ing at the popinjay, I have heard you say you have been there yourself, Mrs. Wilson-I wish you had come to look at us.'

'Ah, Maister Henry,' said the old dame, ‘I wish ye binna beginning to learn the way of blawing in a woman's lug, wi' a' your whilly-wha's!Aweel, sae ye dinna practise them but on auld wives like me, the less matter. But tak heed o’ the young queans, lad.-Popinjay-ye think yoursel a bra' fellow enow; and troth!' (surveying him with the candle,) 'there's nae fault to find wi’ the outside, if the inside be conforming. But I mind, when I was a gilpey of a lassock, seeing the Duke, that was him that lost his head at London-folk said it wasna a very gude ane, but it was aye a sair loss to him, puir gentlemanAweel, he wan the popinjay, for few cared to win it ower his Grace's head-Weel, he had a comely presence, and when a' the gentles mounted to show their capers, his Grace was as near to me as I am to you; and he said to me, 'Take tent o' yoursel, my bonnie lassie, (these were his very words) for my horse is not very chancy?—And now, as ye say ye had sae little to eat or drink, I'll let you see that I have nae been sae unmindfu' o' you, for I dinna think it's safe for young folk to gang to their bed on an empty stamack.'

To do Mrs. Wilson justice, her nocturnal harangues upon such occasions not unfrequently terminated with this sage apothegm, which always prefaced the producing of some provision a little better than ordinary, such as she now placed before him. In fact, the principal object of her maundering was to display her consequence and

love of power; for Mrs. Wilson was not, at the bottom, an ill-tempered woman, and certainly loved her old and young master (both of whom she tormented extremely) better than any one else in the world. She now eyed Mr. Henry, as she called him, with great complacency, as he partook of her good cheer.

'Muckle gude may it do ye, my bonny man. I trow ye didna get sic a skirl-in-the-pan as that at Niel Blane's. His wife was a canny body, and could dress things very weel for ane in her line o' business, but no like a gentleman's housekeeper, to be sure. But I doubt the daughter's a silly thing-an unco cockernony she had busked on her head at the kirk last Sunday. I am doubting that there will be news o' a' thae braws. But my aul een's drawing thegither-dinna hurry yoursel, my bonny man, take mind about the putting out the candle, and there's a horn of ale, and a glass of clow-gillieflower water; I dinna gi'e ilka body that; I keep it for a pain I hae whiles in my ain stamach, and it's better for your young blood than brandy. Sae, gude-night to ye, Mr. Henry, and see that ye take gude care o' the candle.'

Morton promised to attend punctually to her caution, and requested her not to be alarmed if she heard the door opened, as she knew he must again, as usual, look to his horse, and arrange him for the night. Mrs. Wilson then retreated, and Morton, folding up his provisions, was about to hasten to his guest, when the nodding head of the old housekeeper was again thrust in at the door, with an admonition, to remember to take

an account of his ways before he laid himself down to rest, and to pray for protection during the hours of darkness. Such were the manners of a certain class of domestics, once common in Scotland, and perhaps still to be found in some old manor-houses in its remote counties. They were fixtures in the family they belonged to; and as they never conceived the possibility of such a thing as dismission to be within the chances of their lives, they were, of course, sincerely attached to every member of it. On the other hand, when spoiled by the indulgence or indolence of their superiors, they were very apt to become illtempered, self-sufficient, and tyrannical; so much so, that a mistress or master would sometimes almost have wished to exchange their cross-grained fidelity for the smooth and accommodating duplicity of a modern menial.

END OF VOL. I.