"Indeed!" said I, in some surprise. "Then I am very sure it cannot be

for its marketable worth. It wouldn't bring sixpence."

"I verily believe it would not," replied Mr. Grafton. "Yet the Earl of

Wistonbury would not part with that little chest for a good round sum, I

warrant ye."

"Pray, explain, my good sir."

"I will. That little, blue-painted chest contained all the worldly

wealth--a few articles of female dress--of the lady whose portrait you

were just now so much admiring, when she became Countess of Wistonbury."

"Why, then," said I, "that is proof that riches, at any rate, had

nothing to do with her promotion to that high rank."

"They certainly had not," replied my aged friend. "But all this you will

learn more particularly in the story which I shall tell you presently.

You will then learn, also, how the little, blue-painted chest comes to

figure in the history of a countess."

Saying this, Mr. Grafton shut the doors of the cabinet, when we left the

apartment, and, in a few minutes after, I found myself in what my worthy

old host called his refectory. This was a snug little room, most

comfortably furnished, and in which I observed a very large quantity of

silver plate,--being, I presumed, the depository of that portion of the

family's wealth. My good old friend now rung his bell, when a female

servant appeared.

"Let's have summut to eat, Betsy," said the old man; and never was order

more promptly or more effectively obeyed.

In an instant the table, which occupied the centre of the floor,

absolutely creaked under the load of good things with which it was

encumbered. The "slice of cold round," I found, was but a _nomme de

guerre_ with the old man, and meant everything in the edible way that

was choice and savoury. To this conclusion I came from seeing the table

before me covered with a great variety of good things, amongst which

rose, conspicuous in the centre, a huge venison pasty. When the

_loading_ of the table was completed, and the servant had retired--

"Now," said the old man, looking at me with a significant smile, and at

the same time drawing a bunch of small keys from his pocket, from which

he carefully singled out one, "since Betsy has done her part so well,

let me see if I can't do mine as creditably."

Saying this, he opened what I thought a sly-looking little cupboard, and

brought forth from its mysterious recess an aristocratic-looking bottle,

sealed with black wax, and whose shoulders were still thickly coated

with sawdust. Handling this venerable bottle with a lightness and

delicacy of touch which a long practice only could have given, and with

a degree of reverence which an _à priori_ knowledge of its contents only

could have inspired, my worthy host tenderly brushed off its coating of

sawdust, gently inserted the screw, drew the cork, with a calm,

cautious, steady pull, and, in the next moment, had filled up two

brimmers of the finest old port that the cellars of Oxton Hall could

produce. Having done ample justice to the good things before us--

"Now, my good sir, the story, the story, if you please," said I.

"Oh, to be sure," replied my kind host, smiling. "The story you shall

have. But first let us take another glass of wine, to inspire me with

fortitude to begin so long a story, and you with patience to listen to

it."

The procedure thus recommended having been complied with, the good old

man immediately began:--

"About a hundred and thirteen years since," he said, "there lived in the

neighbourhood of one of the principal cities in Scotland, a farmer of

the name of Flowerdew. He was a man of respectable character, and of

sober and industrious habits. His family consisted only of himself, his

wife, and an only child--a daughter, named Jessy. Gentle and

affectionate, of the most winning manners, and surpassingly beautiful in

form and feature, Jessy was not only the darling of her father, but the

favourite character of the neighbourhood in which she lived. All yielded

the homage of admiration to her supreme loveliness, and of the tenderest

esteem to her worth.

For many years, Jessy's father contrived, notwithstanding of an enormous

rent, to keep pace with the world, and eventually to raise himself a

little above it; but, in despite of all his industry and all his

prudence, reverses came. A succession of bad crops was followed by a

series of losses of various kinds, and James Flowerdew found himself a

ruined man.

'It's not for myself I care,' said the honest man, when speaking one day

with his wife of the misfortunes which had overwhelmed them--'it's for

our puir bit lassie, guidwife. God help her! I thought to have left her

independent; but it's been ordained otherwise, and we must submit. But

what's to become of her I know not. Being brocht up a little abune the

common, she cannot be asked to enter into the service of ony o' our

neebors; yet, I see nae other way o't. It must come to that in the lang

run.'

'I suppose it must, guidman--I suppose it must,' replied his wife,

raising the corner of her apron to her eye, and then bursting into

tears. 'My puir, dear, gentle lassie,' she exclaimed, 'it's a sad change

to her; but I ken she'll meet it cheerfully, and without repining. But,

guidman, if to service she must go, and I fancy there's little doot o'

that, wouldna it be better if we could get her into the service of some

respectable family in the toon, than to put her wi' ony o' our neebors,

where she might be reminded o' her fall, as they will call it?'

'It's a good thought, Lizzy,' replied her husband, musingly, as he gazed

in sadness on the fire that burned before him. 'It's a good thought,' he

said. 'She will be there unknown, and her feelings saved from the taunts

of callous impertinence. I will think of it,' added Flowerdew. 'In the

meantime, guidwife, prepare Jessy, the best way you can, for the change

of situation in life which she is about to meet with. I canna do it. It

would break my heart a'thegither.'

This painful task Mrs. Flowerdew undertook; and, as she expected, found

her daughter not only reconciled to the step which was proposed for her,

but eager and anxious to be put in a way of doing for herself, and, as

she fondly hoped and affectionately said, of aiding her parents.

Shortly after this, the ruin which had overtaken James Flowerdew began

to present itself in its most instant and most distressing shapes.

Arrestments were laid on his funds in all quarters. Visits of messengers

were frequent, almost daily; and his whole stock and crop were

sequestrated by the landlord, and a day for the sale fixed. This last

was a sight from which Flowerdew anxiously wished to save his daughter,

and he meant to do so, if he could, by finding her 'a place' previous to

the day of sale.

The duty of looking out for a situation for Jessy in town Flowerdew

took upon himself, from the circumstance of his having been in the habit

for many years of supplying a number of respectable families with the

produce of his farm, which he generally delivered himself, his simple

character and industrious habits not permitting him to see any

degradation in driving his own cart on these occasions. Flowerdew had

thus formed a personal acquaintance with many families of the better

class, which he thought might be useful to him in his present views.

Amongst the oldest and most respected of his customers was a learned

professor, whom, to avoid what might be an inconvenient identification

of circumstances, we shall call Lockerby. With this gentleman Flowerdew

resolved to begin his inquiries respecting a situation for his daughter.

He did so, and on being introduced to him, explained the purpose of his

visit.

'Dear me, Mr. Flowerdew!' said the worthy professor, in surprise at the

application, 'I thought--I all along thought, that your circumstances

would entitle your daughter, whose modesty of demeanour and great beauty

of person I have had frequent opportunities of admiring--she having

called here frequently, as you know, on various occasions connected with

our little traffic--I say, I thought your circumstances would entitle

your daughter to look for something higher than the situation of a

domestic servant.'

'I once thought so myself, professor,' replied Mr. Flowerdew, with a

tear standing in his eye; 'but it has turned out otherwise. The truth

is, that I have lately met with such reverses as have entirely ruined

me. I am about to be ejected from my farm, and must betake myself to

daily labour for a subsistence. In this explanation you will see the

reason why I apply to you for a situation in your family for my

daughter.'

'Too clearly--too clearly,' replied the worthy professor sincerely

grieving for the misfortunes of a man whom he had long known, and whose

uprightness of conduct and character he had long appreciated. 'I am

seriously distressed, Mr. Flowerdew,' he added, 'to learn all

this--seriously distressed, indeed; but, in the meantime, let us consult

Mrs. Lockerby on the subject of your present visit.' And he rang the

bell, and desired the servant who answered it, to request his wife to

come to him. She came, and on being informed of Mr. Flowerdew's

application in behalf of his daughter, at once agreed to receive her

into her service; adding, that she might, if she chose, enter on her

duties immediately. It was finally arranged that Jessy should take

possession of her situation on the following day.

Highly gratified at having got admission for his daughter into so worthy

and respectable a family, Flowerdew returned home with a lighter heart

than he had possessed for some time before. He felt that his Jessy was

now, in a manner, provided for; and that, although the situation was a

humble one, and far short of what he had once expected for her, it was

yet a creditable one, and one presenting no mean field for the exercise

of some of the best qualities which a woman can possess.

Equally pleased with her father at the opening that had been found for

her, the gentle girl lost no time in making such preparations as the

impending change in her position in life rendered necessary. Part of

these preparations, all cheerfully performed, consisted in packing a

small trunk with her clothes, and in other procedures of a similar kind.

In this employment her mother endeavoured to assist her, but was too

much affected by the sadness of the task to afford any very efficient

aid, although her daughter did all she could, by assuming a

light-heartedness which she could not altogether feel, to assuage the

grief to which her mother was every moment giving way.

'Why grieve yourself in that way, mother?' she would say, pausing in her

operations, and flinging her arms around her parent's neck. 'I assure

you I am happy at the prospect of being put in a way of doing for

myself; I consider it no hardship--not in the least. I will take a pride

in discharging my new duties faithfully and diligently; and I hope that,

even in the humble sphere in which I am about to move, I shall contrive

to make myself both esteemed and respected.'

'_That_ I dinna doubt--that I dinna doubt, my dear lassie,' replied her

mother; 'but, oh, it goes to my heart to see you gaun into the service

o' ithers. I never expected to see the day. Oh, this is a sad change

that's come over us a'!' And again the poor woman burst into a paroxysm

of grief.

'Mother,' said the girl, 'you will dishearten me if you go on in this

way.' Then smiling through the tears of affection that glistened on her

eye, and assuming a tone of affected cheerfulness, 'Come now, dear

mother, do drop this desponding tone. There's better days in store for

us yet. We'll get above all this by-and-by. In the meantime it is our

duty, as Christians, to submit to the destiny that has been decreed us

with patience and resignation. Come, mother, I'll sing you the song you

used always to like so well to hear me sing.' And, without waiting for

any remark in reply, or pausing in her employment, the girl immediately

began, in a voice whose richness of tone and deep pathos possessed the

most thrilling power:--

'A cheerfu' heart's been always mine,

Whatever might betide me, O!

