The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales (Vol. 2 of 2)

by James Hogg

THE WOOL-GATHERER.

MODERN.

Love is a passion so capricious, so violent, and so productive of whimsical expedients, that there is no end of its varieties. Dramas may be founded, plots arranged, and novels written on the subject, yet the simple truth itself generally outlasts them all. The following story, which relates to an amiable family still existing, is so like a romance, that perhaps the word of a narrator is insufficient to stamp it with that veracity to which it is entitled. The principal incidents, however, are set down precisely as they were related to me; only I have deemed it meet to change the designations of the individuals, so far that they cannot be recognised by any one not previously acquainted with the circumstances.

The late Laird of Earlhall dying in the fiftieth year of his age, as his grave-stone intimates, left behind him a widow, and two sons both in their minority. The eldest was of a dashing impatient character—he had a kind and affectionate heart, but his actions were not always tempered with prudence. He entered at an early age into the army, and fell in the Peninsular War when scarcely twenty-two years of age. The estate thus devolved wholly on the youngest, whose name for the present shall be Lindsey, that being his second Christian name, and the one by which his mother generally called him. He had been intended for the law, but on his brother’s death gave up the study as too laborious for his easy and careless disposition. He was attached to literature; and after his return home his principal employment consisted in poring over his books, and managing a little flower-garden in which he took great delight. He was studious, absent, and sensible, but paid little attention to his estate, or the extensive farm which he himself occupied.

The old lady, who was a stirring, talkative, industrious dame, entertained him constantly with long lectures on the ill effects of idleness. She called it the blight of youth, the grub of virtue, and the mildew of happiness; and sometimes, when roused into energy, she said it was the devil’s langsettle on which he plotted all his devices against human weal. Lindsey bore all with great patience, but still continued his easy and indolent way.

The summer advanced—the weather became peculiarly fine—labourers were busy in every field, and the shepherd’s voice, and the bleating of his flocks, sounded from the adjacent mountains by break of day. This lively and rousing scene gave a new edge to the old lady’s remonstrances; they came upon poor Lindsey thicker and faster, like the continued dropping of a rainy day, until he was obliged in some degree to yield. He tried to reason the matter with her, in somewhat near to the following words; but there, lawyer as he was, he had no chance. He was fairly overcome.

“My dear mother,” said he, “what does all this signify?—Or what is it that I can effect by my superintendance? Our farmers are all doing well, and pay their rents regularly; and as for our farm-servants, they have each of them filled the same situation so long and so creditably, that I feel quite awkward when standing looking over them,—it looks as if I suspected their integrity, which has been so often proved. Besides, it is a leading maxim with me, that if a man, and more particularly a woman, know or believe that trust is reposed in them, they will, in ten out of eleven instances, deserve it; but if once they see that they are suspected, the feeling towards you is changed, and they will in a little time as likely deserve the one as the other. Our wealth is annually increasing, at least as fast as necessary, and it is my principal wish, that every one under us may be as easy and comfortable as possible.”

This was true, for the old lady being parsimonious in the extreme, their riches had increased rapidly since the death of the late laird. As for Lindsey, he never spent any thing, save some trifle that he laid out yearly in payment of Reviews, and new books, and in relieving some poor families in the neighbourhood. The article of dress he left entirely to his mother: Whatever she bought or made for him he approved of, and whatever clothes or linen she laid down in his chamber, he put on without any observations. He acted upon the same principle with regard to his meals, but he sometimes was obliged to insist on a little addition being made to the comforts of the family servants, all of whom loved him as a friend and benefactor. He could at any time have swayed his mother so far as to make her a little more liberal towards the men-servants, but with regard to the maids he had no such power. She and they lived at constant variance,—an irreconcileable jealousy seemed always to subsist between them, and woe to them if the young laird interested himself in their favour! Matters being in this state, he was obliged to witness this mutual animosity; this tyranny on the one hand, and discontent on the other, without having the power to amend it.

“But then, my dear Lindsey,” returned she to his former remonstrance, “making allowance for a’ that you say—allowing that your weel-spoken arguments are a’ foundit in truth, for laith wad you be to say an untruth, an’ I never heard an argument that wasna sound come out o’ your mouth,—but then I say, what’s to hinder you to gang a fishing like other gentlemen, or shooting moor-cocks, an’ paetricks, an’ black-cocks, as a’ ither countrymen o’ your age an’ station do? Some manly exercise in the field is absolutely necessary to keep your form robust, your colour fresh, and your mind active; an’, indeed, you maunna be discontentit, nor displeased, if I insist on it, while the weather is so fine.”

“With regard to fowling, my dear mother, I am perfectly ignorant; I know nothing about the sport, and I never can delight in it, for often has it given me pain to see others pursuing it. I think the pleasure arising from it can scarcely originate in any thing else than a principle of cruelty. Fishing is little better. I never regret the killing of an ox, or sheep, by which we have so much necessary food for our life, but I think it hard to take a precious life for a single mouthful.”

“His presence be about us! Lindsey! what’s that ye say? Wha heard ever tell of a trout’s precious life? Or a salmon’s precious life? Or a ged’s precious life? Wow, man, but sma’ things are precious i’ your een! Or wha can feel for a trout? A cauldrife creature that has nae feeling itsel; a greedy grampus of a thing, that worries its ain kind, an’ eats them whenever it can get a chance. Na, na, Lindsey, let me hear nae mair o’ sickan lang-nebbit fine-spun arguments; but do take your father’s rod, like a man, and a gentleman, and gang a fishing, if it were but an hour in the day; there are as many hooks and lines in the house as will serve you for seven years to come; an’ it is weel kend how plenty the trouts are in your ain water. I hae seen the day when we never wanted plenty o’ them at this time o’ the year.”

“Well, well,” said Lindsey, taking up a book, “I shall go to please you, but I would rather be at home.”

She rung the bell, and ordered in old John the barnman, one well skilled in the art of angling. “John,” said she, “put your master’s fishing-rod and tackle in order, he is going a fishing at noon.”

John shrugged up his shoulders when he heard of his master’s intent, as much as to say, “sic a fisher as he’ll mak!” however, he went away in silence, and the order was quickly obeyed.

Thus equipt, away trudged Lindsay to the fishing for the first time in his life; slowly and indifferently he went, and began at the first pool he came to. John offered to accompany him, to which he assented, but this the old lady resisted, and bid him go to his work; he, however, watched his master’s motions slyly for some time, and on joining his fellow labourers remarked, that “his master was a real saft hand at the fishing.”

An experienced angler certainly would have been highly amused at his procedure. He pulled out the line, and threw it in again so fast, that he appeared more like one threshing corn than angling; he, moreover, fixed always upon the smoothest parts of the stream, where no trout in his right senses could possibly be inveigled. But the far greater part of his employment consisted in loosening the hook from different objects with which it chanced to come in contact. At one time he was to be seen stooping to the arm-pits in the middle of the water, disengaging it from some officious twig that had intercepted its progress; at another time on the top of a tree tearing off a branch on which it had laid hold. A countryman happening to pass by just as he stood stripped to the shirt cutting it out of his clothes, in which it had fastened behind, observed, by way of friendly remark, that “they were fashous things them hooks.” Lindsey answered, that “they certainly had a singular knack of catching hold of things.”

He went through all this without being in the least disconcerted, or showing any impatience; and towards dinner-time, the trouts being abundant, and John having put on a fly that answered the weather, he caught some excellent fish, and might have caught many more had he been diligent; but every trout that he brought ashore took him a long time to contemplate. He surveyed his eye, his mouth, and the structure of his gills with tedious curiosity; then again laid him down, and fixed his eyes on him in deep and serious meditation.

The next day he needed somewhat less persuasion from his mother to try the same amusement; still it was solely to please her that he went, for about the sport itself he was quite careless. Away he set the second day, and prudently determined to go farther up the water, as he supposed that part to be completely emptied of fish where he had been the day before. He sauntered on in his usual thoughtful and indifferent mood, sometimes throwing in his line without any manner of success. At length, on going over an abrupt ridge, he came to a clear pool where the farmers had lately been washing their flocks, and by the side of it a most interesting female, apparently not exceeding seventeen years of age, gathering the small flakes of wool in her apron that had fallen from the sheep in washing; while, at the same time, a beautiful well-dressed child, about two years old, was playing on the grass. Lindsey was close beside her before any of them were aware, and it is hard to say which of the two were most surprised. She blushed like scarlet, but pretended to gather on, as if wishing he would pass without taking any notice of them; but Lindsey was rivetted to the spot; he had never in his life seen any woman half so beautiful, and at the same time her array accorded with the business in which she was engaged. Her form was the finest symmetry; her dark hair was tucked up behind with a comb, and hung waving in ringlets over her cheeks and brow, “like shadows on the mountain snow;” and there was an elegance in the model of her features, arms, and hands, that the youth believed he had never before seen equalled in any lady, far less a country girl.

“What are you going to do with that wretched stuff, lassie?” said Lindsey; “it has been trampled among the clay and sand, and is unfit for any human use.”

“It will easily clean again, sir,” said she, in a frank and cheerful voice, “and then it will be as good as ever.”

“It looks very ill; I am positive it is for no manner of use.”

“It is certainly, as you say, not of great value, sir; but if it is of any, I may as well lift it as let it lie and rot here.”

“Certainly, there can be no harm in it; only I am sorry to see such a girl at such an employment.”

“It is better doing this than nothing,” was the reply.

The child now rolled himself over to get his face turned towards them; and, fixing his large blue eyes on Lindsey, looked at him with the utmost seriousness. The latter observing a striking likeness between the girl and the child, had no doubt that she was his sister; and, unwilling to drop the conversation, he added, abruptly enough, “Has your mother sent you to gather that stuff?”

“I have neither father nor mother, sir.”

“But one who supplies both their places, I hope. You have a husband, have not you?”

“Not as yet, sir; but there is no time lost.”

She blushed; but Lindsey coloured ten times deeper when he cast his eyes upon the child. His heart died within him at the thoughts that now obtruded themselves; it was likewise wrung for his imprudence and indelicacy. What was his business whether she was married or not, or how she was connected with the child? She seemed likewise to be put into some confusion at the turn the conversation was taking; and, anxious to bring it to a conclusion as soon as possible, she tucked up the wool in her apron below one arm, and was lifting up the child with the other to go away, when Lindsey stepped forward, saying, “Will not you shake hands with me, my good little fellow, before you go?”

“Ay,” said the child, stretching out his little chubby hand; “how d’ye doo, sil?”

Lindsay smiled, shook his hand heartily, and put a crown piece into it.

“Ah, sir, don’t give him that,” said she, blushing deeply.

“It is only a play-thing that he must keep for my sake.”

“Thank you, sil,” said the child. “Great muckle shilling, mamma.”

This last appellation, mamma, struck Lindsey motionless;—he had not another word to say;—while the two went away prattling to one another.

“Vely lalge fine-looking shilling, mamma.”

“Ay, it is a very bonny shilling, dear,” said she, kissing him, and casting a parting look at the petrified fisher.

“Mamma, mamma!” repeated Lindsey to himself an hundred times, trying it with every modulation of his voice. “This is the most extraordinary circumstance I ever witnessed. Now, who in the world can comprehend that thing called woman?—Who would not have sworn that that rural beauty there was the most pure, innocent, and untainted of her sex?—And yet, behold! she has a fine boy running at her side, and calling her mamma!—Poor girl, is she not to be pitied?—When one thinks how some tender parent might rejoice over her, anticipating so much better things of her! It is plain she has been very indifferently used by the world—most cruelly used—and is she the less interesting on that account? I wish I knew how to make her some amends.”

