Methought it used to skip along, It sounds now like a parting song When I was young, the brook was old, The fickle crowd will change its mind, Therefore I love the merry brooks THE FLOWER OF THE BORDER. BY ISABELLA MUNRO. THE long summer day was nearly done, but the last rays of the setting sun were still glancing along the broad and beautiful Westerdale, turning to gold the clear waters of its rushing river; and brightening the gray walls of the massive tower that stood on a rising ground not far from the river's side, and which frowned defiance on the Southron, for it was the stronghold of stern old David Scott, one of the most noted in raid and fray among the border chieftains. And those parting rays gleamed also on two forms moving slowly along the path beside the river, yet sheltered from the observation of the tower by the clustering alders that overhung the bank. They were a youth and maiden, David Scott's only child and one of her distant kinsmen; but it was evident that some tie nearer than that of kindred bound them to each other, for Malcolm Scott's dark eyes were often bent with an expression of deep interest on his beautiful companion, and there was affection in the glance that was sometimes raised to his. Yet those soft blue eyes were dimmed with tears, and a dark shade rested on Malcolm's brow, and told of a cloud overshadowing their youth and love. "Oh, Sybil!" exclaimed the youth at last, "and must I still stand by, and see all I hold dearest on earth torn from me, and make no effort to retain it?" "Yes, Malcolm, you must," said Sybil, firmly. N "Bid me do anything else, Sybil !" entreated her kinsman; "tell me to die for you, or in your defence, and I could do it cheerfully." "But that is what you must not do," replied Sybil, gravely; no good could possibly come of it, but much evil. It would but incense my father against you; and, were it otherwise, think, O Malcolm, what misery it would be to wed your murderer!" Nay, of that there is no fear," said Malcolm, proudly. "I am a better swordsman than Robin Eliot." "Yet must not your sword cross his for Sybil Scott," said the young girl, with redoubled earnestness. "As you value my peace and happiness, Malcolm, promise me this again!" The youth paused a moment. "I do promise," he answered, sadly; "but you know not at how bitter a sacrifice I bend to your will, nor how little I share your anxiety for a life that is now valueless to me." "Nay, Malcolm, say not so," said Sybil; "there are fairer maidens along the border than Sybil Scott, whose hands are their own to give. It would lighten my heart, in years to come, to think that one of them shed brightness over your home in Glenconan." "No, Sybil," said he, quietly, "Glenconan will never know brightness, since what should have been its star will shed its light in the hall of Robin Eliot." But the generous girl's attempts at consolation were cut short by the hurried approach of one of her maidens, to apprise her of the return of her father, accompanied by Robin Eliot, and that her presence was required. Farewell, then, Sybil!" said Malcolm, mournfully; "I cannot go beneath father's roof to meet that man in peace, and you your will not suffer me to meet him otherwise." And, with a swelling heart and burning brow, Malcolm stood beneath the trees, watching Sybil's reluctant return to the grim old tower, within whose walls awaited those who were coldly and mercilessly dooming her young heart to wretchedness. Malcolm bit his lips in agony at the thought, for he had long loved Sybil with all the deep and earnest affection of which an ardent nature is capable; and perhaps he sorrowed over the destruction of his hopes the more bitterly, that he was restrained by his promise from taking that revenge on his successful rival which was usual in that age, and with those among whom he lived. Meanwhile, sad, yet tearless, Sybil retraced her steps to her once happy home, there to encounter the unwelcome lover, who must be greeted courteously, however her heart shrank and her lips trembled with the effort; for those were not days in which a maiden's inclinations were consulted, nor was the stern and rugged David Scott one to whom the plea of another lover, even though for one as worthy as his kinsman, might be tendered. To all beneath his sway the old border-chief's will was law; and when he had signified to Sybil his pleasure that she should become the bride of Robin Eliot of Whitterburn, she had felt her fate was sealed. Yet with the courage of despair she had knelt before him, and prayed she might not be compelled to give her hand where her heart could never follow. But the appeal had been treated with contempt and anger, and she had been sternly told it should suffice for a maiden to know her father's will, and bidden to receive without farther demur the bridegroom he had appointed for her. And Eliot, he was well satisfied, though it might be suspected his suit was unwelcome; for Sybil's hand would add broad lands to those which now were his, and increase the power he already possessed: and these he valued more than he did the brilliant beauty that had gained for her the appellation of the Flower of the Border, or the gentleness that had won her other hearts than his. The preparations for the bridal and the bridal-feast went on as quickly and as gaily at the old tower in Westerdale as though there were no tears shed in the young bride's chamber: yet Sybil watched, like one appointed to die, each succeeding sunrise and each fading day; for each brought nearer the hour that was to consign her to the yet darker doom of a living death. At length it was the day before the bridal, and oh, how bitterly Sybil wept that long summer day over the thought of the morrow's objectless sacrifice! and how she pictured to herself that there was one in the wild glen among the Rae Hills who mourned, well-nigh as sorely as herself, the coming of the hour which should raise between them a life-long barrier, which could never, never be thrown down, but must remain to shut out light, and joy, and hope from her existence, and cast at length its shadow on her grave. Far differently did Robin Eliot hail the same sunny day, the last, as he said jestingly, which would see him a free man; and it was with a gay brow and proud heart that he prepared to ride over to the stronghold of a brother chieftain, to arrange with him the plan of a proposed raid across the border, to sweep with fire and sword some rich portion of the Southron's lands; for Eliot was not too deep in love to have a keen eye to his own interest, which harrying the English was at all times likely to promote. "And when sall ye be back, Robin ?" inquired his mother. "I canna tell," he replied, carelessly, as he mounted. "Dinna expec' me till ye see me." "I'm no afeard ye'll stay o'er lang," replied the old lady of Whitterburn, laughing, "for there's a bonny birdie waiting for ye the morn." "And if I should na gang for it the morn, I dar' say it could wait a wee bit langer," he rejoined, with a merry laugh that was |