In foul or fair, in shade or shine,

I've aye had that to guide me, O!

When luck cam chappin' at my door,

Wi' right goodwill I cheered him, O!

And whan misfortune cam, I swore

The ne'er a bit I feared him, O!'

'O lassie, lassie!' exclaimed Jessy's mother, here interrupting her, and

now smiling as she spoke--'how can ye think o' singing at such a time?

But God lang vouchsafe ye sae light and cheerfu' a heart! It's a great

blessing, Jessy, and canna be prized too highly.'

'I'm aware of it, mother,' replied her daughter, 'and am, I trust,

thankful for it. I dinna see, after a', that anything should seriously

distress us--but guilt. If we keep free o' _that_, what hae we to fear?

A' ither mischances will mend, or if they dinna, they'll at least smooth

doon wi' time.'

'But why are ye no puttin' up your silk goun, Jessy?' here interposed

her mother, abruptly; seeing her daughter laying aside the article of

dress she referred to, as if she did not intend it should have a place

in the little chest she was packing.

'The silk gown, mother, I'll no tak wi' me,' replied Jessy, smiling;

'I'll leave't at hame till better times come roun'. It would hardly

become my station now, mother, to be gaun flaunting about in silks.'

'Too true, Jessy,' said her mother with a sigh. 'It may be as weel, as

ye say, to leave't at hame for a wee, till times mend wi' us at ony

rate, although God only knows when that may be, if ever.'

'I'll keep it for my wedding gown, mother,' said Jessy, laughingly, and

with an intention of counteracting the depressing tendency of her

inadvertent remarks on the propriety of her leaving her silk gown

behind. 'I'll keep it for my wedding dress, mother,' she said, 'although

it's mair than likely that a plainer attire will be mair suitable for

that occasion too.'

'Nae sayin', Jessy,' replied her mother. 'Ye'll maybe get a canny laird

yet, that can ride to market wi' siller spurs on his boots and gowd lace

on his hat.'

'Far less will please me, mither,' replied Jessy, blushing and laughing

at the same time. 'I never, even in our best days, looked so high, and

it would ill become me to do so now.'

With such conversation as this did mother and daughter endeavour to

divert their minds from dwelling on the painful reflection which the

latter's occupation was so well calculated to excite.

An early hour of the following morning saw Jessy Flowerdew seated in a

little cart, well lined with straw by her doting father, who proposed

driving her himself into the city. A _small, blue-painted chest_, a

bandbox, and one or two small bundles, formed the whole of her

travelling accompaniments. She herself was wrapped in a scarlet mantle,

and wore on her head a light straw bonnet, of tasteful shape, and

admirably adapted to the complexion and contour of the fine countenance

which it gracefully enclosed.

After a delay of a few minutes--for the cart in which Jessy was seated

was still standing at the door--her father, dressed in his Sunday's

suit, came out of the house, stepped up to the horse's head, took the

reins in his hand, and gently put in motion the little humble conveyance

which was to bear his daughter away from the home of her childhood, and

to place her in the house of the stranger. Unable to sustain the agony

of a last parting, Jessy's mother had not come out of the house to see

her daughter start on her journey; but she was seen, when the cart had

proceeded a little way, standing at the door, with her apron at her

eyes, looking after it with an expression of the most heartfelt sorrow.

'There's my mother, father,' said Jessy, in a choking voice, on getting

a sight of the former in the affecting attitude above described--but she

could add no more. In the next instant her face was buried in her

handkerchief. Her father turned round on her calling his attention to

her mother, but instantly, and without saying a word, resumed the

silent, plodding pace which the circumstance had for a moment

interrupted.

In little more than an hour the humble equipage, whose progress we have

been tracing, entered the city. Humble, however, as that equipage was,

it did not prevent the passers-by from marking the singular beauty of

her by whom it was occupied. Many were they who looked round, and stood

and gazed in admiration after the little cart and its occupant, as they

rattled along the 'stony street.' Their further progress, however, was

now a short one. In a few minutes Flowerdew and his daughter found

themselves at the professor's door. The former now tenderly lifted out

Jessy from the cart--for her sylph-like form, so light and slender, was

nothing in the arms of the robust farmer--and placed her in safety on

the flag-stones. Her little trunk and bandbox were next taken out by the

same friendly hand, and deposited beside her. This done, Flowerdew

rapped at the professor's door. It was opened. The father and daughter

entered; and, in an hour after--long before which her father had left

her--the latter was engaged in the duties of her new situation.

Days, weeks, and months, as they will always do, now passed away, but

they still found Jessy in the service of her first employers, whose

esteem she had gained by the gentleness of her nature, the modesty of

her demeanour, and the extreme propriety of her conduct.

At the time of her first entering into the service of Professor

Lockerby, Jessy Flowerdew had just completed her sixteenth year. The

charms of her person had not then attained their full perfection. But

now that two years more had passed over her head--for this interval must

be understood to have elapsed before we resume our tale--her face and

figure had attained the zenith of their beauty, a beauty that struck

every beholder, and in every beholder excited feelings of unqualified

admiration.

It was about the end of two years after Jessy's advent into the family

of the professor, that the latter one morning, raising his head from a

letter which he had just been reading, and, turning to the former, who

was in the act of removing the breakfast equipage, said--

'Jessy, my girl, will you be so good as put the little parlour and

bedroom up stairs in the best order you can, as I expect a young

gentleman to-morrow, who is to become a boarder with us.'

Jessy courtseyed her acquiescence in the order just given her, and

retired from the apartment to fulfil it.

On the following day a travelling carriage, whose panels were adorned

with a coronet, drove up to the door of Professor Lockerby. From this

carriage descended a young man, apparently between nineteen and twenty

years of age, of the most prepossessing appearance. His countenance was

pale, but bore an expression of extreme mildness and benevolence. His

figure was tall and slender, but handsomely formed; while his whole

manner and bearing bespoke the man of high birth and breeding.

On descending from his carriage, the young man was received by the

professor with the most respectful deference--too respectful it seemed

to be for the taste of him to whom it was addressed, for he instantly

broke through the cold formality of the meeting, by grasping the

professor's hand, and shaking it with the heartiest and most cordial

goodwill, saying while he did so--

'I hope I see you well, professor.'

'In perfect health, I thank you, my lord,' replied the professor. 'I

hope you left your good lady mother, the countess, well.'

'Quite well--I'm obliged to you, professor--as lively and stirring, and

active as ever. Hot and hasty, and a little queenly in her style now and

then, as you know, but still the open heart and the open hand of the

Wistonburys.'

'I have the honour of knowing the countess well, my lord,' replied the

professor, 'and can bear testimony to the nobleness of her nature and

disposition. I have known many, many instances of it.'

With such conversation as this, the professor and his noble boarder--for

such was the young man whom we have just introduced to the

reader--entered the house. Who this young man was, and what was his

object in taking up his abode with Professor Lockerby, we will explain

in a few words, although such explanation is rendered in part nearly

unnecessary by the conversation just recorded between him and the

professor. It may not be amiss, however, to say, in more distinct terms,

that he was the Earl of Wistonbury, a rank which he had attained just a

year before, by the sudden and premature death of his father, who died

in the forty-fifth year of his age. Since his accession to the title of

his ancestors, the young earl had continued to live in retirement with

his mother, a woman of a noble, elevated, and generous soul, well

becoming her high lineage--for she, too, was descended of one of the

noblest families in England--but in whose temper there was occasionally

made visible a dash of the leaven of aristocracy.

On her son, the young earl, her only surviving child, she doted with all

the affection of the fondest and tenderest of mothers; and well worthy

was that son of all the love she could bestow. His was one of those

natures which no earthly elevation can corrupt, no factitious system

deprive of its innate simplicity.

The promotion of the young earl to the head of his illustrious house,

was, however, a premature one in more respects than one. One of these

was to be found in the circumstance of the young man's being found

unprepared--at least so he judged himself--in the matter of education,

to fill with credit the high station to which he was so unexpectedly

called. His education, in truth, had been rather neglected; and it was

to make up for this neglect, to recover his lost ground with all the

speed possible, that he was now come to reside for a few months with

Professor Lockerby, who had once acted as tutor in his father's family

to a brother who had died young.

Such, then, was the professor's boarder, and such was the purpose for

which he became so.

The favourable impression which the youthful earl's first appearance had

made, suffered no diminution by length of acquaintance. Mild and

unpresuming, he won the love of all who came in contact with him. The

little personal services he required, he always solicited, never

commanded; and what he could with any propriety do himself, he always

did, without seeking other assistance.

A quiet and unostentatious inmate of the professor's, time rolled

rapidly, but gently and imperceptibly, over the head of the young earl,

until a single week only intervened between the moment referred to, and

the period fixed on for his return to Oxton Hall.

Thus, nearly six months had elapsed, not a very long period, but one in

which much may be accomplished, and in which many a change may take

place. And by such features were the six months marked, which the young

Earl of Wistonbury had spent in the house of Professor Lockerby. In that

time, by dint of unrelaxing assiduity and intense application, he had

acquired a respectable knowledge of both Latin and Greek, and in that

time, too, he had taken a step which was to affect the whole tenor of

his after life, and to make him either happy or miserable, as it had

been fortunately or unfortunately made. What that step was we shall

divulge, through precisely the same singular process by which it

actually came to the knowledge of the other parties interested.

One evening, at the period to which we a short while since

alluded--namely, about a week previous to the expiry of the proposed

term of the earl's residence with Professor Lockerby--as Jessy Flowerdew

was about to remove the tea equipage from the table of the little

parlour in which the professor and his noble pupil usually conducted

their studies, the latter suddenly rose from his seat, and, looking at

their fair handmaiden with a serious countenance, said--

'Jessy, my love, you must not perform this service again, nor any other

of a similar kind. You are now my wife--you are now Countess of

Wistonbury.'

