LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2273, 15 July 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

ECHOES OF THE PAST. By Donald Cambbon. WATT L~E FARM. AN IDYLL OP LAECEFIELD. ( Concluded ) An old Highland woman, who, in appear* once, seemed like a witoh, conducted the party into a cheerless parlor, and left them there until she had told the dying man in his native language, still dear to him, if anything was, who was waiting for him, Presently she returned with her * dip’ candle, made on the premises, with the information, conveyed to the doctor, ‘ that she can now go in ; Gandy was a’ waiting.’ Ushered by her, the company entered the chamber of death On a small, iron stretcher, bought cheap at a Laucefield auction, at whioh Mr Thomas Little, the popular wielder of the hammer, officiated, lay Sandy M'Bean. A being more ghaatiy could not be imagined. Always lean and haggard, he was now little but a skeleton, the only sign of life being hia keen, black eyes, whioh seemed to burn into the soul of every person of the party. He spoke to Mrs Lamont in her own native poetical language ‘At last you have come,’ he said. ‘I have wronged you deeply. Iloved you once. Agues, so dearly. You might have saved me, and made mo a happier and a better man.’

Mrs Lament feel on her knees beside the bed.

‘I could not, Sandy,’ ehe said ; ' I loved another. God knows had he willed it other wise I would have accepted your love.’ ‘ I know, I know,' said the wretched man in Gaelic. ‘Why should I hope to be favored by yon ? I, who was but a withered branch of the pine that grows on the mountain, while Angus was the handsome tree that spreads its branches over the waters. Ob, Agnes, I was mad, and the Evil One came and took possession, Listen, Agnes : I have hated you and youra since then , I have envied your happiness. It was I who took the horses out of Wilson’s paddock and put them in yonrs. And why? Because I knew yonr son Alick was tbe delight of yoor heart, and, prompted by the devil, I thought the revenge my wrongs by involving him in crime* Even after I had almost broken yonr heart by that fiendish act, I still hardened myself, and when I had you in my power, I foreclosed on the mortgage. And now|l am dying. Oh 1 God, what is the world—what is revenge to me now I Oh! for a week’s life to undo all I have done !’

‘Alastair,’said Mrs Lament, giving him th" Gaelic name, forget all that. Ihe joy you have imparted telling mo my dear son, whoso name is the same as yours, is guiltless —is sufficient to make me forgive you, even had I not done so already. Alastair, think not of this ; remember now, at the last hour, that Jesus forgives. I do freely, injured aal have been, so dees my son. Ask Him, our brother, our fellow sufferer, for forgiveness ; He will not turn sway. Oh ! Alastair, you

loved me In the giddy days of youth with an earthly and perishable love ; let me turn you to the contemplation of Christ, to the imperishable love of Him who died on the cross for our offences.’

“Yon forgive me.’ said Sandy M ‘Bean, his countenance lit with a gleam which was foreign to that hard face. 1 1 do,’ said Mrs Lamont, * and I pray God he will acsopt yotxr penitence, and receive you into His rest.’ •And I willingly add my forgiveness to my mother’s,’ said Alick, coming forward, and speaking Gaelic. ‘Yonl’ cried tfce dying man; ‘yon are not Angus Lamont, the dead ?’ ‘No,’ was the reply; ‘I am his son, ■schom you havo wronged, but who forgives you and prays for your happiness.’ ‘My God! my God!’ cried the dying man, • what happiness I have lost. I am dying ; listen : I wronged you, but in the last moments I felt that reparation was necessary. I have left you all. Oh ! Agnes, by the memory of the love I had for you, pray forme now. I feel lam dying/'and a strange ease has come over my sonl. Pray, pray !’ If ever an eloquent prayer was breathed at a deathbed, it was that which Agnes Lamont poured forth at the bed-side of Alexander M‘Bean. Ha listened with rapture, and, as she closed, he clasped her hand ; all the shadows had vanished from his face; there was hope in the hard stern countenance; he felt a happiness to him never known for many long years. ‘Oh 1 Christe, Christe 1 Oh, Christ I Oh Christ! Be thou with me!’ he whispered. ‘ tfi sibh Ham.’ And as the silver moonbeams stole Into the wretched room, the soul of Alexander M'Bean departed whither God In his mercy alone can tell. Bat Christians feel that he appealed not in vain to the Bedeemer.