the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air. "He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet. How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a perfect love; him only could she receive into the depths of her heart; and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side: should it pass away, its happy luster would never gleam upon his life again. "How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl. She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came. Now this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune the best of fortunes stolen so near that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter. The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow : "Hist! Do you see that bundle under his head?” The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. "I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocketbook, or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons pocket." "But what if he wakes?" said the other. His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. "So be it," muttered the second villain. They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger toward his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast. "I must take away the bundle," whispered one. "If he stirs I'll strike," muttered the other. But at this moment a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain. "We can do nothing now. The "Pshaw!" said one villain. dog's master must be close behind." "Let's take a drink and be off," said the other. The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. Now he stirred; now moved his lips, without a sound; now talked, in an inward tone, to the noonday specters of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber - and there was the stagecoach. He started up, with all his ideas about him. "Halloo, driver! Take a passenger?" shouted he. "Room on top," answered the driver. Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily toward Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood - all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough, in mortal life, to render foresight even partially available? CHAPTER XIV ROBERT BURNS, 1759-1796 "Burns is by far the greatest poet that ever sprang from the bosom of the people and lived and died in an humble condition." - PROFESSOR WILSON. "But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer ? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid "Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, But spare his 'Highland Mary'!" -JOHN G. WHITTIER, ROBERT BURNS, "the Shakespeare of Scotland" as some one has justly called him, was born in 1759, at Alloway, in Ayrshire, Scotland, where his father had a small farm. Burns received a scanty school education, for his father kept his sons at home in order to help with the work of the farm. The future poet made the most of his opportunities, and increased his knowledge by studying the very few books within his reach. The greater part of Burns's education was gained at home. His father had a choice, though limited, stock of books, all of which he read eagerly and thoroughly. His mother, a truly religious woman, was devoted to her son "Robbie," who inherited many of her amiable qualities. As Burns went whistling behind his plow, thoughts of nature and its beauties, of love and its tender emotions, would gradually shape themselves into words and rhythm, such as would suit exactly the very tunes he was whistling. Thus, song-making was his earliest effort as a poet. As his mind expanded, his life as a plowman became tiresome and disagreeable, and at last utterly unendurable. He consequently left it, tried farming on his own. account, and failed. Dis gusted with everything about him, he resolved to leave Scotland, and to try his fortune in the West Indies, where so many Scots had already reaped an abundance of wealth. In order to pay the expense of the voyage out, Burns published a collection of his poems. This was so successful that he received more than enough money, and great popularity. Under these circumstances, he gave up the idea of going abroad; and the Ayrshire poet was invited by the great people of Edinburgh to pay them a visit. They gave him a most cordial reception when he came, feasting and lionizing him; and he, plowman though he was, conducted himself as if he were the finest gentleman among them. When this grand time was over, the poet went back to his old life, which did not look more pleasant after his brilliant holiday experiences in Edinburgh. Troubles came upon him, and he had at |