It was towards this road, on the morning succeeding the ominous appearances we have described, that many of the villagers directed their steps. A good number were hastening thither soon after daybreak, and one and all seemed bent on the same errand. They entered the road, now chequered with the wakening glints of the sun, and proceeded onwards till they came to a break in the rough wall, which bounded it on either side. They here struck off, and followed the windings of a narrow footpath, till they reached an open place which looked into the fields beyond. There was a bush of underwood a good deal dashed and torn; and those who had a better eyesight, or a more active fancy than the rest, declared they could trace the sprinklings of blood upon the grass. On that spot, not many hours before, a murder had been committed. A young woman, one of the loveliest and liveliest of the village, had been desperately and cruelly murdered.

The affair was involved in mystery.

Jessie Renton, the deceased, was the daughter of respectable parents in the village, and a favourite with young and old. She was warm-hearted and playful; and, pass her when you might, she always greeted you with a kind glance or a merry word. On the evening which closed on her for ever, she had gone out alone, as she had done a thousand times before, with a laughing eye and a light step. Her father had not returned from his daily toil, and her mother had not ceased from hers. The latter was busy at her wheel when Jessie left, and not a parting word was exchanged between them. They knew not that they were never to see each other alive again in this world, and they parted without thought or word. It was not known where the unfortunate girl had gone. She had passed the doctor's shop while his apprentice boy was squirting water from a syringe; and, joking, she had told him she would "tell his maister o' his tricks." She had chatted with two girls who were fetching water from the well, and hinted something about an approaching wedding. An old man had seen her at the outskirts of the village; and a cow-herd urchin thought—but "wasna sure"—that he had seen her entering the road leading through the wood; and that was all. Some hours after she had been thus traced, a couple of strolling pedlars had been making for the village, and were startled by a shriek and a cry of murder in the thicket. They rushed in; but had some difficulty in finding the spot whence the cry proceeded. The figure of a man dashed by them at some yards distance. They hallooed to him; but he passed on, and was out of sight in a moment. A few stifled cries led them to the fatal spot, where they found the wretched girl stretched upon the ground, faint from the loss of blood, and unable to articulate. One of the men supported her, while the other ran for help. The latter had scarcely reached the main road, when he met some labourers plodding homewards, and with them he returned to the dying girl; but what assistance could they render? Life was fast ebbing away; and, in a few moments afterwards, they bent in dumb horror and amazement, over a mangled corpse. After some consultation, they carried the body towards the village; and one of them hastened before and procured a vehicle to relieve them of their burthen. The news of what had occurred spread in all directions; and, by the time the mournful procession entered the village, the inhabitants were all astir. The body was soon recognised; tears and wailings followed; and dark suspicions and dismal regrets mingled with the hurried inquiries of every new comer.

Old James Renton and his wife, as decent a couple as lived in the village, were seated by the fire, enjoying their quiet evening chat, when the awful intelligence reached them. Some considered it strange that they had been talking but a few minutes before of their daughter, and her prospects. But it was not strange: they had no other child: they had had no other theme so interesting. It was not a new thing with them. For themselves they had but little to hope, but little to dream over: their own ambition had long since died out, but it revived in their child. She was a link which bound them anew to this world, and seemed to open up to them, once more, bright prospects on this side of the grave. Often and often had they conversed upon her hopes, as they had aforetime done of their own; and with an interest only heightened from having become less selfish. Was it remarkable that they should do so on that evening? Jessie was growing to a most interesting age. She had arrived at that point in life from which many roads diverge, and where the path is often difficult to choose. For her sake, more than one homely hind had become a poet in his feelings. Indeed, she had many admirers, and was even what some might call a flirt. But, although her smiles were shed like the free and glad sunshine on all, there was one who, to appearance, was more favoured than the rest. This young man had known her from her childhood, and his attachment was of the most ardent kind. At school, he had been her champion, and certainly showed himself a true knight—ready to encounter, nay, courting danger for her sake, and conceiving himself sufficiently rewarded by her smile. She had recently been solicited in marriage by another, a man of retired and somewhat gloomy habits, who dwelt near; but it was understood that she had refused his offer, and that George Merrideth was the chosen one of her heart.