Thus reasoned our moral fisher with himself, keeping all the while a sidelong glance towards her, till he saw her enter a little neat white-washed cottage not far from the side of the stream; there were sundry other houses inhabited by cottagers in the hamlet, and the farm-house stood at the head of the cluster. The ground belonged to Lindsey, and the farmer was a quiet sober man, a widower, with a large family. Lindsey now went up the water a-fishing every day; and though he often hovered a considerable while at the washing-pool, and about the crook opposite to the cot, pretending all the while to be extremely busy fishing, he could never get another sight of the lovely Wool-gatherer, though he desired it above all present earthly things; for, some way or other, he felt that he pitied her exceedingly; and though he was not greatly interested in her, yet he was very much so in the child—he was certain it was the child that interested him so much—nevertheless, he was sorry too on account of the mother, for she seemed very gentle, and very amiable, and must have been abominably used; and therefore he could not help feeling very sorry for her indeed, as well as deeply interested in the child. On the second and third day that he went up, little George came out paddling to meet him at the water side, on which he always sent him in again with a fish in one hand, and some little present in the other; but after that, he appeared no more, which Lindsey easily perceived to originate in the Wool-gatherer’s diffidence and modesty, who could not bear the idea of her little man receiving such gifts.

The same course was continued for many days, and always with the same success, as far as regarded the principal motive, for the trouts were only a secondary one—the beauteous Wool-gatherer was thenceforward invisible. After three weeks perseverance, it chanced to come on a heavy rain one day when he was but a little way above the farm-house. Robin the farmer, expecting that he would fly into his house until the shower abated, was standing without his own door to receive him; but he kept aloof, passed by, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer’s cottage; though not without some scruples of conscience as to the prudence of the step he was taking. When he went in she was singing a melodious Scotch air, and plying at her wheel. “What a thoughtless creature she must be,” said he to himself; “and how little conscious of the state to which she has fallen.” He desired her to go on with her song, but she quitted both that and her wheel instantly, set a chair for him, and sitting down on a low form herself, lighted sticks on the fire to warm and dry him, at the same time speaking and looking with the utmost cheerfulness, and behaving with all that ease and respect as if she had been his equal, and an old intimate acquaintance. He had a heart of the greatest integrity, and this was the very manner that delighted him; and indeed he felt that he was delighted in the highest degree by this fair mystery. He would gladly have learned her story, but durst not hint at such a thing for fear of giving her pain, and he had too much delicacy to enquire after her at any other person, or even to mention her name. He observed that though there was but little furniture in the house, yet it was not in the least degree like any other he had ever seen in such a cottage, and seemed very lately to have occupied a more respectable situation. Little George was mounching at a lump of dry bread, making very slow progress. He kept his eyes fixed on his benefactor, but said nothing for a considerable time, till at length he observed him sitting silent as in pleasing contemplation; he then came forward with a bounce upon his knee, and smiled up in his face, as much as to say, “You are not minding little George?”

“Ah, my dear little fellow, are you there? Will you have a muckle shilling of me to-day?”

“Na, na; be vely solly. Mamma quite angly. She scold me.”

“Well, but since you have never come to help me to catch the fish for so long a time, I will only give you a very little one to-day.”

“Dear sir, if you would not distress me, don’t mind him; he is a little impudent fellow.—Go off from the gentleman, George.”

George clapped both his hands upon his head, and went back without hesitation, gloomed at his mamma, and took again up his luncheon of dry bread.

“Nay, pardon me,” continued Lindsey; “but you must always suffer me to give my little new acquaintance something.” So saying, he put a guinea into the child’s hand.

“Hank you, sil,” said George,—“O no be angy, mamma—only ittle wee half-penny—ook ye, mamma.”

“Oh sir,” said she, “you distress me by these presents. I have no need of money, and what can he do with it but throw it away?”

“Nay, nay; pray don’t notice it; that is nothing between two friends like George and me.”

Lindsey dried himself; talked of indifferent matters, and then took the child on his knee and talked to him. The conversation had as yet been as free and unrestrained as possible, but Lindsey, by a blunder quite natural to a studious and absent man, cut it short at once. “Tell me your name, good lad?” said he to the child. “Let me hear you say your name?”

“Geoge,” was the reply.

“But what more than George? Tell me what they call you more than George?”

“Just Geoge, sil. Mamma’s Geoge.”

“Pray, what is my young friend’s surname?” said Lindsey, with the greatest simplicity.

The Wool-gatherer stooped to the floor as if lifting something, in order that she might keep her face out of the light; two or three times an answer seemed trembling on her tongue, but none came. There was a dead silence in the cot, which none had the courage to break. How our unfortunate fisher’s heart smote him! He meant only to confer happiness, in place of which he had given unnecessary pain and confusion. The shower was past; he arose abruptly, said, “Goodb’ye, I will call and see my little George to-morrow,” and home he went, more perplexed than ever, and not overmuch pleased with himself. But the thing that astonished him most of all was, the chearful serenity of her countenance and manners under such grievous misfortunes. He did not know whether to blame or approve of her for this; however, he continued to go up the water for the most part every day, and seldom failed to call at the cot. He meant no ill—he was certain he meant no harm to any one—it was only to see the child that he went, and why should any man be ashamed to go and see a child? Very well reasoned, gentle fisher! but beware that this is not the reverse of what you feel within. At all events, it is the world that must judge of your actions and mine, not we ourselves. Scandal is a busy vixen, and none can make fame fly so fast on an errand as she.

Robin, the farmer, was hurt in the tenderest part that day when his laird went by his door, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer’s cot; and, on going in, he mentioned it in such a way, that his old maiden sister, Meg, took note of it, and circulated it among the men-servants, with strong injunctions of secrecy. The continuation of his visits confirmed their worst suspicions: It was now no longer a matter of doubt with them what was going on, but an obvious certainty. The shameful and sudden attachment was blabbed from tongue to tongue, until every ear in the parish had drunk the delicious draught, save those of the parties implicated, and the old lady, the original cause of all. When he was seen go into the cot, an event that was strictly watched, the lasses would smile to each other,—the plowmen broke jests upon it,—and Meg would hold up both her hands and say,—“Hech wow, sirs! I wonder what our young gentles will turn to by an’ by. It winna be lang till marriage be out o’ the fashion a’ thegither, an’ the fock that pretend to be Christians a’ living through other like the wild Tartarers.”

Little wist the old lady of what was going on! She dreamed not once of a beautiful stranger among the cottagers at Todburn (the name of Robin’s farm), that was working such deray, else woe would have been to her and all concerned; for there was nothing short of the sin not to be forgiven, that she dreaded so much as her son forming any attachment or connection with the country maidens. She had been congratulating herself mightily on the success of her expedient, in making him take such delight in a manly and healthful exercise, and one which led him insensibly to be acquainted with his people, and every part of his estate. She had even been boasting aloud of it to every one with whom she conversed; indeed her conversation with others was mostly about her son, for he being her only surviving child, she loved him with her whole heart, and her cares were all for him.

It happened one day that a little pert girl had come down from one of the cottages at Todburn to buy some milk, which the lady supplied to them from her dairy, and while skimming and measuring it, she fell into conversation with this little sly and provoking imp.

“Did you see my son fishing in the water as you came down?”

“Na, na, mim; he was safe landit or I came away. He was fishing wi’ Hoy’s net.”

“Safe landit? Fishing wi’ Hoy’s net?—How do you mean?”

“He was gane in to tak a rest, mim,—that’s a’.”

“Oh, that was a’—was it? I’m glad to hear o’ that. I never knew he had called upon his tenants, or looked after them at all!”

“I trow he disna look muckle after them, mim. He’s keener o’ lookin’ after something else.”

“Oh ay, the trouts! To be sure they hae almaist gane between him an’ his wits for some time; but he’ll aye be seeing something o’ his land, an’ something o’ his fock. It was I that perswaded him to it. There are some lucky hits in life.”

“Ay, an’ some lucky misses too, mim, that some think he likes as weel.”

“He’s sae tender-hearted, I believe he may be as happy oft to miss the fish as to hit them; but that will soon wear away, as I tell him. He’s tender-hearted to a fault.”

“An’ there’s mae tender-heartit nor him. There’s some other kind o’ misses forbye trouts up the water.”

“What is it you say?”

“I’ll say nae mair about it—ane may very easily speak muckle nonsense.”

“Didna ye say that my son was gane into Robin’s house afore ye came away?”

“I never said sic a word, begging your pardon, mim. He wadna gang into Robin’s, though it war raining auld wives and Jeddart staves.”

“What house was he gone into then?”

“Into Jeany’s, mim.”

“Jeany’s! What Jeany?”

“I dinna ken what they ca’ her mair than Jeany. Little George’s mother, ye ken, that lives at the head o’ the Washing-green.”

“Jeany!—Little George’s mother!—That lives at the head o’ the Washing-green!—Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?”

“Na, na, mim—nae husband.”

The lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever—hasted out to the air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without being able to accomplish any thing, for her hands trembled like the aspin leaf; and, finally, after ordering the girl to send Robin down to her immediately, she took to her bed, and lay brooding over the great calamity of her son’s shameful attachment. These low-bred women were her bane; especially if they were beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if she could, would have cleared the country of them. This, therefore, was a great trial; and before Robin arrived, she had made out to herself a picture of as many disagreeable objects as ever a distempered imagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected wife, the head of a lovely family, a disgraceful connection, and an illegitimate offspring! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train! She could think of nothing else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the consequences appear. Before her messenger reached Robin, she had regularly determined on the young woman’s dismissal from the estate, and, if possible, from the district.

We shall pass over a long conversation that took place between the old dame and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand, and servility on the other; but the final resolution was, that Jane should be ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next morning; and if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with any moderate sum of money, rather than that she should be suffered to remain longer; for the lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead astray all the young men in the country side, and would likely, at the long run, cost the parish more than if it were to maintain a company of soldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that their proceedings should be kept a profound secret from Lindsey.

Robin went home; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for her immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she could not be longer there; and that he would be answerable for her furniture until she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it; that she needed not to ask any questions as to his motives, for that he was obliged to do as he did, and the thing was decided that she was not to remain longer there.

She answered not a word; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a half-smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking that below her arm and little George on her back, she went away, having first locked the door and given the key to the farmer. “Farewell, Robin,” said she; “you are turning two very helpless and friendless creatures out to the open fields; but think you, you may not rue this on a day when you cannot help it?”

Robin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and therefore made no defence, but said simply, “Farewell! Farewell!—God help thee, poor thing!”—He then kept an eye on her, that she might not communicate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of the Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that direction.

As soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a retired spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down and gave free vent to her tears. “My poor child,” said she, clasping little George to her breast, “what is now to become of us, and where will our sorrows terminate? Here we are turned out on the wide world, and have neither house nor home to cover our heads; we have no bed now, George, but the cold earth, and no covering but that sky that you see over us.”

“O no geet, mamma—no geet; Geoge vely wae,” said the child, clasping her neck in return, and sobbing aloud; “no geet, else Geoge tuln bad child, and geet too.”

“No, for your sake, my dear, I will not greet; therefore cheer up thy little kind heart, for there is One who will provide for us still, and will not suffer two helpless inexperienced beings like you and I to perish.”

“Geoge like ’at man.”

