always plenty of other reasons in the mind of
a man with nothing but his commission; for
how could he expose so delicate, so refined,
so lady-like a being to the discomforts of his
narrow means? How wisely people resolve
when the object of their admiration is at a
little distance, say a mile or two, or in the
neighbouring parish, or in another street,—
or even, as in this case, in a different room!
For when he saw Miss Preedy, when he heard
her speak, there was no farther use of argument.
He determined to plead his cause
with the utmost ardour, and with that view
addressed Mrs. M'Vicar when he had an
opportunity.

"My dear friend," he said, "I have
something very important to say to you. Was
Miss Preedy ever in Bengal?"

"No."

"Then I can't imagine where I can have
seen her, or some person so amazingly like
her that I am quite confused when I look at
her, and listen to her voice. Of course she
was never at Balaclava?"

"No."

"Has she father and mother alive?"

"I don't think she has a living relation in
all the world."

"I'm glad to hear it. Nor I. We are
quite unincumbered in that respect. Ah!
Mrs. M'Vicar, I wish I were as rich as
Croesus, whoever that fortunate gentleman
may have been; but the truth is I am one of
the most ostentatious persons in the Queen's
dominions, and wear all the gold I possess
upon my shoulders in the shape of epaulettes;
but if a true heart — if a devoted love — if
years of —. She's VERY poor, I hope," he
said, suddenly interrupting himself, afraid
that his intentions might be misunderstood.

"Her faither was the last partner of the
great house in London of Blogg and Preedy.
You've may be heard of it, in the sugar line,
and she was heiress to a' the wealth o' the
firm."

Major Donnington looked and felt as if
another bayonet was entering his shoulder,
another bullet lodging in his knee. He did
not answer for a long time. At last he said,
"One only favour, my excellent friend; keep
this a secret. It was a delusion,— it shall
not last. Take my thanks for all you have
done; tell her how deeply grateful I am: I
will leave this hospital to-day."

"This is Miss Preedy's villa, and a bonny
little mansion it is; but it's nae hospital,
unless tor yoursel that has no home to go to."

The young man was overwhelmed more
and more.

"Ye'll say farewell to her ere ye gang?"
inquired Mrs. M'Vicar.

The interview took place; and some curious
things occurred preparatory to it which puzzled
Major Donnington almost as much as the
discovery of Miss Preedy's wealth. In the
first place, as his knee continued a little stiff,
he found a cane placed beside his chair to
assist his walk to the drawing-room. He
looked at the stick. It was a long gold-
headed staff, of a very peculiar wood, and on
the top was an inscription. It was a name:
"Elizabeth Donnington." He passed his
hand rapidly across his eyes as he looked at
the words, and continued his course. When
he entered the drawing-room Miss Preedy
was sitting in an arm-chair with the back to
him. She wore a shawl— a rich-patterned,
gorgeous-coloured, tasteful-bordered Indian
shawl. She wore a black silk gown, with a
particular stripe in the watering, which
riveted his eyes. He advanced slowly towards
the sitting figure, and saw her hand
negligently spread on the arm of the chair. He
looked at her hand— small, white, beautiful—
and on her finger discovered a ring; it was
an amethyst, surrounded with small pearls.
There could be no mistake; the young man
knelt and took her hand; it wasn't drawn
away. He kissed the ring. Had he not a
right to do so? It had been his mother's,
and was once his own!

And all that blessed month of April the
spring sun had been shining on the steep
roofs and proud turrets of Daisy Hope.
Paxton had sent down a man to lay out a
grand old Scottish garden, with broad grass
walks, and a stone sun-dial in the middle, —
and the place was now almost perfect, — and
when furniture began to arrive the lucubrations
of the inhabitants of Bank Row took
higher flights than ever. Then came waggonloads
from Stirling. There was a rosewood
table for the drawing-room, with a noble
velvet cover to it on which was embroidered
in gold thread, an impossible griffin; there
was a fur rug for the hearth; and some chairs
with the same heraldic blazonry as the tablecloth:
and speculations were rife as to when
the new proprietors would come down to take
possession.

One day in July the landlady of the Wallace
Arms ushered into the bar, where I was
sitting at lunch, and said "Oh, Mr. Jocktileg,
it's a' come out! They're up stairs in the best
saloon — the three o' them! And wha d'ye
think they are? There's Bessy Miller, who
took the name of Preedy after the half-
dementit haveril that adopted her, because
she was so like her dochter; and there's
Mrs. M'Vicar, the widow o' the gude auld
minister that recommended her to the place;
she's had her for governante and companion
ever since Mrs. Preedy died; and the
gentleman is Walter Donnington, the son
o' the grand auld leddy that was Andrew
Miller's lodger: and he's married to Bessy
Miller— and, oh! man, what a bonny cretur
she is! and they're a' going to live at Daisy
Hope— Mrs. M'Vicar tauld me so hersel —
she could keep the secret no longer; and the
estate's a' bought back; and look, there they
go! what a handsome couple!—a wee cripple,
maybe, the man, but tall and strong!—and
wheesht! that's Bessy Miller—they're just