It was on these things that the unconscious parents were conversing, when one of their neighbours entered with the frightful intelligence. Both started up and rushed to the door. The crowd were hastening on, bearing with them the melancholy evidence of the truth of what they had just heard. It came on still—it stopt—it was at their own door it stopt. The old man could not speak, but his wife rushed forward with a distressful shriek. The truth was soon all known. They had no child. They had only a dead body to weep over—to lay in the grave. Is it necessary to say more? A few days passed. They were the bitterest days the bereaved parents had ever known; but they passed, and their minds became comparatively calm. Neither the efforts of their own minds, nor the commiseration of their friends and neighbours, could subdue their grief: but it took free vent, and subsided from very exhaustion. They evinced but little anxiety to discover who had destroyed their child: it was enough to them that she was gone; and revenge, they said, would not bring her back. Their chief solace was to visit and linger in the church-yard—their chief hope to abide there.

To discover the murderer, and drag him to justice, soon occupied the attention, not only of the authorities, but of many active men in the village. Rigorous inquiries were instituted, every scrap of evidence was collected, and suspicion fell at length upon one man. This individual was, to appearance, about thirty years of age, of a thoughtful disposition, and retired mode of life. He had been settled in the village for several years; and no sooner was the suspicion raised, than many circumstances were bruited to confirm it. His general conduct and bearing were remarked to have been mysterious. He had rarely associated with his neighbours; and had often been observed, in lonely places and at silent hours, muttering and musing, by himself. For some time back, he had been noticed watching the deceased, and following her whenever she had any distance to go; and the general belief was, that she had crossed his affections, and that he had taken this cowardly revenge. On the evening of the murder, he had been seen returning home only a few minutes after the time when the deed must have been perpetrated, and his air and manner were said to have been wild and agitated. The consequence was, that he was apprehended and thrown into prison. In a few months afterwards, he was tried. In his defence, he stated that the unfortunate girl had rather encouraged his suit than otherwise; and mentioned, in proof of this, that Merrideth, whose grief for her loss had excited general commiseration, had on the very afternoon of the day on which the murder took place, quarrelled him on the subject, and accused him of seeking him to supplant him in her affections. Ultimately, a verdict of not proven was returned, and he was dismissed from the court.

Jones—for such was his name—returned to the village; but the suspicion still clung to him. As he went through the streets, the people avoided him, or gazed at him as a world's wonder. Wherever he passed, they spoke to each other in whispers. These whispers he seldom heard, but the thought of their import haunted him. He was restless and unhappy, and sought relief in motion. No sooner was the sun risen, than he was up and away to the fields. He wandered about alone for hours, and then came back to the village. He felt as if a curse rested on him; a stain on his name, which he could not wipe off. So unhappy did he seem, that some men began to take compassion on him, and even to converse with him. He felt grateful; the tears rushed to his eyes; and they left him with their suspicions confirmed. Night came, and he felt that he could not sleep. He sometimes tried to read, but in vain: and would suddenly dash down the book and hurry into the street.

In one of his rambles, an incident occurred, which, although trifling in itself, may yet be related as showing the kind of feeling with which he was regarded. Miss Manners, the daughter of the village clergyman, accompanied by another young lady, was coming along in a direction in which they could not avoid meeting him. Jones observed the latter hesitate, on beholding him, and apparently refuse to go on, till encouraged by her companion. They met, however, and passed each other; but Jones had not proceeded many yards, when he observed a silk bag which one of them had dropped. He picked it up and hastened after them. The young lady, on hearing his footsteps, glanced round and screamed outright. Jones paused. When the affrighted damsel had somewhat recovered herself, he said in a soft voice—

"Young lady! I am sorry if my politeness has alarmed you. I thought this might be your bag, which I found lying on the road."

Miss Manners stepped towards him, and received it, saying—"Thank you, sir. My companion is foolish."

"I cannot blame her," he replied, "for she does not know me. I have rather to thank you, than wonder at her."

His voice was rather tremulous as he spoke; and Miss Manners regarded him with a look of the tenderest compassion. Nothing more, however, was said. They simply bowed to each other and parted. Jones walked on for a short distance, then, leaning over a rustic gate by the roadside, mused till his eyes filled.

The violent emotion exhibited by the unhappy man was not allowed to pass unnoticed by the villagers. It was looked upon only as the writhing of a tortured spirit; and whatever doubts existed as to his guilt, they were soon all removed. There was hardly a soul in the village but shunned and feared him.

Sometimes Jones would drop into one or two shops where he had been accustomed to visit, and talk freely on matters of common interest. But those who formerly saw nothing odd in his manner, now discovered a thousand peculiarities. They imagined they detected an unnatural wildness in his eye, and set him down as a deep and dangerous man. At one time the villagers would stand gazing after him, at others they would pass him with a scowl. Little children, whom he used sometimes to pat on the head were taught to fear and avoid him; and often, when he approached, would run away screaming to their homes.