“It is no man that we must now depend on, my dear; we must depend on God, who will never forsake us.”

“Geoge like God.”

Here she kissed him and wept anew, yet was all the while trying to console him. “Let us be of good cheer, George; while I have health I will work for you, for you have no one else on earth that cares for you.”

“But no geet, mamma, I tell you; Geoge wulk too. When Geoge tuln geat big man, Geoge wulk mole ’an two mans.”

Here their tender prattle was interrupted by a youth named Barnaby, who was close at their side before they observed him. He was one of Robin’s servants, who herded a few young sheep at the back of the hill where Jane was sitting. He was fifteen years of age, tall and thin, but had fine features, somewhat pitted with the small-pox. He had an inexhaustible fund of good-humour and drollery, and playing the fool among the rest of the servants to keep them laughing was his chiefest delight; but his folly was all affected, and the better part of his character lay concealed behind the screen of a fantastic exterior. He never mended his clothes like the rest of the servant lads, but suffered them to fall into as many holes as they inclined; when any expostulated with him on the subject, he said, “he likit them nae the waur o’ twa or three holes to let in the air;” and, in truth, he was as ragged a youth as one would see in a summer day. His hat was remarkably broad-brimmed and supple, and hung so far over his eyes, that, when he looked any person in the face, he had to take the same position as if looking at a vertical star. This induced him often, when he wanted to see fairly about him, to fold in the fore part of the brim within the crown, which gave it the appearance of half a hat, and in this way was he equipped when he joined Jane and little George. They had been intimately acquainted from the first; he had done many little kind offices for her, and had the sagacity to discover that there was something about her greatly superior to the other girls about the hamlet; and he had never used the same freedom with her in his frolics that he was wont to do with them.

“What ails you, Jeany?” said he; “I thought I heard you greeting.”

“No, no, Barnaby; I do not ail any thing; I was not crying.”

“Why, woman, you’re crying yet, as you call it; tell me what ails you, and whar ye’re gaun this wild gate?”

“I’m going to leave you, Barnaby. I am going far from this.”

“I fear ye’re gaun awa frae us a’thegether. Hae ye been obliged to leave your ain wee house for want o’ meat?”

“I had plenty of meat; but your master has turned me out of my cot at an hour’s warning; he would not even suffer me to remain overnight, and I know of no place to which I can go.”

“O, deil be i’ the auld hard-heartit loon! Heard ever ony body the like o’ that?—What ailed him at ye? Hae ye done ony thing, Jeany, or said ony thing wrang?”

“It is that which distresses me. I have not been given to know my offence, and I can form no conjecture of it.”

“If I had a hame, Jeany, ye should hae a share o’t. I dinna ken o’ ane I wad make mair welcome, even though I should seek a bed for mysel. War ye at my father’s cottage, I could insure you a month’s good hamely lodging, but it is far away, an’ a wild road till’t. I hae indeed an auld aunt about twa miles frae this, but she’s no muckle to lippen to, unless it come frae her ain side o’ the house; an’ then she’s a’ hinny and joe. If ye like I’ll gang that length wi’ ye, an’ try if she’ll put ye up a while till we see how matters turn.”

Jane was now so much confused in her mind, that, not being able to form any better measure for the present, she arose and followed her ragged conductor, and they arrived at his aunt’s house before sun-set.

“My dear aunt,” said Barnaby, “here is a very good an’ a very helpless lassie turned away frae her hame this same day, and has nae place to gang to; if ye’ll be sae good, an’ sae kind, as to let her stay a while wi’ you, I will do ten times as muckle for you again some ither day.”

“My faith, stirra!” said she, setting up a face like a fire-brand, and putting her arms a-kimbo—“My faith, man, but ye’re soon begun to a braw trade!—How can ye hae the assurance, ye brazen-faced rascal, to come rinning to me wi’ a hizzy an’ bairn at your tail, an’ desire me to keep them for ye? I’ll sooner see you an’ her, an’ that little limb, a’ hung up by the links o’ the neck, than ony o’ ye sal crook a hough or break bread wi’ me.”

“There’s for’t now! There’s for’t! When the deil gets in, the fire maun flee out!—But aunt, I ken the first word’s aye the warst wi’ ye; ye’re never sae ill as ye say. Think like a Christian. How wad ye hae likit, when ye war as young, to hae been turned out to the open hills wi’ a bairn in your arms?”

“Hear to the tatterdemallion!—Christian! Bairn i’ my arms!—Ye impudent, hempy-looking tike that ye are! Pack out o’ my house, I say, or I’ll gar the bluid blind your een—ay, an’ your bit toastit pie too, wi’ its piece barrell’d beef! Gang after your braw gallaunt, wi’ your oxterfu’ ket!—A bonny pair, troth!—A light head makes a heavy fitt!”

Barnaby retired with his back foremost, facing up his aunt all the way till fairly in the open fields, for fear of actual violence; but the epithets he bestowed on her there in the bitterness of his heart cannot here be set down. Jane trembled, yet was obliged to smile at his extravagance, for it had no bounds; while his aunt stood in her door, exulting and calling after him every thing that she could construe to mortify and provoke him. Tears for a space choked his utterance; at length he forced out the following sentence in vollies.

“Wae—wae be to the—the auld randy—witch!—Had I but the—owrance o’ the land for ae day—I—I should gar some look about them. My master an’ she hae this wark to answer for yet; they’ll get their dichens for’t some day—that’s ae comfort! Come away, Jeany—they’ll squeel for this—let them tak it!—Come away, Jeany.”

“Where would you have me to go now, Barnaby?”

“Out-by aff that auld witch at ony rate! I’ll hae ye put up though I should travel a hunder mile.”

“Let me beseech you to return to your flock, and trouble yourself no farther about my infant and I. Heaven will take care of us.”

“It disna look very like it just now. I dinna argy that it is wrang to trust in Heaven—only, gin we dinna use the means, Heaven’s no obliged to work miracles for us. It is hard upon the gloamin’, an’ there is not another house near us; if we sit down and trust, ye’ll hae to sleep in the fields, an’ then baith you an’ that dear bairn may get what ye will never cast. Let us make a wee exertion the night, and I hae resolved what ye shall do to-morrow.”

“And what shall I do to-morrow, Barnaby?”

“Go with me to my parents; they hae nae doughter o’ their ain, an’ my mither will be muckle the better o’ your help, an’ they will baith be very glad to see you, Jeany. Gudeness be thankit! the warld’s no just a’ alike. I’ the meantime my pickle gimmers dinna need muckle at my hand just now, sae I’ll gae an’ ax my master for a day to see my fock, and gang fit for fit wi’ ye the morn.”

She fixed her humid eyes on him in pleasing astonishment; she had never before witnessed such earnest and disinterested benevolence; the proposal was made in such a way that she could not refuse it, else she saw that she would give a kind and feeling heart pain. “I have a great mind to make trial of your expedient, good Barnaby,” said she; “all parts of the country are now alike to me; I must go somewhere; and as it is but a hard day’s journey, I will go and see the parents of so good a lad.”

“Now that’s spoken like yoursel, an’ I’m glad to hear ye say’t—But what’s to come o’ ye the night?”

“I have some victuals with me, and I can lie in the fields this pleasant night; it is a good one to begin with, for who knows what’s before one?”

“I canna think o’ that ava. If ye war to lay that bonny red cheek on the cauld dew, an’ the wind blawin’ i’ little George’s face, there wad some sleep nane the night; but there is a little snug sheep-house in our Hope, a wee bit frae this; let us gang there, an’ I will take little George in my bosom, an’ hap you wi’ my plaid.—O, but I forgot—that will never do,” continued he, in a melancholy tone, and looking at his ragged doublet and riven clothes. Away, however, to the sheep-cot they went, where they found plenty of old hay, and Jane instantly proposed that he should go home and leave them alone, get leave of his master, and join them next morning.

“But I dinna ken about it,” said Barnaby, hanging his head and looking serious; “that linn’s an unco uncanny place for bogles; an’ by this time o’ night they’ll be keeking ower the black haggs o’ the Cairny Moss to see what’s gaun on. If ony o’ them war to come on ye here, they might terrify you out o’ your wits, or carry ye baith aff, lith and limb—Is the callant baptized?”

Jane answered in the affirmative, smiling; and farther assured him, that he needed to be under no apprehensions on account of spirits, for she was perfectly at ease on that score, having a good assurance that no spirit had power over her.

“Ay, ye are maybe a gospel minister’s bairn, or an auld Cameronian; that is, I mean come o’ the saints and martyrs—they had unco power—I hae heard o’ some o’ them that fought the deil, hand to fist, for an hour and forty minutes, and dang him at the last—yethered him and yerked him till he couldna mou’ another curse. But these times are gane! yet it’s no sae lang sin’ auld Macmillan (ye hae heard o’ auld Macmillan?) was coming through that linn i’ the derk wi’ twa o’ his elders an’ they spak o’ the bogle, but Macmillan jeered at it; an’ when they came to the tap o’ yon steep brae they stoppit to take their breath; and there they heard a loud nichering voice come out o’ the howe o’ the linn, an’ it cried,

“Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,
Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again.”

“Say ye sae, fause loun,” quo’ the auld hardy veteran; “than be at your speed, for I’ll gang through that wood my lane in spite o’ your teeth, an’ a’ hell at your back.” An’ what does the carl do, but leaves his twa elders yonder, standin glowrin i’ the howe night, an’ trodges his way back through the linn to the very farrest side o’t—said the hunder-an’-ninth psalm against him, an’ came back wi’ never a turned hair on his head. But yet for a’ that, Jeany, dinna lippen ower muckle to bygane things; there have been fairy raids i’ the Hope, an’ mony ane ill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here!”

Jane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it to-morrow as they journeyed. He was passive—left them his plaid—went home and got leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted nothing of what had passed in the Hope. He was again back at the sheep-house by the time the sun arose; and, early as it was, he found Jane walking without, while little George was sleeping soundly on the hay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she had got a sound and short sleep, but awakening at dawn she had stepped out to taste the fresh mountain air, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the child he was somewhat fretful—a thing not customary with him; but he was soon pacified, and they proceeded without delay on their journey.

Until once they had cleared the boundaries of the farm of Todburn, Barnaby was silent, and looked always around with a jealous eye, as if dreading a surprise. When his fellow-traveller asked the reasons of his anxiety, he remained silent; but as soon as they got fairly into the next glen he became as gay and talkative as ever. She deemed it to be some superstitious dread that discomposed him, but was left to guess the cause.

“Jeany,” said he, “you said you had a short and sound sleep last night—so had I. Pray, did you dream ony?”

“Not that I remember of; but I put no faith in dreams.”

“Weel, how different fock’s bodies, or their souls, or something about them maun be frae ane anither! For I’m come this length in the warld, an’ I never yet dreamed a regular dream, in a sound sleep, that I didna get as plainly read to me as the A B C. I had a strange dream last night, Jeany, an’ it was about you. I am sure I’ll live to see it fulfilled; but what it means even now, I canna in the least comprehend.”

“Well, Barnaby, suppose you give us it. I have read the Book of Knowledge, and may lend you a hand at the interpretation.”