We leave it to the reader to imagine, after his own surprise has a

little subsided, what was that of the worthy professor, on hearing his

noble pupil make so extraordinary, so astounding a declaration--a

declaration not less remarkable for its import, than for the occasion on

which, and the manner in which it was made.

On recovering from his astonishment, 'My lord,' said the good professor,

with a grave and stern countenance, 'be good enough to inform me what

this extraordinary conduct means? What can have been your motive, my

lord, for using the highly improper and most unguarded language which I

have just now heard you utter?'

The young earl, with the greatest calmness and deference of manner,

approached the professor, laid his hand upon his heart, and, with a

graceful inclination, said, slowly and emphatically--

'Upon my honour, sir, she _is_ my wife!'

'What, my lord!' exclaimed the still more and more amazed professor--and

now starting from his chair in his excitation--'do you repeat your most

unbecoming and incredible assertion?'

'I do, sir,' replied the earl, in the same calm and respectful manner.

'I do repeat it, and say, before God, that Jessy Flowerdew is the

lawfully married wife of the Earl of Wistonbury.'

'Well, my lord, well,' said the professor, in angry agitation, 'I know

what is my duty in this most extraordinary case. It is to give instant

notice to the countess, your mother, of what I must call, my lord, the

extremely rash and unadvised step you have taken.'

To this threat and rebuke, the earl replied, with the utmost composure

and politeness of manner--'I was not unprepared, sir, for your

resentment on this occasion. Neither do I take it in the least amiss.

You merely do your duty when you tell me I have forgotten mine. But the

step I have taken, sir, allow me to say, although it may appear

unadvised, has not been so in reality. I have weighed well the

consequences, and am quite prepared to abide them.'

'Be it so, my lord, be it so,' replied the professor. 'I have only now

to remark that, as you say you were prepared for _my_ resentment, I hope

you are also prepared for your mother's, my lord--a matter of much more

serious moment.'

'My mother, sir, I will take in my own hands,' replied the earl; 'she

can resent, but she can also forgive.'

'I have no more to say, my lord, no more,' rejoined Mr. Lockerby; 'the

matter must now be put into the hands of those who have a better right

to judge of its propriety than I have. I shall presume on no further

remark on the subject.'

'Come, sir,' said the earl, smiling and extending his hand to the

professor, 'let this, if you please, be no cause for difference between

us. I propose that we allow the matter to lie in abeyance until my

mother has been appealed to; she being the only person, you know, who

has a right to be displeased with my proceeding, or whose wishes I was

called upon to consult in this matter.'

'Excuse me, my lord,' replied the worthy professor; 'but I must

positively decline all interchange of courtesies which may, by any

possibility, be construed into an overlooking of this very extraordinary

affair.'

'Well, well, my good sir,' said the earl, smiling, and still maintaining

the equanimity of his temper, 'judge of me as charitably as you can. In

the morning, we shall meet, I trust, better friends.' Saying this, he

took up one of the candles which were on the table before him, bade the

professor a polite and respectful good night, and retired to his own

apartment.

The earl had no sooner withdrawn than Mr. Lockerby, after collecting

himself a little, commenced inditing a letter to the Countess Dowager of

Wistonbury, apprising her of what had just occurred. In speaking,

however, of the 'degrading' connection which her son had made, the

honest man's sense of justice compelled him to add a qualifying

explanation of the term which he had employed--'degrading, I mean,' he

said, '_in point of wealth, rank, and accomplishments_; for, in all

other respects, in conduct and character, in temper and disposition,

and, above all, in personal appearance--for she is certainly eminently

beautiful--I must admit that her superior may not easily be found.'

The letter that contained these remarks, with the other information

connected with it, the professor despatched on the same night on which

it was written; and, having done this, awaited with what composure and

fortitude he could command, the dreadful explosion of aristocratic wrath

and indignation, which, he had no doubt, would speedily follow.

Leaving matters in this extraordinary position in the house of Professor

Lockerby we shall shift the scene, for a moment, to the Countess

Dowager of Wistonbury's sitting apartment in Oxton Hall; and we shall

choose the moment when her favourite footman, Jacob Asterley, has

entered her presence, after his return from a call at the post-office in

the neighbouring village; the time being the second day after the

occurrence just previously related--namely, the despatch to Oxton Hall

of Professor Lockerby's letter.

'Well, Jacob, any letters for me to-day?' said the countess, on the

entrance of that worthy official.

'One, my lady, from Scotland,' replied the servant, deferentially, and,

at the same time, opening the bag in which the letters were usually

carried to and from the post-house.

'Ah! from the earl,' said the countess.

'No, my lady, I rather think not. The address is not in his lordship's

handwriting.'

'Oh! the good Professor Lockerby,' said the countess, contemplating for

a moment the address of the letter in question, which was now in her

ladyship's hands. 'I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to my son.'

And while she spoke, she hurriedly broke the seal, and, in the next

instant, was intently engaged in perusing the intelligence which it had

secured from the prying curiosity of parties whom it did not concern.

It would take a much abler pen than that now employed in tracing these

lines, to convey anything like an adequate idea of the mingled

expression of amazement, indignation, and grief exhibited on the

countenance, and in every act and attitude of the proud Countess of

Wistonbury, on reading the story of her son's degradation. The flush of

haughty resentment was succeeded by the sudden paleness of despair; and

in frequent alternation did these strong expressions of varied feeling

flit across the fine countenance--still fine, although it had looked on

fifty summers--of the heart-stricken mother, as she proceeded in her

perusal of the fatal document. On completing the perusal, the countess

threw herself in silent distraction on a sofa, and, still holding the

open letter in her hand, sank into a maze of wild and wandering

thoughts. These, however, seemed at length to concentrate in one

decisive and sudden resolution. Starting from the reclining posture into

which she had thrown herself, she advanced towards the bell-pull, rung

furiously, and, when the servant entered to know what were her

commands--

'Order the travelling carriage instantly, Jacob,' she said--'instantly,

instantly; and let four of my best horses be put in the harness. What do

you stare at, fool?' she added, irritated at the look of astonishment

which the inexplicable violence of her manner had called into the

countenance of her trusty domestic. 'Do as you are ordered, directly.'

The man bowed and withdrew; and in pursuance of the commands he had

received, proceeded to the stables.

'Here's a start, Thomas!' he said, addressing a jolly-looking fellow,

who was busily employed in brushing up some harness; 'the travelling

carriage directly, and four of your best horses for my lady.'

'Why, what the devil's the matter now?' replied Thomas, pausing in his

operations; 'where's the old girl a-going to?'

'Not knowing, can't say,' replied Jacob; 'but she's in a woundy fuss, I

warrant you. Never seed her in such a quandary in my life. Something's

wrong somewhere, I guess.'

'Well, well, all's one to me,' said Thomas, with philosophical

indifference; 'but it looks like a long start, where-ever it may be to;

so I'll get my traps in order.' And this duty was so expeditiously

performed, that, in less than fifteen minutes, the very handsome

travelling carriage of the Earl of Wistonbury, drawn by four spanking

bays, flashed up to the door of Oxton Hall. In an instant after, it was

occupied by the dowager countess, and in another, was rattling away for

Scotland, at the utmost speed of the noble animals by which it was

drawn.

Changing here, once more, the scene of our story, we return to the house

of Professor Lockerby. There matters continued in that ominous state of

quiescence, that significant and portentous calm, that precedes the

bursting of the storm. Between the professor and the young earl, not a

word more had passed on the subject of the latter's extraordinary

declaration. Neither had made the slightest subsequent allusion to it,

but continued their studies precisely as they had done before; although,

perhaps, a degree of restraint--a consciousness of some point of

difference between them--might now be discerned in their correspondence.

Both, in short, seemed to have tacitly agreed to abide the result of the

professor's letter to the countess, before taking any other step, or

expressing any other feeling, on the subject to which that letter

related. The anticipated crisis which the professor and his noble pupil

were thus composedly awaiting, soon arrived. On the third day after that

remarkable one on which the young Earl of Wistonbury had avowed the

humble daughter of an humble Scotch farmer to be his wife, a carriage

and four, which, we need scarcely say, was the same we saw start from

Oxton Hall, drove furiously up to the door of Professor Lockerby. The

horses' flanks sent forth clouds of smoke; their mouths and

fore-shoulders were covered with foam; and the carriage itself was

almost encased in mud. Everything, in short, told of a long and rapid

journey. And it was so. Night and day, without one hour's intermission,

had that carriage prosecuted its journey. In an instant after, the

carriage stopped; its steps were down, and, bridling with high and lofty

indignation, the Dowager Countess of Wistonbury descended, and, ere any

one of the professor's family were aware of her arrival, she had entered

the house, the door being accidentally open, and was calling loudly for

'her boy.'

'Where is my son?' she exclaimed, as she made her way into the interior

of the house: 'where is the Earl of Wistonbury?'

In a moment after the Earl of Wistonbury, who had heard and instantly

recognized his mother's voice, was before her, and was about to rush

into her arms, when she haughtily thrust him back, saying--

'Degraded, spiritless boy, dare not too approach me! You have blotted

the noblest, the proudest scutcheon of England. Where is Professor

Lockerby?'

The professor was by her side before she had completed the sentence,

when, seeing her agitation--

'My good lady,' he said, in his most persuasive tone, 'do allow me to

entreat of you to be composed, and to have the honour of conducting you

up stairs.'

'Anywhere!--anywhere, professor!' exclaimed the countess; 'but, alas! go

where I will, I cannot escape the misery of my own thoughts, nor the

disgrace which my unworthy son has brought upon my head.'

