Thy morn of life hath been o'erclouded; its shadow lingers yet." "Too truly speakest thou, father," replied Nigel, drawing Agnes closer to his heart, for tears were starting in her eyes; "yet will not love soon chase that sorrow?
Thou who canst penetrate the future, seer of the Bruce's line, tell me, shall she not be mine ?" The old man looked on them both, and then his eyes became fixed on vacancy; long and painfully once or twice he passed his hand across his high, pale brow.
"Vain, vain," he said, sadly; "but one vision comes to mine aching sight, and there she seems thine own.

She is thine own--but I know not how that will be.

Ask me no more; the dream is passing.

'Tis a sad and fearful gift.

Others may triumph in the power, but for me 'tis sad, 'tis very sad." "Sad! nay, is it not joy, the anticipating joy," answered Nigel, with animation, "to look on a beloved one, and mark, amid the clouds of distance, glory, and honor, and love entwining on, his path?
to look through shades of present sorrow, and discern the sunbeam afar off--is there not joy in this ?" "Aye, gentle youth; but now, oh, now is there aught in Scotland to whisper these bright things?
There was rejoicing, find glory, and triumph around the patriot Wallace.