CURRAGH CHASE,
March 1, '87.

MY DEAR FATHER RUSSELL,

I send you my paper in the Spectator (not Saturday Review) 1880, on Ferguson, and if you can make any use of it calculated to make his beautiful poetry better known I shall be very glad. He is a remarkable instance of a true poet not appreciated except within a small circle; and this is the more discreditable to our country because he has done so much for her annals in his poetry; more than any one else, I think.

Judge O'Hagan's reprint of my paper on Ferguson is most opportune; and I rejoice most heartily that we are soon to have Ferguson's poetry and prose in a cheap form. The two vols. brought out of F. MacCarthy's Poems and Translations will also be very useful to his fame.

I often wish that Judge O'Hagan's time were not so much. taken up. He might do excellent service to Catholic literature in various ways—amongst others if he were to imitate your uncle in sending contributions both to Catholic periodicals and to influential Protestant and English periodicals, not too prejudiced to accept them when judiciously written, in the historical and philosophical, and not in the polemical spirit.

Yours very sincerely,

AUBREY DE VERE.

The more I read my brother's new vol. the more I admire his Translations. They seem to me noble Poems of a sort that English literature has not yet had, for they entirely combine the classic form and spirit with genuine English poetic expression.

THE BROOCH OF LINDISFARNE

By JESSIE A. GAUGHAN

Author of "The Plucking of the Lily"

CHAPTER XXIV

A MESSAGE FROM ALLEN MACLEAN

WHILE MacLean and his son lay prisoners in Mulindry, Ella MacDonald was in a state of feverish anxiety which even Muriel's strong, well-balanced mind was forced to share because of her love and pity for this gentle sister of hers. The two girls spent whole days in forming plans for Hector's release, which Lady Agnes, who was quite as concerned as they for the prisoner's safety, though for graver reasons, set aside as wild and impracticable.

Soon there came an evening when they learned that their father intended to remove the MacLeans at once to Dunyvaig for safer lodging. The agitation of Ella MacDonald was painful to witness. She magnified Hector's evil case, torturing herself by picturing him immured in the dark, loathsome dungeons under her father's castle, wearing out his heart and hers for a strip of land. Unable to talk or reason calmly, and shrinking from all sympathy save her sister's, she withdrew with Muriel to the same room where she had fruitlessly tempted her father's lieutenant.

Lady ClanConnell, more than ever alarmed, retired to pen a hasty message to Sorley Boy MacDonald, begging his mediation between her son and his enemy.

So it happened that the Earl of Lindisfarne, entering the usual sitting-room of the ladies, found it tenanted solely by Grace MacDonald. His face lighted up with pleasure as he saw her bending over a small book of poetry. The volume was his; he had bought it in Edinburgh, and as he stepped forward he marked the verses she had been reading.

Surely, Mistress Grace," he said when the girl had returned his courteous greeting, "there is some secret sympathy between us. These verses, These verses," indicating the open page, are set to the air I was humming as I entered. Dare I believe it to be a happy omen ? "

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Grace was silent, perhaps because she had some idea of Lindisfarne's meaning, but the colour deepened in her fair cheeks and her eyes sought the ground.

The Earl watched her with fast beating heart. Since the affair of the MacLeans, which kept Sir Angus MacDonald at Mulindry, Lady Agnes and her grand-daughters had been too anxious and preoccupied to give much attention to Grace, who, blaming herself for the peril which the capture of the MacLeans must mean to Coll MacDonald, shrank from obtruding herself on the councils of the ladies. Acutely sensitive and guiltyconscienced regarding her treatment of Coll, she felt, without any real reason for so doing, that her presence was not desired at those long and troubled consultations, so she had been thrown more into the company of Lindisfarne.

Eagerly the Englishman had availed of the opportunities thus given him of ingratiating himself still further with her. Did she ride, he was her attentive cavalier; did she walk by the shore or on the moors, he was beside her, grave or gay, as seemed to him more in accordance with her mood. How chagrined he would have felt could he have read the girl's thoughts in her downcast face.

The danger in which she believed Coll MacDonald to be in Mull, was, as it were, a mirror where she beheld her own heart, and what she saw there frightened her, for it was she who had sent Coll to what might prove his death should harm come to Sir Lauchlan or his son.

Her thoughts were turned with passionate longing towards her grandfather. She wished herself in Rathlin once again, sorrowing for having left it to bring woe on those who loved her.