Without making any reply to this outburst of passionate feeling, the

professor took the countess respectfully by the hand, and silently

conducted her to his drawing-room. With stately step the countess

entered, and walked slowly to the further end of the apartment; this

gained, she turned round, and, when she had done so, a sight awaited her

for which she was but little prepared. This was her son and Jessy

Flowerdew, kneeling side by side, and, by their attitude, eloquently

imploring her forgiveness. It was just one of those sights best

calculated to work on the nobler nature of the Countess of Wistonbury,

and to call up the finer feelings of her generous heart. For some

seconds she looked at the kneeling pair in silent astonishment; her eye,

however, chiefly fixed on the beauteous countenance of Jessy Flowerdew,

pale with terror and emotion, and wet with tears. Having gazed for some

time on this extraordinary sight, without betraying the slightest

symptom of the feelings beyond that of surprise, with which it had

inspired her, the countess slowly advanced towards the kneeling couple.

She still, however, uttered no word, and discovered no emotion; but a

sudden change had come over her proud spirit. That spirit was now laid,

and its place occupied by all the generous impulses of her nature.

Keeping her eye steadily fixed on the kneeling fair one before her, she

approached her, paused a moment, extended her hand, placed it on the

ivory forehead of Jessy Flowerdew, gently laid back her rich auburn

hair, and, as she did so, said, in a tremulous, but emphatic voice--

'You _are_, indeed, a lovely girl! God bless you! Alfred, my son, rise,'

she added, in a low, but calm and solemn tone; 'I forgive you.' And she

extended her hand towards him. The earl seized it, kissed it

affectionately, and bathed it with his tears.

'Rise, my lady--rise, my fair Countess of Wistonbury,' she now said, and

herself aiding in the act she commanded, 'I acknowledge you as my

daughter, and we must now see to fitting you to the high station to

which my son's favour has promoted you, and of which, I trust, you will

prove as worthy in point of conduct as you assuredly already are in that

of personal beauty. God bless you both! And may every happiness that the

conjugal state affords, be yours! Professor,' she added, and now turning

round to that gentleman, 'you will think this weakness--a mother's

weakness--and perhaps it is so--but I would myself fain attribute it to

a more worthy feeling, and, if I know my own heart, it is so. But let

that pass. I _am_ reconciled to the step my son has taken, and

reverently leave it to God, and fearlessly to man, to judge of the

motives by which I have been influenced. I trust they are such as to

merit the approbation of both.'

Surprised, and greatly affected by the unexpected turn which matters had

taken, so contrary to what he had anticipated, the worthy professor had

listened to these expressions of the countess with averted head, and

making the most ingenious use of the handkerchief which he held to his

face that he could, to conceal the real purpose for which he employed

it. When she had done--

'Madam,' he said, with great agitation and confusion of manner, and

still busily plying the handkerchief in its pretended vocation--'Madam,

I--I--I am surprised--much affected, I assure you--much affected, my

lady--with this striking instance of what a noble and generous nature is

capable. I was by no means prepared for it. It does you infinite honour,

my lady--infinite honour; and will, I trust, in its result, be

productive of all that happiness to you which your magnanimous conduct

so eminently deserves.'

'I trust I have acted rightly, professor,' was the brief reply of the

countess, as she again turned to the young couple, who were now standing

on the floor beside her, 'I hope I have; and, if my heart does not

deceive me, I am sure I have.'

'You are warranted, my lady, in the confidence you express in the

uprightness, the generosity of your conduct on this very remarkable

occasion--perfectly warranted,' replied the professor. 'It is an

unexampled instance of greatness, of liberality of mind, and as such I

must always look on it.'

Thus, then, terminated this extraordinary scene. It was subsequently

arranged that the marriage of the earl should, in the meantime, be kept

as secret as possible, and that the young countess should, in the

interim, be sent for a year or two to one of the most celebrated

seminaries of female education in England, under an assumed name, and

that, when she should have acquired the attainments and the polish

befitting her high station, she should be produced to the world as the

Countess of Wistonbury.

Acting upon this plan of proceedings, the same carriage that brought

down the earl's mother, bore away, on the following day, together with

that lady, the young earl and his bride; the latter, to commence her

educational noviciate in England; the former, to while away the time as

he best could until that noviciate should expire, a period which he

proposed to render less irksome by a tour on the continent.

About two years after the occurrence of the events just related--it

might be more, perhaps nearly three--Oxton Hall presented a scene of

prodigious confusion and bustle. Little carts of provender were daily

seen making frequent visits to the house. Huge old grates, in deserted

kitchens, that had not been in use for a century before, were cleared of

their rubbish, and glowing with blazing fires, at which enormous roasts

were solemnly revolving. Menials were running to and fro in all

directions, and a crowd of powdered and richly-liveried lackeys bustled

backwards and forwards through the gorgeous apartments, loaded with

silver plate, and bearing huge baskets of wine. Everything at Oxton

Hall, in short, betokened preparations for a splendid fête--and such, in

truth, was the case. To this fête all the nobility and gentry, within a

circuit of ten to fifteen miles were invited; and such an affair it

promised to be, altogether, as had not been seen at Oxton Hall since the

marriage of the last earl--a period of nearly thirty years. None of

those invited knew, or could guess, what was the particular reason for

so extensive a merry-making. Its scale, they learned, was most

magnificent, and the invitations unprecedentedly numerous.

The whole affair was thus somewhat of a puzzle to the good people who

were to figure as guests at the impending fête; but they comforted

themselves with the reflection that they would know all about it by and

by. In the meantime, the day appointed for the celebration of the

proposed festival at Oxton Hall arrived; and, amongst the other

preparations which more markedly characterized it, was the appearance of

several long tables extended on the lawn in front of the house, and

which were intended for the accommodation of the earl's tenantry, who

were also invited to share in the coming festivities. Towards the

afternoon of the day alluded to, carriages and vehicles of all

descriptions, and of various degrees of elegance, were seen, in

seemingly endless numbers, streaming along the spacious and

well-gravelled walks that led, by many a graceful curve, through the

surrounding lawn, to the noble portals of Oxton Hall. These, by turns,

drew up in front of the principal entrance to the house, and delivered

their several cargoes of lords and ladies, knights and squires, all

honourable personages, and of high degree. An inferior description of

equipages, again, and occupied by persons of a different class, sturdy

yeomen and their wives and daughters, found ther way, or rather were

guided as they came, to a different destination, but with no difference

in the hospitality of their reception. All were alike welcome to Oxton

Hall on this auspicious day. By and by the hour of dinner came, and,

when it did, it exhibited a splendid scene in the magnificent

dining-room of the Earl of Wistonbury. In this dining-room were

assembled a party of at least a hundred-and-fifty ladies and gentlemen,

all in their best attire. Down the middle of the spacious apartment ran

a table of ample length and breadth, and capable of accommodating with

ease even the formidable array by which it was shortly to be

surrounded. On this spacious board glittered as much wealth, in the

shape of silver plate, as would have bought a barony, while everything

around showed that it was still but a small portion of the riches of its

noble owner. At the further end of the lordly hall, in an elevated

recess or interior balcony, were stationed a band of musicians, to

contribute the choicest specimens of the art to the hilarity of the

evening. Altogether the scene was one of the most imposing that can well

be conceived, an effect which was not a little heightened by the antique

character of the noble apartment in which it was exhibited, one of whose

most striking features was a large oriel window, filled with the most

beautifully stained glass, which threw its subdued and sombre light on

the magnificent scene beneath. Hitherto the young earl had not been seen

by any of the company; his mother, the countess-dowager, having

discharged the duties of hospitality in receiving the guests. Many were

the inquiries made for the absent lord of the mansion; but these were

all answered evasively, although always concluded with the assurance

that he would appear in good time.

Satisfied with this assurance, the subject was no further pressed at the

moment; but, as the dinner hour approached, and the earl had not yet

presented himself, considerable curiosity and impatience began to be

manifested amongst the assembled guests. These feelings increased every

moment, and had attained their height, when the party found themselves

called on to take their seats at table, and yet no earl had appeared.

The general surprise was further excited on its being observed that the

countess-dowager did not, as usual, take the chair at the head of the

table, as was expected, but placed herself on its right. The chair at

the foot of the table remained also yet unoccupied; and great was the

wonder what all this could mean. It was now soon to be explained. Just

as the party had taken their seats, a folding-door, at the further end

of the hall, flew open, and the young Earl of Wistonbury entered,

leading by the hand a young female of exceeding beauty, attired in a

dress of the most dazzling splendour, over which was gracefully thrown a

Scottish plaid. Bowing slightly, but with a graceful and cordial

expression, and smiling affably as he advanced, the earl conducted his

fair charge to the head of the table, where, after a pause of a few

seconds, which he purposely made in order to afford his guests an

opportunity of marking the extreme loveliness of the lady whom he had

thus so unexpectedly introduced to them--an opportunity which was not

thrown away, as was evident from the murmur of admiration that ran round

the brilliant assembly--the earl thus shortly addressed his wondering

guests--

'Permit me, my friends,' he said, 'to introduce to you the Countess of

Wistonbury!'

A shout of applause from the gentlemen, and a waving of handkerchiefs

by the ladies, hailed the pleasing and unexpected intelligence--an

homage whose duration and intensity was increased by the singularly

graceful manner with which it was received and acknowledged by her to

whom it was paid. Nothing could be more captivating than the modest,

winning sweetness of her smile, nothing more pleasing to behold than the

gentle grace of her every motion. On all present the impression was that

she was a woman of birth, education, and high breeding, and nothing in

the part she subsequently acted tended in the slightest degree to affect

this idea. The young and lovely countess conducted herself throughout

the whole of this eventful evening, as she did throughout the remainder

of her life, with the most perfect propriety; and thus evinced that the

pains taken to fit Jessy Flowerdew for the high station to which a

singular good fortune had called her, was very far from having been

taken in vain.