The unhappy man, at length, resolved to leave the place. He pursued his journey to Edinburgh, and took lodgings in a street in the Old Town. The reflection, however, that he had not succeeded in vindicating his character—that he had left behind him a blasted reputation—poisoned all his enjoyments. He walked backward and forward in Princes Street, crossed the North Bridge, and wandered about the Canongate and High Street, and tried to lose himself in the crowd. Again he returned to his lodging, and felt that his loneliness and misery were increased.

He next set off for Glasgow, and pursued there the same course. He traversed the Trongate and Argyle Street for hours, and strode down to the Broomielaw, and stared vacantly at the bustle going on on the river. But in nothing could he take any interest. Change of scene could bring no change to his mind. Weeks and months were spent in this rambling and unsatisfactory life, and again he resolved to retrace his steps to the village.

The coach in which he took his seat set him down within about a mile and a half of the place; and he finished the journey on foot. It was on a Saturday afternoon that he entered, and with feelings which can hardly be described. Many of the villagers were sitting at their doors, enjoying the cool air of the evening, when the mysterious man walked up the main street. His appearance attracted general attention. One rumour had stated that he had fled to America; another, that he had taken away his own life. At all events, the people had congratulated themselves on his sudden departure; and felt irritated, as well as surprised, at his return. As he walked quietly along, he was followed by a number of boys, some of whom threw pieces of turf at him; and, by the time he reached the centre of the town a considerable crowd was collected. A disposition to riot was soon exhibited, and stones began to be thrown. Jones turned coolly round and folded his arms, as if in defiance of his persecutors. At that moment, a stone of a pretty large size struck him on the forehead, and some blood trickled from the wound. He was a man of a quick eye and muscular frame. He singled out the person who threw it, and dashed through the crowd—never once losing sight of him until he had him firmly in his grasp. A struggle ensued, and Jones threw his opponent with great force on the ground. Loud threats, and angry imprecations followed; and "Villain!—Murderer!" burst from a hundred tongues. Ten or a dozen men sprang forward upon him at once; but he started back and eluded their grasp.

"Stand back!" he cried in a loud voice. "I shall strike the first man to the earth who dares to lay a finger on me!"

For a moment his pursuers were awed; but only for a moment. Two or three hands were in an instant at his throat, and a violent struggle and altercation ensued.

"Villain!—villain!" cried one man, older than the rest, "ye hae killed ane o' the sweetest bairns that ever drew breath. It was an evil hour when ye took up your abode in this village!"

"Hold off, old man!" exclaimed Jones; "why do you persecute me so?"

Groans and yells followed.

"I swear before God," he continued, shaking himself free, "that I am innocent of this crime!"

The crowd, however, were not to be deterred from giving vent to their rage; and matters might have proceeded to an alarming height, had not Mr. Manners, the parish minister, who chanced to be passing at the time, interfered in his behalf. The old man pushed his way through the crowd, and taking Jones by the arm, succeeded in dragging him away. They proceeded in the direction of the manse; but, as the mob still followed, Mr. Manners did not think it safe to leave him. He accordingly took him in along with him; and, closing the garden gate, exhorted the crowd to return peaceably to their homes.

For a few moments, some shouting and noise were heard; but they died away by degrees, and Jones and his protector stood alone in the quiet and secluded garden. The former grasped Mr. Manners by the hand, and thanked him cordially.

"Sir," he said, "I have been sorely abused. An unhappy suspicion has clung to my name; but innocent I declare I am, although suffering the worst consequences of guilt. All men have some sins to weep for; but, as I shall answer to my Maker, I swear that I am as innocent of the great crime laid to my charge as the unborn child is."

Mr. Manners was a kind-hearted man. He was struck with the earnestness—the quiet and subdued fervour with which Jones addressed him—and, taking him kindly by the hand—

"Young man," he said, "I am bound to believe what I cannot disprove, and what you so solemnly affirm. If there be no truth in your words, you may yet repent having so solemnly sworn; but whether true or false, I can never repent doing you an act of kindness."

Jones was invited into the house to rest—an invitation which he gladly accepted. On entering the lobby, they were met by Miss Manners, who started involuntarily on beholding the stranger; but instantly recovered herself, and opened the door of the parlour for him to enter. The latter bowed politely to her; and, blushing, she returned the salutation. Her father desired her to walk in and set some wine upon the table, which she did with alacrity and grace.

