into the same moon at which she gazed? Could her face be
more fair than that of the present Rose of Cockhoolet, her thoughts
more innocent, her reveries more sweet, than those of Bessie Ormiston,
who in the course of time had succeeded to the room which had been
consecrated by royal slumbers?

It is a matter of certainty that Mary Stuart planted a tree fast by
Cockhoolet Castle--she would not have been herself if she had not done
that--and a magnificent tree it is, very old and quite big enough
for its age. The queen must have been fond of planting trees, and,
considering the number she planted, it is astonishing how she found
time for so many less innocent employments: she must have improved
each shining hour, and, poor woman! she had not too many of these.

There is a walk also, called the Lady's Walk, leading away from
the castle up a bosky dell, where a burn amuses itself playing at
hide-and-seek, but, like a little child, betrays its hiding-places by
its voice, and comes out into the light again and laughs at its own
joke. Did the queen ever wander here? did she ever "paidle in the burn
when summer days were fine"? did its murmur ever soothe her ear?
did she ever see her fair face in its pools, or drop bitter tears to
mingle and; flow on with its waters?

The burn has kept trotting through the dell for six thousand years,
singing its so