She started and looked up as Lindisfarne's voice fell upon her ear. He had taken up a lute and was asking permission to sing to her the verses she had been reading, and she could find no words in which to refuse. He ran over a little prelude, and then his rich, well-modulated voice filled the lofty apartment.

Were I a wild-flower in some fair retreat,
And thou a dewdrop nestling in my heart,
My silken petals folding,

Thee in soft durance holding,

Oh, not for all Sol's pleading should we part.

The sudden shyness that had seized on Grace increased as he sang. She longed to excuse herself and leave him, but the

strange fascination which Lindisfarne had for her, kept her chained where she sat, with clasped hands and eyes that dared not meet the singer's.

Coll," she whispered to her heart, " Coll," as if that name could shatter the spell she felt stealing over her senses.

Ah,

Coll, strong as true, brave as tender, had no courtier's arts, nor velvet-smooth voice to wile away her heart, and yet she whispered, "Coll."

The Earl noticed her embarrassment hopefully, and the song went on :—

Wert thou an island in some sunny sea,
And I the waters on thy golden sands,
No stranger foot should press thee,
My waves alone caress thee,

Encircling thee with love's enduring bands.

Wert thou a mountain rising from the plain,
And I an eagle poising in the air,

Thy virgin peak descrying,

To it with swift wings flying,

In eager haste I'd build my eyrie there.

Were I the king of Scotland's fair domain,
And thou a beggar at my palace door,

Though scoffers should deride me,

I'd place thee, Love, beside me,

Queen of my heart and kingdom ever more.

The last impassioned notes died away and still Grace MacDonald kept her gaze upon the floor. She knew what she would read in Lindisfarne's eyes if she encountered them, and the vision of Coll MacDonald as she had seen him last, turning from her, passion-pale and anguish-stricken, came before her.

The Earl of Lindisfarne's heart was beating high. Misinterpreting the agitation that she strove in vain to hide, he thought himself absolved from the restraint he had so long imposed upon his ardour. He bent over her.

'Queen of my heart and kingdom ever more," he repeated softly, "no longer, alas! unhappy that I am, have I land and riches to share with the queen of my heart. Yet I have powerful friends, and my star will shine out again more brightly for this temporary eclipse. James of Scotland will be James of England some day-soon, perhaps, for Elizabeth is ill; and then-ah, then, fair Mistress Grace

He checked himself, for, with a proud, cold look, Grace made a movement to rise. The time was not yet ripe for declaring himself. Lindisfarne saw that clearly. This sweet,

wild bird was timid. He must go warily lest it be frightened away beyond recall.

Pardon," he cried quickly. "Love songs go to the head like strong wine. A man should not sing them to fair ladies unless his heart and brain are beauty-proof. Do not leave me, I pray. I shall not again offend you."

Grace longed wildly for some interruption. She almost felt choking; her hand went to her throat and closed tightly around her silver brooch.

"Can

The Earl, seeing her emotion, cursed his nationality. it be," he asked himself, "that she loves me and believes that to love an Englishman is to commit a crime?"

Perhaps it wanted but a straw, a breath, to turn the balance in his favour, and then, what of the heavy debt she owed him? Now, surely, was the time to tell her what must bear down the barrier of race between them, if it was true that gratitude was as a passion with the Irish.

To lead up to what he wished to say, he began to speak of that dread time in Ireland which Grace had such bitter reason to remember, and of which the siege of Rathlin had been the crowning infamy. Never had he sided so hotly against her country's oppressors as now, and gradually he drew her to tell him all she could remember of her own experiences at the sack of Rathlin. Hitherto she had but hinted of them to him. He groaned and set his teeth as he listened to her simple narrative, her childish memories of days of carnage and nights of horror; and only when she came to tell of her escape did he dare to raise his eyes to her face. Then eagerly he hung upon her words.

Of my rescue or of my rescuer I can remember nothing,” she said, "but I was in a little cave where often my brother and I had been before. I must have fallen asleep, for all is blank until I woke in darkness in a little boat. I cried myself to sleep again, and my next awakening was in friendly hands. But sometimes I have a hazy memory of a man's arms around me, and a ship, but the more I try to strengthen it, the fainter it becomes. It might all be but a nightmare save for this ornament." She touched her brooch and sighed deeply.

Then she became aware of a tender pressure on her hand, and Lindisfarne, dropping on one knee beside her, cried, "Let there be no ill-will between us, Grace." His voice and manner changed. "Absit invidia! That motto is my own, and, Grace, no longer can I keep the secret that has burned upon my lips since ever I beheld your face in Holyrood."