At the conclusion of the banquet, the earl entreated the indulgence of

the company for an absence for himself and the countess of a quarter of

an hour. This being of course readily acquiesced in, the earl and his

beauteous young wife were seen, arm and arm, on the lawn, going towards

the tables at which his tenantry were enjoying his hospitality. Here he

went through precisely the same ceremony of introduction with that which

we have described as having taken place in the banquet-hall; and here it

was greeted with the same enthusiasm, and acknowledged by the countess

with the same grace and propriety. This proceeding over, the earl and

his young bride returned to their party, when one of the most joyous

evenings followed that the banqueting-room of Oxton Hall had ever

witnessed. There is only now to add, that Jessy Flowerdew's subsequent

conduct as Countess of Wistonbury proved her in every respect worthy of

the high place to which she had been elevated. A mildness and gentleness

of disposition, and a winning modesty of demeanour, which all the wealth

and state with which she was surrounded could not in the slightest

degree impair, distinguished her through life; and no less distinguished

was she by the generosity and benevolence of her nature, a nature which

her change of destiny was wholly unable to pervert."

Such, then, good reader, is the history of the lady whose portrait, in

which she appears habited in a Scottish plaid, adorns, with others, the

walls of the picture gallery of Oxton Hall, in Wiltshire.

MIDSIDE MAGGY;

OR,

THE BANNOCK O' TOLLISHILL.

"Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill."

_Scottish Proverb._

Belike, gentle reader, thou hast often heard the proverb quoted above,

that "Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill." The

saying hath its origin in a romantic tradition of the Lammermoors, which

I shall relate to thee. Tollishill is the name of a sheep-farm in

Berwickshire, situated in the parish of Lauder. Formerly, it was divided

into three farms, which were occupied by different tenants; and, by way

of distinguishing it from the others, that in which dwelt the subjects

of our present story was generally called Midside, and our heroine

obtained the appellation of Midside Maggy. Tollishill was the property

of John, second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale--a personage

whom I shall more than once, in these tales, have occasion to bring

before mine readers, and whose character posterity hath small cause to

hold in veneration. Yet it is a black character, indeed, in which there

is not to be found one streak of sunshine; and the story of the "Bannock

of Tollishill" referreth to such a streak in the history of John, the

Lord of Thirlestane.

Time hath numbered somewhat more than a hundred and ninety years since

Thomas Hardie became tenant of the principal farm of Tollishill. Now,

that the reader may picture Thomas Hardie as he was, and as tradition

hath described him, he or she must imagine a tall, strong, and

fresh-coloured man of fifty; a few hairs of grey mingling with his brown

locks; a countenance expressive of much good nature and some

intelligence; while a Lowland bonnet was drawn over his brow. The other

parts of his dress were of coarse, grey, homespun cloth, manufactured in

Earlston; and across his shoulders, in summer as well as in winter, he

wore the mountain plaid. His principles assimilated to those held by the

men of the covenant; but Thomas, though a native of the hills, was not

without the worldly prudence which is considered as being more

immediately the characteristic of the buying and selling children of

society. His landlord was no favourer of the Covenant; and, though

Thomas wished well to the cause, he did not see the necessity for making

his laird, the Lord of Lauderdale, his enemy for its sake. He,

therefore, judged it wise to remain a neutral spectator of the religious

and political struggles of the period.

But Thomas was a bachelor. Half a century had he been in the world, and

the eyes of no woman had had power to throw a spark into his heart. In

his single, solitary state, he was happy, or he thought himself happy;

and that is much the same thing. But an accident occurred which led him

first to believe, and eventually to feel, that he was but a solitary and

comfortless moorland farmer, toiling for he knew not what, and laying up

treasure he knew not for whom. Yea, and while others had their wives

spinning, carding, knitting, and smiling before them, and their bairns

running laughing and sporting round about them, he was but a poor

deserted creature, with nobody to care for, or to care for him. Every

person had some object to strive for and to make them strive but Thomas

Hardie; or, to use his own words, he was "just in the situation o' a

tewhit that has lost its mate--_te-wheet! te-wheet!_ it cried, flapping

its wings impatiently and forlornly--and _te-wheet! te-wheet!_ answered

vacant echo frae the dreary glens."

Thomas had been to Morpeth disposing of a part of his hirsels, and he

had found a much better market for them than he anticipated. He

returned, therefore, with a heavy purse, which generally hath a tendency

to create a light and merry heart; and he arrived at Westruther, and

went into a hostel, where, three or four times in the year, he was in

the habit of spending a cheerful evening with his friends. He had called

for a quegh of the landlady's best, and he sat down at his ease with the

liquor before him, for he had but a short way to travel. He also pulled

out his tobacco-box and his pipe, and began to inhale the fumes of what,

up to that period, was almost a forbidden weed. But we question much if

the royal book of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England,

which he published against the use of tobacco, ever found its way into

the Lammermoors, though the Indian weed did; therefore, Thomas Hardie

sat enjoying his glass and his pipe, unconscious or regardless of the

fulminations which he who was king in his boyhood, had published against

the latter. But he had not sat long, when a fair maiden, an acquaintance

of "mine hostess," entered the hostelry, and began to assist her in the

cutting out or fashioning of a crimson kirtle. Her voice fell upon the

ears of Thomas like the "music of sweet sounds." He had never heard a

voice before that not only fell softly on his ear, but left a lingering

murmur in his heart. She, too, was a young thing of not more than

eighteen. If ever hair might be called "gowden," it was hers. It was a

light and shining bronze, where the prevalence of the golden hue gave a

colour to the whole. Her face was a thing of beauty, over which health

spread its roseate hue, yet softly, as though the westling winds had

caused the leaves of the blushing rose to kiss her cheeks, and leave

their delicate hues and impression behind them. She was of a middle

stature, and her figure was such, although arrayed in homely garments,

as would have commanded the worship of a connoisseur of grace and

symmetry. But beyond all that kindled a flame within the hitherto

obdurate heart of Thomas, was the witching influence of her smile. For a

full hour he sat with his eyes fixed upon her; save at intervals, when

he withdrew them to look into the unwonted agitation of his own breast,

and examine the cause.

"Amongst the daughters of women," thought he unto himself--for he had a

sprinkling of the language of the age about him--"none have I seen so

beautiful. Her cheeks bloom bonnier than the heather on Tollishill, and

her bosom seems saft as the new-shorn fleece. Her smile is like a blink

o' sunshine, and would mak summer to those on whom it fell a' the year

round."

He also discovered, for the first time, that "Tollishill was a dull

place, especially in the winter season." When, therefore, the fair

damsel had arrayed the fashion of the kirtle and departed, without once

having seemed to observe Thomas, he said unto the goodwife of the

hostelry--"And wha, noo, if it be a fair question, may that bonnie

lassie be?"

"She is indeed a bonnie lassie," answered the landlady, "and a guid

lassie, too; and I hae nae doot but, as ye are a single man, Maister

Hardie, yer question is fair enough. Her name is Margaret Lylestone, and

she is the only bairn o' a puir infirm widow that cam to live here some

twa or three years syne. They cam frae south owre some way, and I am

sure they hae seen better days. We thocht at first that the auld woman

had been a Catholic; but I suppose that isna the case, though they

certainly are baith o' them strong Episcopawlians, and in nae way

favourable to the preachers or the word o' the Covenant; but I maun say

for Maggie, that she is a bonny, sweet-tempered, and obleegin

lassie--though, puir thing, her mother has brocht her up in a wrang

way."

Many days had not passed ere Thomas Hardie, arrayed in his Sunday

habiliments, paid another visit to Westruther; and he cautiously asked

of the goodwife of the hostel many questions concerning Margaret; and

although she jeered him, and said that "Maggy would ne'er think o' a

grey-haired carle like him," he brooded over the fond fancy; and

although on this visit he saw her not, he returned to Tollishill,

thinking of her as his bride. It was a difficult thing for a man of

fifty, who had been the companion of solitude from his youth upwards,

and who had lived in single blessedness amidst the silence of the hills,

without feeling the workings of the heart, or being subjected to the

influence of its passions--I say, it was indeed difficult for such a one

to declare, in the ear of a blooming maiden of eighteen, the tale of his

first affections. But an opportunity arrived which enabled him to

disembosom the burden that pressed upon his heart.

It has been mentioned that Margaret Lylestone and her mother were poor;

and the latter, who had long been bowed down with infirmities, was

supported by the industry of her daughter. They had also a cow, which

was permitted to graze upon the hills without fee or reward; and, with

the milk which it produced, and the cheese they manufactured, together

with the poor earnings of Margaret, positive want was long kept from

them. But the old woman became more and more infirm--the hand of death

seemed stretching over her. She required nourishment which Margaret

could not procure for her; and, that it might be procured--that her

mother might live and not die--the fair maiden sent the cow to Kelso to

be sold, from whence the seller was to bring with him the restoratives

that her parent required.

Now, it so was that Thomas Hardie, the tenant of Tollishill, was in

Kelso market when the cow of Widow Lylestone was offered for sale; and,

as it possessed the characteristic marks of a good milcher, he inquired

to whom it belonged. On being answered, he turned round for a few

moments, and stood thoughtful; but again turning to the individual who

had been intrusted to dispose of it, he inquired--

"And wherefore is she selling it?"

"Really, Maister Hardie," replied the other, "I could not positively

say, but I hae little doot it is for want--absolute necessity. The auld

woman's very frail and very ill--I hae to tak a' sort o' things oot to

her the nicht frae the doctor's, after selling the cow, and it's no in

the power o' things that her dochter, industrious as she is, should be

able to get them for her otherwise."

Thomas again turned aside, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. Having

inquired the price sought for the cow, he handed the money to the

seller, and gave the animal in charge to one of his herdsmen. He left

the market earlier than usual, and directed his servant that the cow

should be taken to Westruther.