“I thought I saw ye lying in a lonesome place, an’ no ane in the wide world to help or heed ye, till there was a poor bit black mootit-like corby came down frae the hills an’ fed ye. I saw it feeding ye, an’ I thought ye war as contentit, an’ as bonny, an’ as happy as ever. But ere ever I wist, down comes there a great majestic eagle some gate frae about the e’e-bree o’ the heavens, an’ cleeks ye away up to the lowne bieldy side o’ a sunny hill, where ye had a’ braw things. An’ I dinna ken how it was, I thought ye war a she eagle sitting amang your young, an’ I thought aye ye war a woman too, an’ I coudna separate the tane frae the tither; but the poor bit plottit forefoughen corby gaed alang w’ye, an’ ye war kind to him, an’ fed him in your turn, an’ I saw him hoppin, an’ pickin, an’ dabbin round about ye, as happy as ever I saw a beast, an’ the erne didna chase him away, but was kind to him; but somehow, or I wakened, I thought it was the confusedest thing I ever saw. Na, ye needna laugh nor smile, for we’ll baith live to see it read.”

“Believe me, Barnaby, it will never be apparent; you may force circumstances to agree with it, but these will not be obvious ones.”

“It’s needless for me to arguy wi’ you unless I can bring things hame to your ain conscience; but can ye say that ye never got a dream read?”

“Never that I noted; for I never thought of them.”

“Or, for instance, have ye never, when you saw a thing for the first time, had a distinct recollection of having seen it sometime afore?”

“Never.”

“How wonderfu’! I have done so a thousand an’ a thousand times. I have remembered of having seen exactly the same scene, the same faces, the same looks, and heard the same words, though I knew all the while that I never had seen them in reality; and that I could only have seen them in some former vision, forgotten, or perhaps never remembered.”

She now saw clearly that dreams, visions, and apparitions, were Barnaby’s region of existence—His very thoughts and language seemed elevated whenever he entered on the subject; and it being a trait in the shepherd’s character that she had never thought of before, she resolved to encourage it, and asked for a single instance of that strange foresight alluded to.

“You’ll surely acknowledge,” said Barnaby, “that it is impossible I could ever have come up that strait swire before with a bairn on my back, an’ a young woman gaun beside me exactly like you; an’ that while in that condition, I should have met wi’ a bull an’ a cow coming out the path by themsels, an’ thought o’ yon craig for a shelter to the bairn that I was carrying; yet when that happened about an hour ago, I remembered so distinctly of having gone through it some time long before, that I knew every step that would next be taken, and every word that would next be said. It made me very thoughtful; but I can remember nothing of where or when I dreamed it, or what was the issue.

“There was another instance that I’ll never forget. The winter afore last, I gaed out wi’ my father in the morning to help him to gather the sheep; for the rime had sitten down, an’ the clouds war creepin, and we kend the drift wad be on. Weel, away we sets, but a’ the hills were wrappit i’ the clouds o’ rime as they had been rowed in a fleece o’ frosty woo, an’ we couldna see a stime; we were little better than fock gaun graeping for sheep; an’ about twal o’clock, (I mind it weel,) just when I was in the very straitest and steepest part o’ the Shielbrae-Hope, the wind gae a swirl, an’ I lookit up an’ saw the cloud screwing up to heaven—the brow o’ the hill cleared, an’ I saw like a man cringing and hanging ower the point o’ the rock, an’ there was seven white ewes an’ a black ane gaun bleetin in a raw yont aneath him. That was a’; but the sight strak me motionless. I mindit that I had seen the very thing afore; the very clouds—the very rocks—an’ the man standing courin’ and keekin’ ower, wi’ the white rime hingin’ about his lugs like feathers; an’ I mindit that it endit ill—it endit awsomely!—for I thought it endit in death. I could speak nae mair a’ that day; for I expectit that either my father or I wad never gang hame living. He aften said to me, ‘What ails ye, callant? Are ye weel eneugh? Od, ye’re gane stupid.’ We saved some sheep, an’ lost some, like mony ane, for it was a dreadfu’ afternoon; however, we wan baith safe hame. But that night, afore we gaed to bed, our neighbour, auld Robin Armstrang, was brought into our house a corp. Our fock had amaist gane out o’ their judgment; but the very features, the white rime frozen about the cauld stiff een, an’ the iceshogles hangin’ at the grey hair, war nae new sight to me: I had seen them a’ before, I kendna when. Ah, Jeany! never tell me that we haena some communication wi’ intelligences, far ayont our capacity to comprehend.”

The seriousness of Barnaby’s manner made it evident to his fellow traveller that he believed in the reality of every word he had said; there was an inconceivable sublimity in the whole idea, and she fancied herself going to reside, perhaps for a season, in the regions of imagination and romance, and she asked him if his father and mother had faith in dreams an’ apparitions?

“Aye, that they hae,” answered he; “ye had need to tak care how ye dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions there; ye may as weel dispute the gospel o’ Sant Mathew. We dinna believe in a’ the gomral fantastic bogles an’ spirits that fley light-headed fock up an’ down the country, but we believe in a’ the apparitions that warn o’ death, that save life, an’ that discover guilt. I’ll tell you what we believe, ye see.

“The deil an’ his adgents, they fash nane but the gude fock; the Cameronians, an’ the prayin’ ministers, an’ sic like. Then the bogles, they are a better kind o’ spirits, they meddle wi’ nane but the guilty; the murderer, an’ the mansworn, an’ the cheater o’ the widow an’ fatherless, they do for them. Then the fairies, they’re very harmless; they’re keener o’ fun an’ frolic than aught else; but if fock neglect kirk ordinances, they see after them. Then the brownie, he’s a kind o’ half-spirit half-man; he’ll drudge an’ do a’ the wark about the town for his meat, but then he’ll no work but when he likes for a’ the king’s dominions. That’s precisely what we a’ believe here awa’, auld an’ young; an’ I’ll tell ye twa or three stories that we a’ ken to be true, an’ which I wadna misbelieve for a’ that I’m worth.

“Sandy Shiel, the herd o’ the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep ae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to the size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath; an’ there was Sandy standin’ i’ the sun afore his sheep, whistling an’ singing, and knitting his stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken-leggit hare by his very foot—Every Scotsman’s keen of a hunt—Sandy flings the plaid frae him, an’ after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and crying on his dog to kep. As he gaed o’er the brow he was close upon her, an’ had up his stick just to knock her dead—Tut! the hare vanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit round-about an’ round about—‘What the devil’s come o’ my hare now? Is she santit? or yirdit? or flown awa’?’—Sandy lookit up into the air, but she wasna to be seen there neither. She was gane, an’ for ever! Sandy was amaist swarf’d, the cauld sweat brak on him, an’ he clew his head. ‘Now, gude faith, I hae seen muckle,’ quo’ Sandy, ‘but the like o’ that I saw never.’ Sandy trodged back, wantin’ his hare, to lift his plaid. But what think ye? The hale volume o’ snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and burried it fifty feet deep; it was nae mair seen till the month o’ May. Sandy kneeled down among the snaw and thankit his Maker; he saw brawly what the hare had been.

“I’ll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd’s house at Glen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had ance been a farm-steading, but it was at the time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd, his wife, and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest girl came running in, crying, ‘Bless me, sirs, come here—Here is the grandest lady coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.’ They all ran to the door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at the distance of only about twenty paces—She was never more seen! But that very moment the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful crash; and thus a worthy family was saved from momentary destruction. Ah! I wadna hae given that man’s feelings of gratitude that night toward his Maker and Preserver, for a’ the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heartit philosophers!”

“Nor would I,” said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.

Barnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend that it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk at the farm-houses and cottages as they passed, for there was no house of accommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had refreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had promised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the story of the profligate laird.

“That’s an awfu’ story,” said Barnaby, “but it is soon tauld. It was the Laird o’ Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow’s corn, and never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin’ the foundation-stane was laid, an’ for a’ the grandeur that was about it, there’s nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if he didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o’ high kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to the house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an’ as blithe as a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad, and unco pale at times; an’ they whiles came on her greetin by hersel. It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an’ there was nae mair peace about the house. At length it was spread ower a’ the parish that the lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an’ up comes hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird’s auld companion in wickedness, wi’ a saddle an’ a pad to take her away. When they set her on ahint him, Molly shook hands wi’ a’ the servants, but couldna speak, for she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o’ taking her away i’ the fair day-light, i’ the ee o’ God an’ man, he took her away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an’ instead o’ gaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross at twal o’clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor heard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the Alemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was some yellow hair, too, on the scull, that was unco like Molly’s, but nae body could say.

“Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer’s daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and a half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came hurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a’ hae sutten down on their knees wad she gae wi’ him; she grat an’ pray’d, an’ they fleeched an’ flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o’ their teeth, and shamed them a’. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to the nursing, far away some gate, an’ there was nae body ony mair fashed wi’ him.

“It wad be endless to tell ye ower a’ their wickedness, for it can hardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at a distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye the langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that the laird was walking at the back o’ his garden, in the moon-light. It was thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that was conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming towards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held up her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she was; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon came to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but rather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he lived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and swore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu’ things that folk didna understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o’ desperation, that the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his ain hearth-stane, at a time o’ life when he should scarcely have been at his prime.

“But it wasna sae wi’ Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life; and, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two nights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but always a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble cries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again. The family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and women, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his confessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died clean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him, and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed, and the voice cried, “O, Charley, spare my life!—Spare my life! For your own soul’s sake and mine, spare my life!” On which the corpse again sat up in the bed, pawled wi’ its hands, and stared round wi’ its dead face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was gane. They sought a’ the house, and in behind the bed, and could find naething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain house, up in the howe o’ the Baileylee-linn, a’ torn limb frae limb, an’ the dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o’er the muir that day, carrying something atween them, an’ fock suspectit it was Charley’s soul, for it was heard makin’ a loud maen as they flew o’er Alemoor. At the same time it was reportit, that there was to be seen every morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor loch, wi’ her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck. It’s an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o’ the day, and even then it gars a’ my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard it, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to mony ane.”

Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed her,—it having been even more shocking than the former ones were delightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual events, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to inform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in view of his father’s cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very wildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the confluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each side of the house and kail-yard, and mingled their waters immediately below these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills on each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long black shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these like streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and repose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane’s heart danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of the mountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was going to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how equivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for such a retreat, and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to proffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather than be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen, and seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which would not suffer him to pronounce the words aright. Two fine shaggy healthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at a timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than them both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping away from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at his feet, and whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion’s hand, and capered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby’s. The whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured near; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not what to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the corner of Jane’s mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the house.—George was perfectly delighted.

“I think,” said Jane, “the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty welcome within!”

“Ay, that it does,” answered Barnaby; “a dog that is brought up with a man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself.”

Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot—passengers never. They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby’s mother standing amid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach, and they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, “Aigh! Geordie, yon’s our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help’s motions; but wha she is that he’s bringing wi’ him, is ayont my comprehension.”

She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was then to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the colour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the corner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old shepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a shoe. Barnaby strode up to him. “How are ye the night, father?”

“No that ill, Barny lad—is that you? How are ye yoursel?” said a decent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time with the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion that he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful, and the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son was unutterable. Silence reigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby made holes in the ground with his staff—the old shepherd began again to sew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, “It’s a vely good bonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp.”

“An’ how hae ye been sin’ we saw ye, Barny?”

“Gaylys!”

“I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi’ ye?”

“I wat have I.”

“Whar fell ye in wi’ them?”

“I want to speak a word to you, father.”

The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the corner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had sat down on the sod-seat.

“This is a pleasant evening,” said he, addressing her.

“It is a very sweet evening,” was the reply.

