our fancy paints the incidents of the past;
for Fancy has more to do with the scenes of
our joyous youth, than mere prosaic recollection.
Imagination and memory are twins,
and amazingly like each other. Sometimes
he took a meditative ride over the scenes
of his early happiness, and wandered with
loosened rein and thoughts flying far back
into the past, among the fields of Falder Mains.
George Cleghorn had long passed away, and
the property now belonged to a captain in the
Indian army of the name of Nobbs—only son
of the late Sir Hildebrand Nobbs, who had
died full of honours and the liver-complaint,
leaving the estate which he had obtained in
right of his wife to his sole representative;
and his picture—a full length in the uniform
of the Nizam's body-guard—painted by Lady
Nobbs, to be hung in the town hall of his
native town, where it is still to be seen by the
curious, and where the frame is very much
admired. It chanced one day in August of
the memorable year one thousand eight
hundred and fifteen, to which I have now brought
this narrative, that Major Harburn, under the
impulse of one of those fits of sentiment,
which in the intervals of more serious fits of
gout and rheumatism, sometimes seize even
an old gentlemen of fifty-six, had ridden over
hills and valleys, and was sauntering up the
avenue of Falder Mains, when his attention
was attracted by an unusual bustle at the
door of that usually quiet and deserted
mansion. There was a post-chaise in the
stable-yard, there was a gig on the lawn; and
pacing in front, were two men measuring the
ground, and one man still perched in the gig,
was taking down the number of feet, as
ascertained by the measurer's tape, all the
windows were open, the hall-door was wide ajar.
There were men in the different rooms making
a great noise with hammers, and
trundling about of old chairs and sofas. The major
dismounted, and for the first time for five and
thirty years, entered the well-known house.
Alas! that stone and mortar, timber and
glass, even paint and paper should remain so
unchanged when time has such an effect upon
our noble selves. There was the old piano,
there, were the oaken chairs, here were the
glazed prints, all recognisable; and standing
among them all, bent in the back, dim in the
eyes, short in the breath, and bald in the
head—more out of tune than the piano, more
old-fashioned than the furniture—was Charles
Harburn, whom nobody could identify with
the young lover of other days—no, not his
mother, if she were still alive—no, nor Nancy,
who once had all his features by heart
scarcely indeed himself if he had suddenly
seen in the glass, some morning when he
was shaving, the presentment of the merry-
eyed young man, who had been so happy
and so admired in these old rooms before
he joined the army.

It was not a pleasant visit, and he turned to
go. In the passage were three or four people
carrying parcels, work-boxes, footstools, and
other things; and he drew back to let them
pass. The post-chaise was drawn up to the door.
He heard a voice say: "You'll pack up all the
framed pictures, and send them to my address
at Cheltenham. The prints are to be taken at
a valuation." And the major saw the speaker
mount into the chaise with some difficulty.
Her back was very broad; she wore a bonnet,
big enough and high enough to have
done duty as an umbrella; she wore a brown
velvet pelisse, though the thermometer was
at eighty in the shade; and when her maid
had followed into the carriage, and sat down
on the top of various packages, with which
the seat was encumbered, the chaise drove off,
and Harburn went out to mount his horse. A
man who had left off the measurements, held
the bridle while he mounted.

"Great doings here, apparently," said the
major, giving the man a shilling.

"'Deed, aye, sir. A' th' auld folk is getting
rooted out, and the Londoners will come
down in a body, and tak' Lanarkshire a' to
themselves."

"The place is sold, then?"

"Have you no heard that?" said the labourer,
involuntarily despising the old man for his
ignorance, in spite of the shilling which he
still kept in his hand. "Sir Douglas Brand
has bought it, and Middenstrae Haughs, and
as far on as the Duke's; and they say he's in
treaty for half the county to the north, so he'll
hae mair land than a' the nobility; and so
he's measuring here for a house that's to be
the size o' Drumlayrig, and the family is
going to have a sale, and very nice lots there'll
be, though I dinna think that the pictures will
be much missed, notwithstandin' the auId
woman seems to think they're worth a' the
rest of the goods."

"The auld woman?" enquired Major
Harburn.

"Aye, Leddy Nobbs, that was her that
stickit sae lang in the coach door; she was
ane o' auld George Cleghorn's daughters, and
was married on upon a black man that lived
far awa' in India. Some folk think he was a
cannibal, but I canna think that, tho' he's an
aweful sicht to look on. That's him wi' the
row of yellow teeth, and the brown skin,
hanging above the mantel-piece. She canna
hae been a great judge o' beauty, or men
maun hae been unco scant."

Major Harburn made no reply, but slowly
rode down the avenue. It is astonishing how
little impression this curious incident made
on him. He had heard his Nancy's voice
again, he had seen her figure, and, instantly,
all the past disappeared. He did not believe
in the reality of his insane admiration for a
broad-backed woman of sixteen stone, who
had to be pushed by main force through the
door of a post-chaise; and one resolution he
immediately made and carried into effect the
moment he got home, which was to take, burn,
or otherwise destroy the miniature of his