It was drawing towards gloaming before Thomas approached the habitation

of the widow; and, before he could summon courage to enter it for the

first time, he sauntered for several minutes, backward and forward on

the moor, by the side of the Blackadder, which there silently wends its

way, as a dull and simple burn, through the moss. He felt all the

awkwardness of an old man struggling beneath the influence of a young

feeling. He thought of what he should say, how he should act, and how he

would be received. At length he had composed a short introductory and

explanatory speech which pleased him. He thought it contained both

feeling and delicacy (according to his notions of the latter) in their

proper proportions, and after repeating it three or four times over by

the side of the Blackadder, he proceeded towards the cottage, still

repeating it to himself as he went. But, when he raised his hand and

knocked at the door, his heart gave a similar knock upon his bosom, as

though it mimicked him; and every idea, every word of the introductory

speech which he had studied and repeated again and again, short though

it was, was knocked from his memory. The door was opened by Margaret,

who invited him to enter. She was beautiful as when he first beheld

her--he thought more beautiful--for she now spoke to him. Her mother sat

in an arm-chair, by the side of the peat fire, and was supported by

pillows. He took off his bonnet, and performed an awkward but his best

salutation.

"I beg your pardon," said he, hesitatingly, "for the liberty I have

taken in calling upon you. But--I was in Kelso the day--and"----He

paused, and turned his bonnet once or twice in his hands. "And," he

resumed, "I observed, or rather, I should say, I learned that ye

intended to sell your cow; but I also heard that ye was very ill,

and"----Here he made another pause. "I say I heard that ye was very ill,

and I thocht it would be a hardship for ye to part wi' crummie, and

especially at a time when ye are sure to stand maist in need o' every

help. So I bought the cow--but, as I say, it would be a very great

hardship for ye to be without the milk, and what the cheese may bring,

at a time like this; and, therefore, I hae ordered her to be brocht back

to ye, and ane o' my men will bring her hame presently. Never consider

the cow as mine, for a bachelor farmer like me can better afford to want

the siller, than ye can to want yer cow; and I micht hae spent it far

mair foolishly, and wi' less satisfaction. Indeed, if ye only but think

that good I've dune, I'm mair than paid."

"Maister Hardie," said the widow, "what have I, a stranger widow woman,

done to deserve this kindness at your hands? Or how is it in the power

o' words for me to thank ye? HE who provideth for the widow and the

fatherless will not permit you to go unrewarded, though I cannot. O

Margaret, hinny," added she, "thank our benefactor as we ought to thank

him, for I cannot."

Fair Margaret's thanks were a flood of tears.

"Oh, dinna greet!" said Thomas; "I would ten times ower rather no hae

bocht the cow, but hae lost the siller, than I would hae been the cause

o' a single tear rowin' doun yer bonny cheeks."

"O sir," answered the widow, "but they are tears o' gratitude that

distress my bairn, and nae tears are mair precious."

I might tell how Thomas sat down by the peat fire between the widow and

her daughter, and how he took the hand of the latter, and entreated her

to dry up her tears, saying that his chief happiness would be to be

thought their friend, and to deserve their esteem. The cow was brought

back to the widow's, and Thomas returned to Tollishill with his

herdsman. But, from that night, he became almost a daily visitor at the

house of Mrs. Lylestone. He provided whatever she required--all that was

ordered for her. He spoke not of love to Margaret, but he wooed her

through his kindness to her mother. It was, perhaps, the most direct

avenue to her affections. Yet it was not because Thomas thought so that

he pursued this course, but because he wanted confidence to make his

appeal in a manner more formal or direct.

The widow lingered many months; and all that lay within the power of

human means he caused to be done for her, to restore her to health and

strength, or at least to smooth her dying pillow. But the last was all

that could be done. Where death spreadeth the shadow of his wing, there

is no escape from sinking beneath the baneful influence of its shade.

Mrs. Lylestone, finding that the hour of her departure drew near, took

the hand of her benefactor, and when she had thanked him for all the

kindness which he had shown towards her, she added--

"But, O sir, there is one thing that makes the hand of death heavy. When

the sod is cauld upon my breast, who will look after my puir orphan--my

bonny faitherless and motherless Margaret? Where will she find a hame?"

"O mem," said Thomas, "if the like o' me durst say it, she needna hae

far to gang, to find a hame and a heart too. Would she only be mine, I

would be her protector--a' that I have should be hers."

A gleam of joy brightened in the eye of the dying widow.

"Margaret!" she exclaimed, faintly; and Margaret laid her face upon the

bed, and wept. "O my bairn! my puir bairn!" continued her mother, "shall

I see ye protected and provided for before I am 'where the wicked cease

from troubling and the weary are at rest,' which canna be lang noo?"

Thomas groaned--tears glistened in his eyes--he held his breath in

suspense. The moment of trial, of condemnation or acquittal, of

happiness or misery, had arrived. With an eager impatience he waited to

hear her answer. But Margaret's heart was prepared for his proposal. He

had first touched it with gratitude--he had obtained her esteem; and

where these sentiments prevail in the bosom of a woman whose affections

have not been bestowed upon another, love is not far distant--if it be

not between them, and a part of both.

"Did ever I disobey you, mother?" sobbed Margaret, raising her parent's

hand to her lips.

"No, my bairn, no!" answered the widow. And raising herself in the bed,

she took her daughter's hand and placed it in the hand of Thomas Hardie.

"Oh!" said he, "is this possible? Does my bonny Margaret really consent

to make me the happiest man on earth? Shall I hae a gem at Tollishill

that I wadna exchange for a monarch's diadem?"

It is sufficient to say that the young and lovely Margaret Lylestone

became Mrs. Hardie of Tollishill; or, as she was generally called,

"_Midside Maggie_." Her mother died within three months after their

marriage, but died in peace, having, as she said, "seen her dear bairn

blessed wi' a leal and a kind guidman, and ane that was weel to do."

For two years after their marriage, and not a happier couple than Thomas

and Midside Maggie was to be found on all the long Lammermoors, in the

Merse, nor yet in the broad Lothians. They saw the broom and the heather

bloom in their season, and they heard the mavis sing before their

dwelling; yea, they beheld the snow falling on the mountains, and the

drift sweeping down the glens; but while the former delighted, the

latter harmed them not, and from all they drew mutual joy and happiness.

Thomas said that "Maggy was a matchless wife;" and she that "he was a

kind, kind husband."

But the third winter was one of terror among the hills. It was near the

new year; the snow began to fall on a Saturday, and when the following

Friday came, the storm had not ceased. It was accompanied by frost and a

fierce wind, and the drift swept and whirled like awful pillars of

alabaster, down the hills, and along the glens--

"Sweeping the flocks and herds."

Fearful was the wrath of the tempest on the Lammermoors. Many farmers

suffered severely, but none more severely than Thomas Hardie of

Tollishill. Hundreds of his sheep had perished in a single night. He was

brought from prosperity to the brink of adversity.

But another winter came round. It commenced with a severity scarce

inferior to that which had preceded it, and again scores of his sheep

were buried in the snow. But February had not passed, and scarce had the

sun entered what is represented as the astronomical sign of the _two

fish_, in the heavens, when the genial influence of spring fell with

almost summer warmth upon the earth. During the night the dews came

heavily on the ground, and the sun sucked it up in a vapour. But the

herbage grew rapidly, and the flocks ate of it greedily, and licked the

dew ere the sun rose to dry it up. It brought the murrain amongst them;

they died by hundreds; and those that even fattened, but did not die, no

man would purchase; or, if purchased, it was only upon the understanding

that the money should be returned if the animals were found unsound.

These misfortunes were too much for Thomas Hardie. Within two years he

found himself a ruined man. But he grieved not for the loss of his

flocks, nor yet for his own sake, but for that of his fair young wife,

whom he loved as the apple of his eye. Many, when they heard of his

misfortunes, said that they were sorry for bonny Midside Maggy.

But, worst of all, the rent-day of Thomas Hardie drew near; and for the

first time since he had held a farm, he was unable to meet his landlord

with his money in his hand. Margaret beheld the agony of his spirit, and

she knew its cause. She put on her Sunday hood and kirtle; and

professing to her husband that she wished to go to Lauder, she took her

way to Thirlestane Castle, the residence of their proud landlord, before

whom every tenant in arrear trembled. With a shaking hand she knocked at

the hall door, and after much perseverance and entreaty, was admitted

into the presence of the haughty earl. She curtsied low before him.

"Well, what want ye, my bonny lass?" said Lauderdale, eyeing her

significantly.

"May it please yer lordship," replied Margaret, "I am the wife o' yer

tenant, Thomas Hardie o' Tollishill; an' a guid tenant he has been to

yer lordship for twenty years and mair, as yer lordship maun weel ken."

"He has been my tenant for more than twenty years, say ye?" interrupted

Lauderdale; "and ye say ye are his wife: why, looking on thy bonny face,

I should say that the heather hasna bloomed twenty times on the knowes

o' Tollishill since thy mother bore thee. Yet ye say ye are his wife!

Beshrew me, but Thomas Hardie is a man o' taste. Arena ye his daughter?"

"No, my lord; his first, his only, an' his lawfu' wife--an' I would only

say, that to ye an' yer faither before ye, for mair than twenty years,

he has paid his rent regularly an' faithfully; but the seasons hae

visited us sairly, very sairly, for twa years successively, my lord, an'

the drift has destroyed, an' the rot rooted oot oor flocks, sae that we

are hardly able to haud up oor heads amang oor neebors, and to meet yer

lordship at yer rent-day is oot o' oor power; therefore hae I come to ye

to implore ye, that we may hae time to gather oor feet, an' to gie yer

lordship an' every man his due, when it is in oor power."

"Hear me, guidwife," rejoined the earl; "were I to listen to such

stories as yours, I might have every farmer's wife on my estates coming

whimpering and whinging, till I was left to shake a purse with naething

in't, and allowing others the benefit o' my lands. But it is not every

day that a face like yours comes in the shape o' sorrow before me; and,

for ae kiss o' your cherry mou', (and ye may take my compliments to your

auld man for his taste,) ye shall have a discharge for your half-year's

rent, and see if that may set your husband on his feet again."

"Na, yer lordship, na!" replied Margaret; "it would ill become ony woman

in my situation in life, an' especially a married ane, to be daffin with

sic as yer lordship. I am the wife o' Thomas Hardie, wha is a guid

guidman to me, an' I cam here this day to entreat ye to deal kindly wi'

him in the day o' his misfortune."