“Ye’ll be weary; ye had better gang in an’ rest ye.”

She thanked him, and was preparing to go.

“It’s a muckle matter,” continued he, “whan fock can depend on their ain. My Barny never deceived me a’ his life, an’ you are as welcome here as heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to this bit shieling, and your share of a’ that’s in it. Come your ways in, my bonny woman, an’ think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as either a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o’ oursels.” So saying he took her hand in both his, and led her into the house.

“Wife, here’s a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi’ ye; mak her welcome i’ the mean time, an’ ye’ll be better acquaintit by and by.”

“In troth I sal e’en do sae. Come awa in by to the muckle chair—Whar is he himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk?”

“Ah, he’s coming, poor fellow—he’s takin a pipe to himsel at the house-end—there’s a shower i’ the heads wi’ Barny—his heart can stand naething—it is as saft as a snaw-ba’, an’ far mair easily thawed, but it is aye in the right place for a’ that.”

It was a happy evening; the conversation was interesting, and kept up till a late hour; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the benevolent disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes glowed with delight, and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before they retired to rest, the old shepherd performed family worship, with a glow of devotional warmth which Jane had never before witnessed in man. The psalm that he sung, the portion of Scripture that he read, and the prayer that he addressed to the throne of Grace, savoured all of charity and benevolence to our fellow-creatures. The whole economy of the family was of that simple and primitive cast, that the dwellers in a large city never dream of as existing. There was to be seen contentment without affluence or ambition, benevolence without ostentation, and piety without hypocrisy; but at the same time such a mixture of gaiety, good sense, and superstitious ideas, blent together in the same minds, as was altogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to our fair stranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best advantage.

But we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby to the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every day fishing, as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing, from day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer’s cottage was locked, and no smoke issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone on a visit, but at length began to suspect that some alteration had taken place in her circumstances; and the anxiety that he felt to have some intelligence, whether that change was favourable or the reverse, was such that he himself wondered at it. He could not account for it even to his own mind. It was certainly the child that so much interested him, else he could not account for it. Lindsey might easily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in the sentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in love. But no!—all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream and brought it back again, went to disprove that. “That I can be in love with the girl is out of the question—there is no danger of such an event; for, in the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her affections, for the whole world; and in the next, I have a certain rank and estimation to uphold in society. I am a proprietor to a large extent—a freeholder of the county—come of a good family, at least by the father’s side, and that I should fall in love with and marry a poor vagrant Wool-gatherer, with a”——! He was going to pronounce a word, but it stuck, not in his throat, but in the very utmost perceptible avenues that lead to the heart. “It is a very fine child, however,—I wish I had him under my protection, then his mother might come and see him; but I care not for that, provided I had the child. I’ll have the child, and for that purpose I will enquire after the mother directly.”

He went boldly up to the cot, and peeped in at the little window. The hearth was cold, and the furniture neatly arranged. He examined the door, but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for many days, and the green grass was beginning to peep up around them. “There is something extremely melancholy in this!” said he to himself. “I could not endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost, without at least enquiring after him.”

He turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but lacked the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the object of his thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish, or if he did it was against his will.

On Barnaby’s return he made some sly enquiries about the causes that induced to Jane’s removal without effect, the farmer had kept all so snug. But haverel Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister, knew, and though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own sex, yet she could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young fellows, which her brother always accounted a very ridiculous propensity;—whether or not it is a natural one among old maids, the relater of this tale does not pretend to decide; he is induced to think it is, but is not dogmatic on that side, not having bestowed due consideration on the subject.

One day, when Barnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than usual, and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of paritch, mixed with butter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time sitting with his head leaned on his master’s knee, watching the progress of every spoonful, thinking the latter was rather going near him that day in their wonted proportions—while Barnaby, I say, was thus delightfully and busily employed, in comes Meg, bare-footed, with a clean white wrapper and round-eared cap on. “Barny, will ye hae time to help me to the water wi’ a boucking o’ claes? Ye’ll just only hae to carry the tae end o’ the hand-barrow to the water, wait till I sinde up the sarks, an’ help me hame wi’ them again.”

“That I will, Miss Peggy, wi’ heart an’ hand.”

“Miss Peggy! Snuffs o’ tobacco! Meg’s good enough! Troth, I’m nane o’ your molloping, precise flegaries, that want to be miss’d an’ beckit, an’ bowed to—Na, sooth! Meg’s good enough—plain downright Meg o’ the Todburn.”

“Weel, weel; haud your tongue, I’ll do a’ that ye bid me, an’ mair, Meg, my bonny woman.”

“How war a’ your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?”

“Unco weel, an’ they’re muckle behadden to you for your kind speering.”

“I kend your father weel; he’s a good cannie man.”

“I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye maybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him.”

“Ay, it’s weel o’ you to say sae; but he’s a douse, respectable man, and he’s no disgraced in his son.”

Barnaby rose with his bicker in his hand; gave it a graceful swing, as a gentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set down Nimrod his share of the paritch.

When they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg went into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much splashing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to herself, and was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was forthcoming. She cast her eyes towards the laird’s house, then looked up the water, then down, in case any one might be angling on it; and after perceiving that there was nobody within a mile of them, she spoke as follows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest any one should overhear her.

“Gude sauf us to the day, Barny man! What think ye o’ our laird?”

“Very muckle. I think him a decent worthy lad.”

“Decent! Shame fa’ his decency!—I watna what will be countit undecent soon! Sae ye haena heard o’ his shamfu’ connection wi’ the bit prodigal, dinnagood lassie, that was here?”

“Never.”

“It’s a’ ower true though; but say nae a word about it. My billy Rob was obliged to chase her out o’ the country for it; an’ a burnin shame an’ a disgrace it was to the laird to take up wi’ the likes o’ her.—Deil a bit o’ her has the pith o’ a pipe-stapple!—Fich, fy! Away wi’ your spindle-shankit babyclouts—they’re no the gear.”

“As ye say, Meg. I like nane o’ the women that stand pon trifles.”

“Stand on trifles!—Ha! ha! that’s real good! that’s devilish clever for a—young man! Ha! ha!—Tut! that water’s weetin’ a’ my claes.—Wad ye hae made sic a choice, Barny?”

“D’ye think that I’m blind? or that I dinna ken what’s what?—Na, na, Meg! let me alane; I’m no sae young a cat but I ken a mouse by a feather.”

“If a’ our young men had the sense o’ you, Barny, some o’ them might get a pock an’ a wheen rustit nails to jingle in’t; they might get something better than a bit painted doll, wi’ a waist like a thread-paper, an’ hae nought ado foreby but to draw in the chair an’ sit down; but they’ll rin after a wheen clay-cakes baken i’ the sun, an’ leave the good substantial ait-meal bannocks to stand till they moul, or be pouched by them that draff an’ bran wad better hae mensed!—Tut! I’m ower deep into the stream again, without ever thinkin’ o’t.”

“That’s a’ ower true that ye hae been sayin’, Meg—ower true, indeed! But as to your news about the laird and Jane, I dinna believe a word o’t.”

“Oh! it’s maybe no true, ye ken! It’s very likely a lee! There’s naething mair likely, than that a’ their correspondence was as pure as the morning snaw. For a laird, ye ken, worth three thousand pund o’ yearly rental, to frequent the house o’ a bit lassie for an hour ilka day, an’ maybe ilka night to, wha kens; ye ken it’s a’ fair! there’s nought mair likely than that they’re very innocent! An’ sic a ane too as she is! little better, I trow, than she should be, gin a’ war kend. To be sure she has a son, that may arguy something for her decency. But after a’, I dinna blame her, for I ken by mysel——”

“Haud your tongue now, Meg, my bonny quean; for I ken ye are gaun to lee on yoursel, an’ speak nonsense into the bargain.”

“Ah! Barny! but ye are a queer ane!” (then in a whisper.) “I say—Barny—What do ye think o’ the bit farm o’ Hesperslack? How wad ye like to be tenant there yoursel, an’ hae servants o’ your ain?”

“I haena thought about that yet; but yonder’s my master keekin ower the knowe; he’ll be thinkin I’m stayin unco lang frae my sheep.”

“Ah! is my billy Rob yonder?—No a word ye ken now, Barny. No a cheip aboon your breath about yon.”

Sad and heavy were Barnaby’s reflections that day as he herded his sheep all alone. “And this is the girl that I have taken and recommended so warmly to my parents! I do not believe the hateful slander; but I will go and inform them of all. It is proper they should know all that I know, and then let them judge for themselves. Poor luckless Jeany! I fear she is a ruined creature, be she as innocent and harmless as she will!”

Barnaby was resolved to go, but day past on after day, and still he had not the heart to go and tell his parents, although every whisper that he heard tended rather to strengthen suspicion than dispel it.

On the very day that we left Lindsey in such distress for the loss of his amiable Wool-gatherer, Barnaby and he met by the side of the stream, at the foot of the Todburn-Hope. They were both alike anxious to speak to one another, but neither of them had the courage to begin, although both were burning to talk on the same theme. Lindsey fished away, swimming the fly across the ripple as dexterously and provokingly as he was able. Barnaby stood and looked on in silence; at length a yellowfin rose. “Aigh, that was a great chap! I wish your honour had hookit that ane.”

“It was better for him that I did not. Do you ever fish any?”

“O yes. I gump them whiles.”

“Gump them? pray what mode of fishing is that?”

“I guddle them in aneath the stanes an’ the braes like.”

“I do not exactly understand the terms nor the process. Pray will you be so good,” continued he, holding out the fishing-rod to Barnaby, “as give me a specimen how you gump the fish?”

“Od bless you, sir, I can do naething wi’ that goad; but if ye’ll gang wi’ me a wee piece up the Todburn-Hope, or up to the Rowntree-Linn, I’ll let ye see gumping to perfection.”

On being assured that it was not above half a mile to either of the places, the laird accompanied Barnaby without hesitation, to witness this pastoral way of fishing. By the way their converse became very interesting to both parties, but we cannot interrupt the description of such a favourite rural sport just now. Let it suffice that their discourse was all concerning a fair unfortunate, of whom the reader has heard a good deal already, and of whom he shall hear more in due time.

They crossed over a sloping ground, at the bottom of a green steep hill, and soon came into the Todburn-Hope. It was a narrow level valley between two high hills, and terminated in the haunted linn, above the sheep-house formerly mentioned. Down this narrow vale the Tod Burn ran with a thousand beautiful serpentine windings, and at every one of these turns there were one or two clear deep pools, overhung by little green banks. Into the first of these pools Barnaby got with his staff, plunging and poaching to make all the fish take into close cover; then he threw off his ragged coat, tucked up the sleeves of his shirt to the shoulders, tying them together behind, and into the pool he got again, knees and elbows, putting his arms in below the green banks, into the closest and most secret recesses of the trouts. There was no eluding him; he threw them out one after another, sometimes hitting the astonished laird on the face, or any other part of the body without ceremony, for his head being down sometimes close with the water, and sometimes below it, he did not see where he flung them. The trouts being a little startled at this momentary change from one element to another, jumped about on the grass, and cast so many acute somersets, that the laird had greater difficulty in getting hold of them the second time to put them into his basket, than Barnaby had at first; and when the latter had changed the scene of plunder to a new pool, Lindsey was commonly to be seen beside the old one, moving slowly about on his hands and knees. “I think ye’re pinched to catch them on the dry grund, sir,” said Barnaby to him.

