and became the mistress of the mansion where Prince Charles Edward passed his last night in Scotland, June 29, 1746. There she and her husband entertained Dr. Johnson and Boswell when they visited the Hebrides in 1773. She had then been a wife more than twenty years, and was the mother of numerous children, yet she was still beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and abiding loyalty to the British crown. Misfortune caused Flora and her family to join some of their kindred who had settled in North Carolina, and she abode for a while at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville).

In the winter of 1849 I started to follow the line of the retreat of General Greene before Cornwallis across North Carolina from the Catawba to the Dan, in 1781, but soon turned eastward to Fayetteville, where I arrived toward sunset. In the evening I called on Mrs. McL——, an aged and sprightly Scotchwoman, who, I was told, remembered Flora Macdonald. She was enthusiastic in her praises of that noble woman from the Hebrides. She described her as "not very tall, but a very handsome and dignified woman, with fair complexion, sparkling blue eyes, the finest teeth ever seen, and her hair, partly covered with a pretty lace cap, was slightly streaked with gray. Her kindly voice was sweetest music," continued Mrs. McL——, "and oh, how the poor and the church missed her when she went home after seeing much trouble here!"

"Is her dwelling here yet standing?" I asked.

"No; it was partly burned in the great fire here about twenty years ago. As you pass from the Market-House to the Court-House, you may see the ruins of it near the creek," she said.

Stepping to a quaint chest of drawers, Mrs. McL—— took out a dingy-looking letter written by Flora to her (Mrs. McL——'s) elder sister, then a maiden, of twenty, dated February 1, 1776. It was a brief note, but an exceedingly interesting one, as it was in the bold handwriting of the heroine of Skye.

"It was sent," said the old lady, "from her new home in the Barbacue Congregation, and, as you will see, she wrote her name 'Flory.'"

"Then she did not live here long?" I said.

"No; she soon moved to the Barbacue Congregation, about twenty miles north of here."

On the day when that note was written, the royal Governor of North Carolina issued a proclamation calling upon all friends of the King to assemble, with arms, at Cross Creek, and join his standard. The Macdonalds were all loyalists, and now the troubles of Flora in North Carolina began. Her husband and others, to the number of about fifteen hundred, mostly Scotchmen, readily obeyed the call.

"Flora came with her husband and friends," said Mrs. McL——. "I remember seeing her riding along the line on a large white horse, and encouraging her countrymen to be faithful to the King. Why, she looked like a queen. But she went no further than here, and when they marched away, she returned to her home."

Nearly a month later these Scotch loyalists were routed, dispersed, made prisoners, or killed in battle on Moore's Creek. Flora's husband was among the prisoners, and was sent to Halifax jail. He was soon afterward released, when he left North Carolina with his family for Scotland in a British sloop of war. On the way the vessel was attacked by a French vessel of war. The courage of the English sailors appeared to desert them, and capture seemed inevitable, when Flora ascended to the deck, and by words and deeds so stimulated their spirits that they beat off the enemy, and the Macdonalds were landed safely on their native soil of Skye. During the engagement Flora was severely wounded in the hand. She said, sometimes, when speaking of the peculiarity of her situation. "I have hazarded my life both for the house of Stuart and the house of Hanover, and I do not see that I am a great gainer by it."

Flora Macdonald was the mother of five sons and two daughters. She retained much of her beauty and all her dignity and loveliness of character until the last. She was always modest, always kind, always sweet and benevolent in disposition. She died early in March, 1790, and was buried in the cemetery of Kilmuir, in the isle of Skye. Her shroud, as she requested long before her death, was made of the sheets in which Prince Charles Edward reposed on the night he slept at Kingsburg. Her funeral was attended by fully three thousand persons. Two years later the remains of her husband were laid by her side. For eighty years their resting-place was covered only by the greensward. In 1871 a beautiful monument was erected over them.

"When the news of Flora Macdonald's death reached the Barbacue Congregation," said Mrs. McL——, "a solemn funeral service was held in the church there, when Dr. Hall, who died in 1826, in the eighty-second year of his age, preached the sermon. He had been a military leader as well as a preacher of righteousness. My husband was then an elder in the church, and we were both present. Flora Macdonald had no more sincere mourners than were found in the Barbacue Congregation at that time."

A LITTLE MARAUDER.

BY MRS. MARGARET SANGSTER.

Oh, Robin, my Robin, so clever and merry,
Pray why do you never peck twice at a cherry?
You fly at the daintiest one you can see,
Eat a morsel yourself, and just spoil it for me.

Oh, Robin, sweet Robin, you dear little warden,
You're welcome to feast on the fruit in my garden:
I know what invaders you're driving away
From flower and tree through the long summer day.

But, Robin, bright Robin, please listen to reason:
You waste lots of cherries, my pet, every season.
I finish my cake to the very last crumb—
Why can not you finish your cherry or plum?

A GOOD EXCHANGE.

BY ALEXANDER FRASER.

Once upon a time a poor boy, the son of a widow, went out to gather strawberries. He well knew the paths of the forest, and the place where the berries grew thickest and sweetest. Very soon his joyful cry was heard:

"Hello, hello Ziegaleck!
Ich hoa mei Tippla Bodendeck!"

And as he gathered the ripe fruit, he sang in merry tones:

"Hello, hello, Koalb!
Ich hoa mei Tippla hoalb!
Hello, hello Kuhl!
Ich hoa mei Tippla vuhl!"

Soon his earthen dish was full, and the boy started for home. As he turned his steps into the narrow path, he heard from the rocky side of the pathway a voice saying in entreating tones, "Pray give me thy berries."

The lad turned in fright, and saw a little old man with a long gray beard, and worn, faded garments, who looked kindly upon him as he repeated, "Pray give me thy berries."

"But," said the lad, "I must take the berries to my mother, who is obliged to sell them to buy us bread."

"And I," said the little old man, "have a sick wife at home, who would be greatly comforted and refreshed by them."

The lad's heart was filled with pity. He thought to himself, "I will give him the berries for his sick wife, and if I am industrious, I can again fill my dish before night-fall." Then he said to the little man: "Yes, you may have them. Where shall I empty them for you?"

"We will exchange dishes," was the answer. "See, you may have mine, which is empty, and I will take yours, which is filled. Mine is brand-new, but no matter."

Thereupon the lad gave the little old man his berries, and received in return the new but empty vessel; and