"Troth," replied Lauderdale--who could feel the force of virtue in

others, though he did not always practise it in his own person--"I hae

heard o' the blossom o' Tollishill before, an' a bonny flower ye are to

blossom in an auld man's bower; but I find ye modest as ye are bonny,

an' upon one condition will I grant yer request. Ye hae tauld me o' yer

hirsels being buried wi' the drift, an' that the snaw has covered the

May primrose on Leader braes; now it is Martinmas, an' if in June ye

bring me a snowball, not only shall ye be quit o' yer back rent, but ye

shall sit free in Tollishill till Martinmas next. But see that in June

ye bring me the snowball or the rent."

Margaret made her obeisance before the earl, and, thanking him,

withdrew. But she feared the coming of June; for to raise the rent even

then she well knew would be a thing impossible, and she thought also it

would be equally so to preserve a snow-ball beneath the melting sun of

June. Though young, she had too much prudence and honesty to keep a

secret from her husband; it was her maxim, and it was a good one, that

"there ought to be no secrets between a man and his wife, which the one

would conceal from the other." She therefore told him of her journey to

Thirlestane, and of all that had passed between her and the earl. Thomas

kissed her cheek, and called her his "bonny, artless Maggy;" but he had

no more hope of seeing a snowball in June than she had, and he said,

"the bargain was like the bargain o' a crafty Lauderdale."

Again the winter storms howled upon the Lammermoors, and the snow lay

deep upon the hills. Thomas and his herdsmen were busied in exertions to

preserve the remainder of his flocks; but, one day, when the westling

winds breathed with a thawing influence upon the snow-clad hills,

Margaret went forth to where there was a small, deep, and shadowed

ravine by the side of the Leader. In it the rivulet formed a pool, and

seemed to sleep, and there the grey trout loved to lie at ease; for a

high dark rock, over which the brushwood grew, overhung it, and the

rays of the sun fell not upon it. In the rock, and near the side of the

stream, was a deep cavity, and Margaret formed a snowball on the brae

top, and she rolled it slowly down into the shadowed glen, till it

attained the magnitude of an avalanche in miniature. She trode upon it,

and pressed it firmly together, till it obtained almost the hardness and

consistency of ice. She rolled it far into the cavity, and blocked up

the mouth of the aperture, so that neither light nor air might penetrate

the strange coffer in which she had deposited the equally strange rent

of Tollishill. Verily, common as ice-houses are in our day, let not

Midside Maggy be deprived of the merit of their invention.

I have said that it was her maxim to keep no secret from her husband;

but, as it is said there is no rule without an exception, even so it was

in the case of Margaret, and there was one secret which she communicated

not to Thomas, and that was--the secret of the hidden snowball.

But June came, and Thomas Hardie was a sorrowful man. He had in no

measure overcome the calamities of former seasons, and he was still

unprepared with his rent. Margaret shared not his sorrow, but strove to

cheer him, and said--

"We shall hae a snawba' in June, though I climb to the top o' Cheviot

for it."

"O my bonny lassie," replied he--and he could see the summit of Cheviot

from his farm--"dinna deceive yersel' wi' what could only be words

spoken in jest; but, at ony rate, I perceive there has been nae snaw on

Cheviot for a month past."

Now, not a week had passed, but Margaret had visited the aperture in the

ravine, where the snowball was concealed, not through idle curiosity, to

perceive whether it had melted away, but more effectually to stop up

every crevice that might have been made in the materials with which she

had blocked up the mouth of the cavity.

But the third day of the dreadful month had not passed, when a messenger

arrived at Tollishill from Thirlestane with the abrupt mandate--"_June

has come!_"

"And we shall be at Thirlestane the morn," answered Margaret.

"O my doo," said Thomas, "what nonsense are ye talking!--that isna like

ye, Margaret; I'll be in Greenlaw Jail the morn; and oor bits o' things

in the hoose, and oor flocks, will be seized by the harpies o' the

law--and the only thing that distresses me is, what is to come o' you

hinny."

"Dinna dree the death ye'll never dee," said Margaret affectionately;

"we shall see, if we be spared, what the morn will bring."

"The fortitude o' yer mind, Margaret," said Thomas, taking her hand; and

he intended to have said more, to have finished a sentence in admiration

of her worth, but his heart filled, and he was silent.

On the following morning, Margaret said unto him--

"Now, Thomas, if ye are ready, we'll gang to Thirlestane. It is aye waur

to expect or think o' an evil than to face it."

"Margaret, dear," said he, "I canna comprehend ye--wherefore should I

thrust my head into the lion's den? It will soon enough seek me in my

path."

Nevertheless, she said unto him, "Come," and bade him be of good heart;

and he rose and accompanied her. But she conducted him to the deep

ravine, where the waters seem to sleep and no sunbeam ever falls; and,

as she removed the earth and the stones, with which she had blocked up

the mouth of the cavity in the rock, he stood wondering. She entered the

aperture, and rolled forth the firm mass of snow, which was yet too

large to be lifted by hands. When Thomas saw this, he smiled and wept

at the same instant, and he pressed his wife's cheek to his bosom, and

said--

"Great has been the care o' my poor Margaret; but it is o' no avail;

for, though ye hae proved mair than a match for the seasons, the

proposal was but a jest o' Lauderdale."

"What is a man but his word?" replied Margaret; "and him a nobleman

too."

"Nobility are but men," answered Thomas, "and seldom better men than

ither folk. Believe me, if we were to gang afore him wi' a snawba' in

oor hands, we should only get lauched at for our pains."

"It was his ain agreement," added she; "and, at ony rate, we can be

naething the waur for seeing if he will abide by it."

Breaking the snowy mass, she rolled up a portion of it in a napkin, and

they went towards Thirlestane together; though often did Thomas stop by

the way and say--

"Margaret, dear, I'm perfectly ashamed to gang upon this business; as

sure as I am standing here, as I have tauld ye, we will only get

oorselves lauched at."

"I would rather be lauched at," added she, "than despised for breaking

my word; and, if oor laird break his noo, wha wadna despise him?"

Harmonious as their wedded life had hitherto been, there was what might

well nigh be called bickerings between them on the road; for Thomas felt

or believed that she was leading him on a fool's errand. But they

arrived at the castle of Thirlestane, and were ushered into the mansion

of its proud lord.

"Ha!" said the earl, as they entered, "bonny Midside Maggy and her auld

guidman! Well, what bring ye?--the rents o' Tollishill, or their

equivalent?" Thomas looked at his young wife, for he saw nothing to give

him hope on the countenance of Lauderdale, and he thought that he

pronounced the word "_equivalent_" with a sneer.

"I bring ye snaw in June, my lord," replied Margaret, "agreeably to the

terms o' yer bargain; and I'm sorry, for your sake and oors, that it

hasna yet been in oor power to bring gowd instead o't."

Loud laughed the earl as Margaret unrolled the huge snowball before him;

and Thomas thought unto himself, "I said how it would be." But

Lauderdale, calling for his writing materials, sat down and wrote, and

he placed in the hands of Thomas a discharge, not only for his back

rent, but for all that should otherwise be due at the ensuing Martinmas.

Thomas Hardie bowed and bowed again before the earl, low and yet lower,

awkwardly and still more awkwardly, and he endeavoured to thank him, but

his tongue faltered in the performance of its office. He could have

taken his hand in his and wrung it fervently, leaving his fingers to

express what his tongue could not; but his laird was an earl, and there

was a necessary distance to be observed between an earl and a Lammermoor

farmer.

"Thank not me, goodman," said Lauderdale, "but thank the modesty and

discretion o' yer winsome wife."

Margaret was silent; but gratitude for the kindness which the earl had

shown unto her husband and herself took deep root in her heart.

Gratitude, indeed, formed the predominating principle in her character,

and fitted her even for acts of heroism.

The unexpected and unwonted generosity of the earl had enabled Thomas

Hardie to overcome the losses with which the fury of the seasons had

overwhelmed him, and he prospered beyond any farmer on the hills. But,

while he prospered, the Earl of Lauderdale, in his turn, was overtaken

by adversity. The stormy times of the civil wars raged, and it is well

known with what devotedness Lauderdale followed the fortunes of the

king. When the Commonwealth began, he was made prisoner, conveyed to

London, and confined in the Tower. There, nine years of captivity crept

slowly and gloomily over him; but they neither taught him mercy to

others nor to moderate his ambition, as was manifested when power and

prosperity again cast their beams upon him. But he now lingered in the

Tower, without prospect or hope of release, living upon the bare

sustenance of a prisoner, while his tenants dwelt on his estates, and

did as they pleased with his rents, as though they should not again

behold the face of a landlord.

But Midside Maggy grieved for the fate of him whose generosity had

brought prosperity, such as they had never known before, to herself and

to her husband; and, in the fulness of her gratitude, she was ever

planning schemes for his deliverance; and she urged upon her husband

that it was their duty to attempt to deliver their benefactor from

captivity, as he had delivered them from the iron grasp of ruin, when

misfortune lay heavily on them. Now, as duly as the rent-day came, from

the Martinmas to which the snowball had been his discharge, Thomas

Hardie faithfully and punctually locked away his rent to the last

farthing, that he might deliver it into the hands of his laird, should

he again be permitted to claim his own; but he saw not in what way they

could attempt his deliverance, as his wife proposed.

"Thomas," said she, "there are ten lang years o' rent due, and we hae

the siller locked away. It is o' nae use to us, for it isna oors; but it

may be o' use to him. It would enable him to fare better in his prison,

and maybe to put a handfu' o' gowd into the hands o' his keepers, and

thereby to escape abroad, and it wad furnish him wi' the means o' living

when he was abroad. Remember his kindness to us, and think that there is

nae sin equal to the sin o' ingratitude."

"But," added Thomas, "in what way could we get the money to him? for, if

we were to send it, it would never reach him, and, as a prisoner, he

wouldna be allooed to receive it."

"Let us tak it to him oorsels, then," said Margaret.