“No, no,” returned he, with the utmost simplicity; “but I was looking lest some of them had made their way among the long grass and eluded me; and besides they are so very active and slippery that I seldom can keep the hold of them that I get.”

As they were going from one of these little pools to another, he said to our shepherd, “So this is what you call gumping?”

“Yes, sir, this is gumping, or guddling, ony o’ them ye like to ca’t.”

“I do not think this is altogether a fair way of fishing.”

“Now, I think it is muckle fairer than the tither way, sir. Your way is founded on the lowest artifice and deceit, but I come as an avowed enemy, and let them escape me if they can. I come into a family as a brave mountain robber or free-booter; but you come as a deceitful friend, promising to treat the family with all good things, that you may poison them every one unawares. A mountaineer’s sports are never founded on cunning; it’s a’ sheer and main force wi’ us.”

Lindsey confessed that the shepherd’s arguments had some foundation in nature and truth, but that they savoured of a period exempt from civilization and the fine arts. “At all events,” said he, “it is certainly the most downright way of fishing that I ever beheld.” In short, it was not long till the laird was to be seen wading in the pools, and gumping as busily as the other; and, finally, he was sometimes so intent on his prey, that the water was running over his back, so that when he raised himself up it poured in torrents from his fine Holland shirt and stained cambrick ruffles. “Ye hae settled the pletts o’ your sark,” said Barnaby. Never did the family of Earlhall behold such a basket of trouts; and never had its proprietor such a day’s sport at the fishing, as he had at the gumping or guddling the trouts among the links of the Todburn-Hope.

Though the sport occupied their minds completely during the time they were engaged in it, yet it was only a relaxation from concerns of a more serious nature. From Barnaby’s information the laird now saw exactly how the land lay; and though he got no hint of the part that his mother had acted in it, yet he rather suspected, for he well knew her sentiments regarding all the young and beautiful part of her own sex. Barnaby gave him no notice that he had ever seen the girl after her dismissal, or that he knew to what part of the world she had retired; and before they parted he desired him to tell his master to come down and speak with him that night.

Robin came as appointed; Lindsey and his mother were sitting by themselves in the parlour when the servant announced him; he was ordered to join them, and as soon as he came in Lindsey said, “Come away, Robin. I had a piece of information within these few days of you, that has somewhat distressed me, and I sent for you to make enquiry concerning it. What reasons had you for turning away the poor stranger girl and child from her cot before the term of your agreement expired?”

Robin looked to the window, then to the lady, and then to the window again, and finally looked down to the carpet, twirled his bonnet with both hands, and remained silent. Though a strong and speaking look of appeal was turned on the old lady by Robin from time to time, yet she, hearing her son speak in that determined manner, likewise sat still without opening her lips.

“Why don’t you answer me?” continued Lindsey. “I ask you simply what were your reasons for turning her away? you certainly must be able to state them.”

“Hem! We war feared, sir—we war feared that she was a bad ane.”

“You were afraid she was bad? Had you no other proofs of her badness farther than your own fears?”

“Indeed, sir, I never saw ony ill behaviour about the lassie. But ye ken weel enough that ane wha had forsaken the paths o’ virtue and honesty sae early as it appears she had done, wi’ sic an enchanting manner, an’ weelfaurd face into the boot, was rather a dangerous neighbour for sae mony young chiels.”

“I think what Robin says is very true, and good sense,” said the old lady.

“You certainly ought to have taken all these things into consideration before you bargained with her at first, Robin,” said Lindsey. “I suppose you cannot argue that she is either grown younger or more beautiful since that period? I rather suspect, Robin, that you have used this young woman extremely ill; and if you cannot give any better reasons for your severity towards her, I can find out a method of forcing you to make an ample retribution.”

“Indeed then, sir, sin’ I maun tell the truth, I will tell the truth; it was my lady, your worthy mother there, that persuaded, and ordered me to turn her away; for we had observed how great a favourite she was with you, and dreaded the consequences.”

“It is then exactly as I suspected. You two have done me a great injury, and one that will not be easily wiped away. I hope neither of you intended it; but I would gladly know what trait in my character justified the conclusion you made? I think you might both have known my dispositions better than to have so readily believed that I would injure youth and beauty, that had already been unfortunate in the world—that I would add to her state of wretchedness, by annihilating for ever that innate principle of virtue and modesty, inherent in every young female’s breast, which never man loved more, or delighted more to view, exerting all its primitive and untainted sway. If you had reflected at all, you could not have believed me capable of it. You have taken the readiest means in your power of injuring my character in the eyes of the world. It must naturally be concluded, that there was a profligate and criminal intercourse subsisting between us, which rendered such an act of cruelty and injustice necessary. You have hurt my honour and my feelings, and wronged a defenceless and amiable young woman. It is on my account that she is thus innocently suffering, and I am determined, for my own satisfaction, to see her righted, as far as redress is in my power, though equivalent for an injured reputation there is none; but every vile insinuation on my account shall be fairly dispelled. To make, therefore, an end of all reflections at once, I warn you, Robin, that if she is not found, and restored to her rights, in less than a fortnight at farthest, you need not be surprised if you are some day removed on as short notice as you gave to her.”

The old lady and farmer had an inward view of matters in a different light: They perceived that the world would say he had brought her back to keep her there as his mistress, but this elegant and inflated harangue they were unable to answer. The young man’s conscience was hurt, and they were no casuists. The lady, it is true, uttered some involuntary sounds as he was speaking, but it was not easy to determine whether they were groans or hems of approbation. If one might have judged from her countenance, they were like the former, but the sounds themselves were certainly modulations of the latter. She was dependant on her son! Robin was studying a friendly reply, by way of remonstrance, all the time of the speech; but Robin was a widower, had a good farm, a large family, and was a tenant at will, and the conclusion of the said speech was a stumbling-block to Robin.

Pray, gentle reader, did you ever see a country maiden baking pease-meal bannocks? If you ever did you must have noted, that before she committed them one by one to the gridiron, she always stood straight up, with her head gracefully turned to one side, and moulded them with her two hands to an orb, as nearly resembling the full moon as she could. You must likewise have remarked, that while engaged in this becoming part of her avocation, she was never once looking at her work, but that while her head had that sly cast to the one side, her eyes were ever and anon fixed on the window, noting what was going on without, looking perhaps for her lad coming from the hill, or whistling at the plough. If you have ever seen this, you can easily comprehend the attitude I mean—if you have never, it is a great pity!

Exactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland, plying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way—his head was likewise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the window—it was the girl’s position to a hair. Let any man take his pen and describe the two attitudes, there is not the slightest shade of difference to be discerned—the one knee of both is even slackened and bent gently forward, the other upright and firm, by its own weight made steadfast and immoveable. Yet how it comes I do not comprehend, and should like much to consult my friend, David Wilkie, about it—it is plain that the attitudes are precisely the same, yet the girl’s is quite delightful—Robin’s was perfectly pitiable. He had not one word to say, but baked his bonnet and stood thus.

“This is my determination,” continued Lindsey, “and you may pay what attention to it you please.”

“Od, sir, I’m excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae letten me see it in its true light, an’ I sal do what I can to find her again, an’ mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, naebody kens where she’s ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to that outlandish country ayont the sea that they ca’ Fife, an’ how am I to get her? therefore, if I canna an’ dinna get her, I hope you will excuse me, especially as neither the contrivance nor the act was mine.”

“You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a tittle of that I have said; but, to encourage your people in the search, or whomsoever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the person who finds her and restores her to her home.”

“Aweel, son Lindsey,” said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum of a clock, “your mother meant ye good, an’ nae ill, in what she has done; but them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. For the sake o’ Robin and his family, and no for the neighbourhood o’ this whilly-wha of a young witch, I shall gi’e the body that finds her half as muckle.”

“And I,” said Robin, “shall gi’e the same, which will make up the reward to twenty guineas, an’ it is mair than I can weel spare in sic hard times. I never saw better come o’ women’s schemes, as I say whiles to my titty Meg.”

The company parted, not on the most social terms; and that night, before Robin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, “Lads, my master informs me that I am to be plaguit wi’ the law for putting away that lassie Jeany an’ her bit brat atween term-days. I gi’e ye a’ your liberty frae my wark until the end o’ neist week, if she be not found afore that time, to search for her; and whoever finds her, and brings her back to her cottage, shall have a reward o’ twenty guineas in his loof.”

A long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her; but Barnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where his chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were let out for hire, got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle, and pad, and off he set directly for his father’s cottage, where he arrived next morning by the time the sun was up.

To describe all Barnaby’s adventures that night would take a volume by itself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he traversed. As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid for none of them meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie; yet so hardly was he beset with these at times, that he had no other resource but to shut his eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this resolute contrivance got on without interruption, but had been so near his infernal adversaries at times, that twice or thrice he felt a glow on his face as if a breath of lukewarm air had been breathed against it, and a smell exactly resembling (he did not like to say brimstone, but) a coal fire just gaun out!—But it is truly wonderful what a man, with a conscience void of offence towards God and towards his neighbour, will go through!

When the day-light began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what a blithe and grateful man was Barnaby! “The bogles will be obliged to thraw aff their black claes now,” said he, “an’ in less than half an hour the red an’ the green anes too. They’ll hae to pit on their pollonians o’ the pale colour o’ the fair day-light, that the e’e o’ Christian maunna see them; or gang away an’ sleep in their dew-cups an’ foxter-leaves till the gloaming come again. O, but the things o’ this warld are weel contrived!”

Safely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father’s cottage stood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn; there was no dog, nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his approach, for his father and canine friends had all gone out to the heights at a very early hour to look after the sheep. The morning was calm and lovely; but there was no sound in the glen save the voice of his mother’s grey cock, who was perched on the kail-yard dike, and crowing incessantly. The echoes were answering him distinctly from the hills; and as these aerial opponents were the only ones he ever in his life had to contend with, he had learned to value himself extremely on his courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving them in a note louder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he himself had been struggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole night; so ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to overlook our own!

The smoke was issuing from his mother’s chimney in a tall blue spire that reached to the middle of the hill; but when there, it spread itself into a soft hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green brae in the most still and moveless position. The rising sun kissed it with his beams, which gave it a light woolly appearance, something like floating down; it was so like a vision that Barnaby durst scarcely look at it. “My mither’s asteer,” said he to himself, “I ken by her morning reek; she’ll be fiking up an’ down the house, an’ putting a’ things to rights; an’ my billies they’ll be lying grumphing and snoring i’ their dens, an’ Jeany will be lying waking, listening what’s gaun on, an’ wee George will be sniffing an’ sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I think, of a’ things i’ the warld a young mother an’ her first son is the maist interesting—if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae—to see how she’ll sit an’ look at him!—(here Barnaby blew his nose.)—I was my mother’s first son; if she had been as bonny, an’ as gentle, an’ as feele as Jeany, aih! but I wad hae likit weel!”

No one being aware of Barnaby’s approach, he rode briskly up to the door and rapped, causing at the same time his horse’s feet make a terrible clamping on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house, came running out with the heather besom in her hand. “Bless my heart, callant, is that you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten w’ye! What’s asteer w’ye? or whar ir ye gaun sae early i’ the morning on that grand cut-luggit beast?”

“I’m turned a gentleman now, mother, that’s a’; an’ I thought I wad g’ye a ca’ as I gaed by for auld lang syne—Hope ye’re all well?”

“Deed we’re a’ no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after?—Hae ye a’ your senses about ye?”

