shewed vestiges of having been recently moved. "Here rests ane," she said, "he'll maybe hae neibors sune."
She then moved up the brook until she came to the ruined hamlet, where, pausing with a look of peculiar and softened interest before, one of the gables which was still standing, she said in a tone less abrupt, though as solemn as before, "Do you see that blacked and broken end of a sheeling?—there my kettle boiled for forty years—there I bore twelve buirdly sons and daughters—where are they now?—where are the leaves that were on that auld ash-tree at Martinmas—the west wind has made it bare—and I'm stripped too.—Do you see that saugh tree?—it's but a blackened rotten stump now—I've sate under it mony a bonny summer afternoon when it hung its gay garlands ower the poppling water.—I've sate there, and," elevating her voice, "I've held you on my knee, Henry Bertram, and sung ye sangs of the auld barons and their bloody wars—It will
