with grief. When death deprived me of my wife I returned to Scotland,
enriched by the marriage; and, would you think it, Duncan! the suffering
angel had remained in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long years,
and that for the sake of a man who could forget her! She did more,
sir; she overlooked my want of faith, and, all difficulties being now
removed, she took me for her husband."

"And became the mother of Alice?" exclaimed Duncan, with an eagerness
that might have proved dangerous at a moment when the thoughts of Munro
were less occupied that at present.

"She did, indeed," said the old man, "and dearly did she pay for the
blessing she bestowed. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill
becomes one whose foot rests on the grave to mourn a lot so blessed. I
had her but a single year, though; a short term of happiness for one who
had seen her youth fade in hopeless pining."

There was something so commanding in the distress of the old man, that
Heyward did not dare to venture a syllable of consolation. Munro sat
utterly unconscious of the other's presence, his features exposed and
working with the anguish of his regrets, while heavy tears fell from
his eyes, and rolled unheeded from his cheeks to the floor. At length
he moved, and as if suddenly recovering his recollection; when he arose,
and taking a single turn across the room, he approached his companion
with an air of military grandeur, and demanded:

"Have you not, Major Heyward, some communication that I should hear from
the marquis de Montcalm?"

Duncan started in his turn, and immediately commenced in an embarrassed