“I thank ye, I dinna miss ony o’ them that I notice. I’m come for my wife that I left w’ye—How is she?”

“Your wife! Weel I wat ye’ll never get the like o’ her, great muckle hallanshaker-like guff.”

“Haud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get; but I can tell ye o’ something that I’m to get. If I take hame that lassie Jeany safe to her house, ony time these ten days, there’s naebody kens where I hae her hidden, an’ I’m to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o’t.”

“Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn.”

“Ye never tauld me sic a word, mother.”

“I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi’ another, an’ that the king may come i’ the beggar’s way.”

“Ramsay’s Scots Proverbs tell me that.”

“It will begin a bit stock to you, my man; an’ I sal say it o’ her, gin I sude never see her face again, she’s the best creature, ae way an’ a’ ways, that ever was about a poor body’s house. Ah, God bless her!—she’s a dear creature!—Ye’ll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae ta’en about her.”

Jane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted Barnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs had taken in her favour, and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the earnest enquiries he had made; and likewise how he had put Robin to his shifts. She had lived very happy with these poor honest people, and had no mind to leave them; indeed, from the day that she entered their house she had not harboured a thought of it; but now, on account of her furniture, which was of considerable value to her, and more particularly for the sake of Barnaby’s reward, she judged it best to accompany him. So after they had all taken a hearty breakfast together at the same board, the old shepherd returned thanks to the Bestower of all good things, and then kissing Jane, he lifted her on the horse behind his son. “Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany woman,” said he; “I think you will be happy, for I’m sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue to mind the thing that’s good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye; I come surety for him. An’ if ever adversity should again fa’ to your lot, ye shall be as welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o’ ilka thing that’s in it; an’ if I should see you nae mair, I’ll never bow my knee before my Maker without remembering you. God bless you, my bonny woman! Fareweel.”

Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor’s hand, for who could stand such unaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the horse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often seen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after blowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod, with which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out of this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive a more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents’ kindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went on prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a grand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. “Geoge vely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse.”

Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to amuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was overjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon. He paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour, making some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, “They that hide ken where to seek,” and without delay sent information to the mansion-house that Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of news which created no little stir at Earlhall.

The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found; or that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met with, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she wished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her fond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to the affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful business, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all command of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another, quarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two prettiest ones warning to leave their places.

Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his feelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he loved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction. The deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene—the woods, the fields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such a new and exhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean) give to his whole vital frame. “What a delightful world this is!” said he to himself; “and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they would suffer themselves to do so!” He did not traverse the different apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the parlour.

In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed by the discordant tones of anger and reproach—Proud and haughty contumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but humble dependance on the other.

“This is some one of my mother’s unreasonable imputations,” said he to himself; “it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my servants, who are in fact my servants, receiving meat and wages from me, and whom I most wish to be happy and comfortable in their circumstances should be thus harassed and rendered miserable—I will interfere in spite of all obloquy.” He went in to the fore-kitchen, “What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?”

“Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged by such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I am determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more servants of his hiring.”

So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one of the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly looks had roused the lady’s resentment, was standing sobbing in a corner. “What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?”

“I hae done naething ava that’s wrang, sir; but she’s never aff my tap; an’ I’m glad I’m now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an’ turned me away, I wad never hae regrettit; but she has ca’d me names sic afore a’ these witnesses, that I’ll never get mair service i’ the country. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate.”

“Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in your place, and do not go away—remember I order it—give no offence to my mother that you can avoid—be a good girl, as you have heretofore been, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair.”

“Oh, God bless him for a kind good soul!” said Sally, as he went out, and the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.

He rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn; but it was too late to call and see the dear child that night, so he returned—joined his mother at supper; was more than usually gay and talkative, and at last proposed to invite this fair rambler down to Earlhall to breakfast with them next morning. The lady was almost paralyzed by this proposal, and groaned in spirit!

“Certainly, son! certainly! your house is your ain; invite ony body to it you like; nane has a better right! a man may keep ony company he chooses. Ye’ll hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o’ the party?”

“Very great objections, mother; I wish to see this girl, and learn her history; if I call privately, you will be offended; is it not better to do this before witnesses? And I am likewise desirous that you should see her, and be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being protected from injury. Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little variety—we will invite Robin, and his sister Miss Margaret, and any other of that class you chuse.”

“O certainly! invite them ilk ane, son—invite a’ the riff-raff i’ the parish; your mother has naething to say.”

He was stung with this perversity, as well as with his love for the child on the other hand—he did invite them, and the invitation was accepted. Down came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in his blue and gray thread-about coat, with metal buttons, broader than a Queen Ann’s half-crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured leggums (the best things, by the bye, that ever came in fashion;) and down came haverel Meg, his sister, alias Miss Peggy, for that day, with her cork-heeled shoon, and long-waisted gown, covered with broad stripes, like the hangings of an ancient bed. She had, moreover, a silken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the lobby, under that a smart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black curly hair, slightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morning by the effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in such style before, and I wish from my heart that any assembly of our belles had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind of show of cattle before the laird, in the same way as the young ladies long ago were brought in before King Ahasuerus; and she was determined to bear down Jane to the dust, and carry all before her. The very air and swagger with which she walked was quite delightful, while her blue ribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportionally long, having been left intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like the pennon of a ship. “It is rather odd, billy Rob,” said she, “that we should thus be invited alang wi’ our ain cottar—However, the laird’s ha’ levels a’—if she be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us—fock maun bow to the bush that they seek beild frae.”

“E’en sae, Meg; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day, an’ no get out wi’ ony o’ your vollies o’ nonsense.”

“Deed, Rob, I’ll just speak as I think; there sall naething gyzen i’ my thrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o’ your kind o’ fock that dare do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like the gouk in a June day. Meg maun hae out her say, if it sude burst Powbeit on her head.”

As they came down by the washing-green, Jane joined them, dressed in a plain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an earl’s son; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother’s side.

The old lady was indisposed that day, and unable to come down to breakfast; and it was not till after the third visit from her son, who found he was like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was prevailed on to appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance; Meg came in with a skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel when she is sitting on a stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane appeared last, leading her boy; her air was modest and diffident, yet it had nothing of that awkward timidity, inseparable from low life, and a consciousness that one has no right to be there. The lady returned a slight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly dropt down when she first cast her eyes upon her beauty, and elegance of form and manner. It was the last hope that she had remaining, that this girl would be a vulgar creature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty admired in the higher circles; now that last hope was blasted. But that which astonished every one most, was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her misfortunes had nothing dimmed; their humid lustre was such, that it was impossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing abashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he could, but of that he was no great master; he then lifted little George, kissed him, and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. “And where have you been so long away from me, my dear little fellow? Tell me where you have been all this while.”

“Fal away, at auld Geoldie’s, little Davie’s falel, ye ken; him ’at has ’e fine bonny ’halp wi’ a stipe down hele, and anolel down hele.—Little Davie vely good till Geoge, an vely queel callant.”

Every one laughed aloud at George’s description of the whelp, and his companion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover where their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served; the old lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her just with what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or subject on which she was previously talking; for all the time the good old dowager was addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of her dress—looking at the shape of her stays—casting a glance at the laird, and occasionally at Jane—then adjusting a voluptuous curl that half-hid her grey eye. She likewise occasionally uttered a vacant hem! when the lady paused; and, as soon as she ceased, began some observation of her own. Robin was quite in the fidgets. “Dear Meg, woman, that’s no what her ladyship was speaking about. That’s no to the purpose ava.”

“Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but yoursel, hummin an’ hawin. Let us hear how weel ye’ll speak to the purpose.—Whisht, sirs! haud a’ your tongues; my billy Rob’s gaun to mak a speech.”

“Humph!” quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.

“Humph!” returned Meg, “what kind of a speech is that? Is that to the purpose? If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as weel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob’s aye wantin to be on his hich horse afore grit folk; now I says till him, Rob, says I, for you to fa’ to afore your betters, and be tryin to speak that vile nicky-nacky language they ca’ English, instead o’ being on your hich horse then, ye are just like a heron walkin on stilts, an’ that’s but a daft-like beast. Ye sude mind, says I,—Rob, man, says I, that her ladyship’s ane o’ our ain kind o’ fock, an’ was bred at the same heck an’ manger wi’ oursels; an’ although she has lightit on a good tethering, ye’re no to think that she’s to gi’e hersel airs, an’ forget the good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins.”

The lady’s cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg was fallen on the most unlucky; nothing hurt her feelings half so much as hints of her low extraction. Lindsey, though vexed, could not repress a laugh at the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable vulgarity on the other. Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had, would not have regarded it. She went on. “Ah, Meg, woman! quo’ he, ye ken little thing about it, quo’ he; when the sole of a shoe’s turned uppermost, it maks aye but an unbowsome overleather; if ye corn an auld glide-aver weel, she’ll soon turn about her heels, and fling i’ your face.”

Robin’s whole visage changed; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows were screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those were scarcely discernible; his mouth had meanwhile assumed the form and likeness of one of the long S’s on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went on. “Dear Rob, says I, man, says I, that disna apply to her ladyship ava, for every thing that she does, an’ every thing that she says, shows her to be a douse hamely body; the very way that she rins bizzin through the house, an’ fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae pretensions to high gentility.”

Lindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all decorum, began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh looks, and said she was very much of a lady herself.

“I wat, laird,” said she, “I think aye if a body behaves wi’ ease, an’ without ony stiffness an’ precision, that body never behaves ill; but, to be sure, you grand fock can say an’ do a hantle o’ things that winna be ta’en aff our hands. For my part, when the great fike rase about you an’ Jeany there, I says—says I”——

This was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. “I beg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy,” said he; “we shall attend to your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it somewhat. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received very harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous of making her some reparation, and to patronize her, as well as this boy, if I find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall, moreover, be extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor blame shall attach to it; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I have selected you as judges in this matter.—It is impossible,” continued he, addressing himself to Jane, “to be in your company half an hour, and not discern that your education has been much above the sphere of life which you now occupy; but I trust you will find us all disposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you will be so good as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed to your coming among us.”

“The events of my life, sir,” said she, “have been, like the patriarch’s days, few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in this district—not on my own account, but for the sake of their names that are connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless, since you have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be ungrateful and imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse me for the present in withholding my family name, and I will relate to you the incidents of my short life in a very few words.

“My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or not I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his credit and dealings were very extensive. My mother died twelve years ago, leaving my father with no more children than another daughter and myself. I received my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who was two years older than I. She began to manage my father’s household affairs at thirteen years of age, and I went to reside with an aunt in East-Lothian, who had been married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and occupied a farm herself.

“Whether it originated in his not finding any amusement at home, or in consciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, I know not, but our father about this time fell by degrees from attending to his business in a great measure, and sunk into despondency. My sister’s letters to me were full of regret; my aunt being in a declining state of health I could not leave her for some months. At last she died, leaving me a legacy of five hundred pounds, when I hastened home, and did all in my power to assist my sister in comforting our father, but he did not long survive, and dying insolvent, we not only lost our protector, but had nothing to depend on save my little legacy and our own industry and exertions. We retired to a small lodging; none of our friends thought proper to follow us to our retreat; and now, bereaved as we were of our natural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a friendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits; a certain dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey upon her, and it was with real sorrow and concern that I perceived it daily gaining ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I tried always to console her as much as I could for our loss, and often, to cheer her, assumed a gaiety that was foreign to my heart; but we being quite solitary, her melancholy always returned upon her with double weight. About this time I first saw a young officer with my sister, who introduced him carelessly to me as the Captain. She went out with him, and when she returned I asked who he was. “Bless me, Jane,” said she, “do you not know the Captain?” I was angry at the flippancy of her manner, but she gave me no further satisfaction.”