"Tak it oorsels!" exclaimed Thomas, in amazement, "a' the way to London!

It is oot o' the question a'thegither, Margaret. We wad be robbed o'

every plack before we got half-way; or, if we were even there, hoo, in

a' the world, do ye think we could get it to him, or that we would be

allooed to see him?"

"Leave that to me," was her reply; "only say ye will gang, and a' that

shall be accomplished. There is nae obstacle in the way but the want o'

yer consent. But the debt, and the ingratitude o' it thegither, hang

heavy upon my heart."

Thomas at length yielded to the importunities of his wife, and agreed

that they should make a pilgrimage to London, to pay his rent to his

captive laird; though how they were to carry the gold in safety, through

an unsettled country, a distance of more than three hundred miles, was a

difficulty he could not overcome. But Margaret removed his fears; she

desired him to count out the gold, and place it before her; and when he

had done so, she went to the meal-tub and took out a quantity of pease

and of barley meal mixed, sufficient to knead a goodly fadge or bannock;

and, when she had kneaded it, and rolled it out, she took the golden

pieces and pressed them into the paste of the embryo bannock, and again

she doubled it together, and again rolled it out, and kneaded into it

the remainder of the gold. She then fashioned it into a thick bannock,

and placing it on the hearth, covered it with the red ashes of the

peats.

Thomas sat marvelling, as the formation of the singular purse proceeded,

and when he beheld the operation completed, and the bannock placed upon

the hearth to bake, he only exclaimed--"Weel, woman's ingenuity dings

a'! I wadna hae thocht o' the like o' that, had I lived a thoosand

years! O Margaret, hinny, but ye are a strange ane."

"Hoots," replied she, "I'm sure ye micht easily hae imagined that it was

the safest plan we could hae thocht upon to carry the siller in safety;

for I am sure there isna a thief between the Tweed and Lon'on toun, that

would covet or carry awa a bear bannock."

"Troth, my doo, and I believe ye're richt," replied Thomas; "but wha

could hae thocht o' sic an expedient? Sure there never was a bannock

baked like the bannock o' Tollishill."

On the third day after this, an old man and a fair lad, before the sun

had yet risen, were observed crossing the English Border. They

alternately carried a wallet across their shoulders, which contained a

few articles of apparel and a bannock. They were dressed as shepherds,

and passengers turned and gazed on them as they passed along; for the

beauty of the youth's countenance excited their admiration. Never had

Lowland bonnet covered so fair a brow. The elder stranger was Thomas

Hardie, and the youth none other than his Midside Maggy.

I will not follow them through the stages of their long and weary

journey, nor dwell upon the perils and adventures they encountered by

the way. But, on the third week after they had left Tollishill, and when

they were beyond the town called Stevenage, and almost within sight of

the metropolis, they were met by an elderly military-looking man, who,

struck with the lovely countenance of the seeming youth, their dress,

and way-worn appearance, accosted them, saying--"Good morrow, strangers;

ye seem to have travelled far. Is this fair youth your son, old man?"

"He is a gay sib freend," answered Thomas.

"And whence come ye?" continued the stranger.

"Frae Leader Haughs, on the bonny Borders o' the north countrie,"

replied Margaret.

"And whence go ye?" resumed the other.

"First tell me wha ye may be that are sae inquisitive," interrupted

Thomas, in a tone which betrayed something like impatience.

"Some call me George Monk," replied the stranger mildly, "others, Honest

George. I am a general in the Parliamentary army." Thomas reverentially

raised his hand to his bonnet, and bowed his head.

"Then pardon me, sir," added Margaret, "and if ye indeed be the guid and

gallant general, sma' offence will ye tak at onything that may be said

amiss by a country laddie. We are tenants o' the Lord o' Lauderdale,

whom ye now keep in captivity; and, though we mayna think as he thinks,

yet we never faund him but a guid landlord; and little guid, in my

opinion, it can do ony body to keep him, as he has been noo for nine

years, caged up like a bird. Therefore, though oor ain business that has

brocht us up to London should fail, I winna regret the journey, since it

has afforded me an opportunity o' seein yer Excellency, and soliciting

yer interest, which maun be pooerfu' in behalf o' oor laird, and that ye

would release him frae his prison, and, if he michtna remain in this

countrie, obtain permission for him to gang abroad."

"Ye plead fairly and honestly for yer laird, fair youth," returned the

general; "yet, though he is no man to be trusted, I needs say he hath

had his portion of captivity measured out abundantly; and, since ye have

minded me of him, ere a week go round I will think of what may be done

for Lauderdale." Other questions were asked and answered--some truly,

and some evasively; and Thomas and Margaret blessing Honest George in

their hearts, went on their way rejoicing at having met him.

On arriving in London, she laid aside the shepherd's garb in which she

had journeyed, and resumed her wonted apparel. On the second day after

their arrival, she went out upon Tower-hill, dressed as a Scottish

peasant girl, with a basket on her arm; and in the basket were a few

ballads, and the bannock of Tollishill. She affected silliness, and,

acting the part of a wandering minstrel, went singing her ballads

towards the gate of the Tower. Thomas followed her at a distance. Her

appearance interested the guard; and as she stood singing before the

gate--"What want ye, pretty face?" inquired the officer of the guard.

"Your alms, if you please," said she, smiling innocently, "and to sing a

bonny Scotch sang to the Laird o' Lauderdale."

The officer and the sentinels laughed; and, after she had sang them

another song or two, she was permitted to enter the gate, and a soldier

pointed out to her the room in which Lauderdale was confined. On

arriving before the grated windows of his prison, she raised her eyes

towards them, and began to sing "_Leader Haughs_." The wild, sweet

melody of his native land, drew Lauderdale to the windows of his

prison-house, and in the countenance of the minstrel he remembered the

lovely features of Midside Maggy. He requested permission of the keeper

that she should be admitted to his presence; and his request was

complied with.

"Bless thee, sweet face!" said the earl, as she was admitted into his

prison; "and you have not forgotten the snowball in June?" And he took

her hand to raise it to his lips.

"Hooly, hooly, my guid lord," said she, withdrawing her hand; "my

fingers were made for nae sic purpose--Thomas Hardie is here"--and she

laid her hand upon her fair bosom--"though now standing withoot the yett

o' the Tower." Lauderdale again wondered, and, with a look of mingled

curiosity and confusion, inquired--"Wherefore do ye come--and why do ye

seek me?" "I brocht ye a snaw-ba' before," said she, "for yer rent--I

bring ye a bannock noo." And she took the bannock from the basket and

placed it before him.

"Woman," added he, "are ye really as demented as I thocht ye but feigned

to be, when ye sang before the window."

"The proof o' the bannock," replied Margaret, "will be in the breakin'

o't."

"Then, goodwife, it will not be easily proved," said he--and he took the

bannock, and, with some difficulty, broke it over his knee; but, when he

beheld the golden coins that were kneaded through it, for the first,

perhaps the last and only time in his existence, the Earl of Lauderdale

burst into tears and exclaimed--"Well, every bannock has its maik, but

the bannock o' Tollishill! Yet, kind as ye hae been, the gold is useless

to ane that groans in hopeless captivity."

"Yours has been a long captivity," said Margaret; "but it is not

hopeless; and, if honest General Monk is to be trusted, from what he

tauld me not three days by-gane, before a week gae roond, ye will be at

liberty to go abroad, and there the bannock o' Tollishill may be o'

use."

The wonder of Lauderdale increased, and he replied--"Monk will keep his

word--but what mean ye of him?"

And she related to him the interview they had had with the general by

the way. Lauderdale took her hand, a ray of hope and joy spread over his

face, and he added--

"Never shall ye rue the bakin' o' the bannock, if auld times come back

again."

Margaret left the tower, singing as she had entered it, and joined her

husband, whom she found leaning over the railing around the moat, and

anxiously waiting her return. They spent a few days more in London, to

rest and to gaze upon its wonders, and again set out upon their journey

to Tollishill. General Monk remembered his promise; within a week, the

Earl of Lauderdale was liberated, with permission to go abroad, and

there, as Margaret had intimated, he found the bannock of Tollishill of

service.

A few more years passed round, during which old Thomas Hardie still

prospered; but, during those years, the Commonwealth came to an end, the

king was recalled, and with him, as one of his chief favourites,

returned the Earl of Lauderdale. And, when he arrived in Scotland,

clothed with power, whatever else he forgot, he remembered the bannock

of Tollishill. Arrayed in what might have passed as royal state, and

attended by fifty of his followers, he rode to the dwelling of Thomas

Hardie and Midside Maggy; and when they came forth to meet him, he

dismounted and drew forth a costly silver girdle of strange workmanship,

and fastened it round her jimp waist, saying--"Wear this, for now it is

my turn to be grateful, and for your husband's life, and your life, and

the life of the generation after ye" (for they had children), "ye shall

sit rent free on the lands ye now farm. For, truly, every bannock had

its maik but the bannock o' Tollishill."

Thomas and Margaret felt their hearts too full to express their thanks;

and ere they could speak, the earl, mounting his horse, rode towards

Thirlestane; and his followers, waving their bonnets, shouted--"Long

live Midside Maggy, queen of Tollishill."

Such is the story of "The Bannock o' Tollishill;" and it is only

necessary to add, for the information of the curious, that I believe the

silver girdle may be seen until this day, in the neighbourhood of

Tollishill, and in the possession of a descendant of Midside Maggy, to

whom it was given.

* * * * *

[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

1. On page 28, last line, page 74, footnote, and page 155, last line,

missing text has been restored from scans atThe Internet Archive.

A few missing letters or words at the ends of lines have been restored

from the same source.

2. The French word "mouillé" appears, apparently randomly, both with

and without the acute accent. Since the accent is clearly required,

it has been restored where necessary.

3. On page 2, antepenultimate line, "bewrayed" has been corrected to

"betrayed".

4. In this Latin-1 version, the only substitution effected is that the

oe-diphthong is indicated by [oe].]