St. Ronan's Well. Walter Scott

own; and though they became her wonderfully, yet, like Ophelia's garlands, and wild snatches of melody, they were calculated to excite compassion and melancholy, even while they amused the observer.

      “And why came you not to dinner?—We expected you—your throne was prepared.”

      “I had scarce come to tea,” said Miss Mowbray, “of my own freewill. But my brother says your ladyship proposes to come to Shaws-Castle, and he insisted it was quite right and necessary, to confirm you in so flattering a purpose, that I should come and say, Pray do, Lady Penelope; and so now here am I to say, Pray, do come.”

      “Is an invitation so flattering limited to me alone, my dear Clara?—Lady Binks will be jealous.”

      “Bring Lady Binks, if she has the condescension to honour us”—[a bow was very stiffly exchanged between the ladies]—“bring Mr. Springblossom—Winterblossom—and all the lions and lionesses—we have room for the whole collection. My brother, I suppose, will bring his own particular regiment of bears, which, with the usual assortment of monkeys seen in all caravans, will complete the menagerie. How you are to be entertained at Shaws-Castle, is, I thank Heaven, not my business, but John's.”

      “We shall want no formal entertainment, my love,” said Lady Penelope; “a déjeûner à la fourchette—we know, Clara, you would die of doing the honours of a formal dinner.”

      “Not a bit; I should live long enough to make my will, and bequeath all large parties to old Nick, who invented them.”

      “Miss Mowbray,” said Lady Binks, who had been thwarted by this free-spoken young lady, both in her former character of a coquette and romp, and in that of a prude which she at present wore—“Miss Mowbray declares for