At the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient, changing his position on the seat every moment.

“Things went on in this manner,” continued Jane, “for some time longer, and still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew pale, and her eye heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed on her account.

“For nine or ten days she went out by herself for an hour or so every day, without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I arose my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any breakfast; but nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with dreadful apprehensions. I went about to every place where I thought there was the least chance of hearing any news of her, yet durst I not ask for her openly at any one for fear of the answer I might receive; for, on considering the late dejected state of her mind, I expected nothing else than to hear that she had put an end to her existence. My search was fruitless; night came, and still no word of my sister; I passed it without sleep; but, alas! the next night, and many others, came and past over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a gleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict and extensive search, and even to have her advertised; yet still all my exertions proved of no avail.

“During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there could not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I was. Only seventeen years of age; the last of all my father’s house; left in a lodging by myself; all my neighbours utter strangers to me, and not a friend on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs; wretched I was, and deemed it impossible to be more so; but I had over-rated my griefs, and was punished for my despondency.

“When some months had passed away, one spring morning, I remember it well! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said, a man wanted to see me. ‘A man!’ said I; ‘What man wishes to speak with me?’

“‘I don’t know, mem, he is like a countryman.’

“He was shown in; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size. I was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were singularly marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his message, and there was something in his air and manner that greatly alarmed me. ‘So you said your name is so so?’ said he again.

“‘I did; pray, tell me what is your business with me?’

“‘There is a lady at our house, who I suppose wishes to speak with you.’

“‘What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?’

“He named some place on the London road towards Berwick.

“‘What lady can possibly be there,’ said I, ‘that knows any thing of me?’

“He looked at me again.—‘Pray, mem, have you a sister? Or had you ever any that you know of?’

“This query paralyzed me. I sunk down on the sofa; but as soon as I could speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him?

“‘Only since Friday evening last,’ said he. ‘She was taken ill at the inn on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house, for the sake of better and more quiet accommodation; but she has been very ill,—very ill, indeed. There is now hope that she will recover, but she is still very ill. I hope you are the lady she named when all was given over; at all events, you must go and see.’

“Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise. We reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless and impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which I found her! My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the woeful spectacle! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or lift an eye, and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having some days before been delivered of this dear child on my knee.”

At this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing strongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain himself no longer. He started to his feet—stretched his arms toward her, and, after gasping a little for breath,—“Wh—wh—what!” said he, sighing, “are you not then the mother of little George?”

“A poor substitute only for a better, sir; but the only parent he has ever known, or is likely to know.”

“And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and shame, for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer a kin to you than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and qualities of a female mind deserved admiration—But proceed. I am much to blame for interrupting you.”

“I never for another moment departed from my sister’s bed-side until she breathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival. During that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or take the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final exit; but then she gave me such a look!—So full of kindness and sorrow, that language could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It was a farewell look, which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never to be obliterated while that holds intercourse with humanity.

“The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of my heart, with the mysterious circumstances which accompanied it, deprived me for some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by night, and my reflections during the day, were all so much blent and inter-mingled, and so wholly of the same tendency, that they became all as a dream together; so that I could not, on a retrospect, discover in the least, nor ever can to this day, what part of my impressions were real, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were the etchings of fancy impressed on my distempered mind. If the man I mentioned before, who owned the house, had not looked after the necessary preparations for the funeral, I know not how or when it would have been set about by any orders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body, which they suffered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly passive. That such a thing as my sister’s funeral was approaching, occurred but rarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of unexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped away, leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable confusion.

“The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant weeping, in which I shed abundance of tears. I then manifested an ardent desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly well. I considered him as the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and well-descended family, and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon earth. When I first saw him, he was lying on an old woman’s knee; and when I stooped to look at him, he, with a start of his whole frame, fixed his young unstable eyes on me, and stretched out his little spread hands toward me, in which position he remained steadily for a considerable time. This was so marked and uncommon, that all the standers-by took notice of it; and the woman who held him said, ‘See! saw ye ever the like o’ that? I never saw the like o’ that a’ my life! It is surely impossible he can ken ye?’

“It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could not help viewing it as a movement effected by the Great Spirit of universal nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his helpless innocence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in which he had not another friend remaining, until he could think and act for himself. I adopted him that moment in my heart as my son—I took him into my arms as a part of myself!—That simple motion of my dear child fixed my resolution with respect to him at once, and that resolution never has been altered nor injured in the smallest part.

“I hired a nurse for him; and, it being term time, gave up my house, and sold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to a cottage at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally with the nurse and child; and became so fond of him, that no previous period of my life, from the days of childhood, was ever so happy; indeed, my happiness was centered solely in him, and if he was well, all other earthly concerns vanished. I found, however, that after paying the rent of the house, the expences of the two funerals, and the nurse’s wages, that my little stock was reduced nearly one-third; and fearing that it would in a little while be wholly exhausted, I thought the sooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better; so leaving the remainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness or great necessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden from your farmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and educating him, independent of charitable assistance; and I cannot describe to you how happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of my remaining property, with the small earnings of my own industry, was likely to prove more than an equivalent to my yearly expences. I have from the very first acknowledged little George as my own son. I longed for a retirement, where I should never be recognised by any former acquaintance. In such a place I thought my story might gain credit; nor could I think in any degree to stain the name of my dear departed sister by any surmises or reflections that might in future attach to it by telling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he really been my son, I cannot judge; but instead of feeling any degradation at being supposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I could not bear the contrary to be supposed.

“Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable mystery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rectitude of her behaviour, and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly carry on an amour without suffering me to perceive any signs of it. She had spoke but little to the people with whom I found her; but their impressions were, that she was not married, and I durst not enquire farther; for, rather than have discovered his father to be unworthy, I chose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it, and I could not think favourably of one who had deserted her in such circumstances. There was no man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least suspect, if it was not the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was the least likely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw.”

Here Lindsey again sprung to his feet. “Good God!” said he, “there is something occurs to my mind—the most extraordinary circumstance—if it be really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surname, but there is a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which renders it absolutely necessary that I should be informed of this.”

Jane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to make it public, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in his ear. She then whispered the name M’‑‑‑‑y.

“What!” said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, “of the late firm M’‑‑‑‑, Reynolds and Co.?”

“The same, sir.”

The positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant exclamations that he uttered, cannot here be all described. The other three personages in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his reason. After repeating, till quite out of breath, “It is she! it is she! it is the same! it is the same!” and, pressing both her hands in his, he exclaimed, “Eternal Providence! how wonderful are thy ways, and how visible is thy superintendance of human affairs, even in the common vicissitudes of life! but never was it so visible as in this! My dear child,” continued he, taking little George in his arms, who looked at him with suspicion and wonder, “by how many fatal and untoward events, all seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of human interference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian! and how firmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee! But thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me; nor shall your beautiful guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her virtues have captivated. This house shall henceforth be a home to you both, and all my friends shall be friends to you, for you are my own.”

Here the old lady sprung forward, and, laying hold of her son by the shoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. “Consider what you are saying, Lindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your family. You are raving mad—that child can no more be yours than it is mine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have indeed lost your reason? I say, where is the consistency in supposing that child can be yours?”

“It is impossible,” said Robin.

“I say it’s nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob,” quoth Meg. “Hand your tongue, ye ken naething about it—it’s just as possible that it may be his as another’s—I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it’s no comed there by sympathy! Od, if they war to come by sympathy”——

Here Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence,—a circumstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,—for of all things he would have liked to have had Meg’s ideas, at full length, of children being produced by sympathy.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lindsey. “I must have appeared extravagant in my rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the circumstances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very soon, and very easily explained.”

He then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another. Jane scarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for his rhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium of amazement, which kept every other feeling in suspense.

In a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his hand.—“Here is the last letter,” said he, “ever I received from my brave and only brother; a short extract from which will serve fully to clear up the whole of this very curious business.”

He then read as follows:—“Thus, you see, that for the last fortnight the hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and grievous; but TO-MORROW will be decisive one way or another. I have a strong prepossession that I will not survive the battle; yea, so deeply is the idea impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute certainty; therefore, I must confide a secret with you which none in the world know, or in the least think of, save another and myself. I was privately married before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her person, and amiable in her manners, but without any fortune. We resolved, for reasons that must be obvious to you, to keep our marriage a secret, until I entered to the full possession of my estate, and if possible till my return; but now, (don’t laugh at me, my dear brother,) being convinced that I shall never return, I entreat you, as a last request, to find her out and afford her protection. It is probable, that by this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia M’‑‑‑‑y, daughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm M’‑‑‑‑y and Reynolds. She left her home with me in private, at my earnest request, though weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a little angel of mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of your friendship and protection. The last letter that I had from her was dated from London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet for Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near Bristo-Port, you will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort our mother; and O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife! We have an awful prospect before us, but we are a handful of brave determined friends, resolved to conquer or die together.”

The old lady now snatched little George up in her arms, pressed him to her bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him.—“He is indeed my grandson! he is! he is!” cried she. “My own dear George’s son, and he shall henceforth be cherished as my own.”

“And he shall be mine too, mother,” added Lindsey; “and heir of all the land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so disinterestedly adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still be his mother, if she will accept of a heart that renders her virtues every homage, and beats in unison with her own to every tone of pity and benevolence.”

Jane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while the tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the pleasing intelligence she had received of the honour of her regretted sister, and the rank of her child.—She could not answer a word—she looked stedfastly at the carpet, through tears, as if examining how it was wrought—then at a little pearl ring she wore on her finger, and finally fell to adjusting some of little George’s clothes. They were all silent—It was a quaker meeting, and might have continued so much longer, had not the spirit fortunately moved Meg.

“By my certy, laird! but ye hae made her a good offer! an’ yet she’ll pretend to tarrow at takin’t! But ye’re sure o’ her, tak my word for it.—Ye dinna ken women. Bless ye! the young hizzies mak aye the greatest fike about the things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by mysel;—when Andrew Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i’ the dark, I wad hae cried whispering, ‘Get away wi’ ye! ye bowled-like shurf!—whar are ye comin pechin an’ fuffin to me?’ Bless your heart! gin Andrew had run away when I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an’ grippit him by the coat-tails, an’ brought him back. Little wist I this morning, an’ little wist mae than I, that things war to turn out this way, an’ that Jeany was to be our young lady! She was little like it that night she gaed away greetin wi’ the callant on her back! Dear Rob, man, quo’ I to my billy, what had you and my lady to do wi’ them? Because her day an’ yours are ower, do ye think they’ll no be courting as lang as the warld stands; an’ the less that’s said about it the better—I said sae!”

“And you said truly, Meg,” rejoined Lindsey. “Now, pray, Miss Jane, tell me what you think of my proposal?”

“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you overpower me. I am every way unworthy of the honour you propose for my acceptance; but as I cannot part with my dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take care of him.”

“Well, I consent that you shall stay with my mother as her companion. A longer acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of events has tended so strongly to excite.”

It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds of matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their acquaintances. Barnaby is the laird’s own shepherd, and overseer of all his rural affairs, and he does not fail at times to remind his gentle mistress of his dream about the eagle and the corbie.

END OF THE WOOL-GATHERER.