Miss Manners was a young lady of rather an eccentric disposition. She was high-minded, and high-spirited, and not without a dash of romance. She was, of course, familiar with the story of the murder, and knew Jones well by sight. His appearance, which others regarded as at least mysterious-looking, seemed, in her eyes, rather prepossessing than otherwise; and when she heard the old women in the village imprecating curses on his head, she had uniformly reproved them for judging without adequate proof. On the present occasion, there was something in Jones' looks and manner peculiarly calculated to confirm her good impression, and engage her sympathy. His collar was loosened, and his dress a good deal dashed by the rough treatment he had experienced; but the expression of his countenance seemed to plead for compassion, and spoke eloquently to her heart. She addressed him in a kindly tone of voice; inquired what was the matter, and hoped that no accident had occurred. The stranger put his hand to his brow, from which the blood had been previously wiped, and turned towards the window; while her father briefly explained the circumstances of their meeting, of the harsh treatment to which Jones had been subjected, and of his own interference.

"You did well father!" said the girl; "the people may be mistaken!"

"They are mistaken!" said Jones, turning round with moist eyes. "I know not why suspicion should have settled upon me. I led a quiet life in the village, harming no one, offending no one; neither had I exhibited any of those vices in which great crimes usually originate. I was not cruel, revengeful, or choleric: least of all had I shown unkindness to her whom they accuse me of having murdered. Lady, I cannot expect that you will believe the word of an accused, I may almost say a condemned, man; but I shall live in hope that something may yet arise to convince you that I am innocent!"

A reply rushed to her lips, but she checked it, and pressed the stranger to take some refreshment.

Mr. Manners expressed a hope that the people would not annoy him farther; and his daughter ventured to question him as to his returning to a place where he was exposed to such insult and persecution.

"Madam," he replied, "where else could I be happy, with such a stigma on my character? A man's evil deeds are always more widely trumpeted than his good ones; and go where I would, I know that the slander would follow me. I have taken a solemn vow, never again to leave this place till I can do so with an unsullied character. The feeling that makes a man eager to trace a calumny to its source, and exculpate himself in the eyes of the world, deters me from flying from reproach. No! I will meet my accusers boldly. I have done nothing to cause me to leave the place; and what others may say or do, will not drive me from it."

Both Mr. Manners and his daughter pressed him to stay to supper, but he declined. He expressed, as well as words could express, how grateful he felt for their kindness, and was about to depart, when the old gentleman laid one hand on his shoulder, and, grasping his hand frankly with the other, said—

"Till it has been proved that you are undeserving of my hospitality, my door shall always be open to you; and the more readily, that others are closed!"

Jones was a good deal affected, but struggled to conceal his emotion.

"No," he articulated, with a slightly faltering voice, but a steady eye, "I will not trouble you with a friendship which might bring odium on you. I need not say how delightful it would be to me; but"——

"My father," interrupted Miss Manners, "can easily bear a little burden to lighten another's great one. Can you not, father?"

"My good child," he replied, "you know me, and can speak for me. Sir," he added, "my good wishes and prayers attend you."

Jones took his leave, with many expressions of gratitude, when Mr. Manners came running after him, with his hat on, to see whether the crowd had wholly dispersed, and resolved to accompany him if necessary. On reaching the road, however, it was discovered that everything was perfectly quiet; and the good man, having escorted him only a short distance on his way, left him to his reflections.

It would be difficult to describe the train of thought which passed through Jones' mind, as he directed his steps towards the centre of the village. Buoyant feelings and hopes, such as he had not experienced for years before, suddenly filled his breast: glimmerings of bright thought flashed on his mind; were speedily checked, and again burst forth. Some of the people were lounging about their doors as he passed; but he heeded not—he cared not. He felt happy. Visions of mild grey eyes and chesnut ringlets engrossed his senses. They were Miss Manners'. A low but sweet voice filled his ears. It was hers. His memory recalled certain kindly expressions; and it was her lips that had uttered them. On arriving at his lodging, he thought the way had been short; he entered, and was welcomed by his old landlady, with whom he had lived for years, and who was one of the few who would listen to nothing to his discredit.

That night, Jones sat up long, and thought much. The window of his room looked down upon the glen, the stream, the corn-mill, and across to the high and wooded banks, and upwards to where, on this particular night, the full round moon climbed, and threw a glittering bar of light upon the water; and never, to the eye of our lonely muser, looked so lonely, or shone upon so fair a scene. If, at that moment, he harboured an evil thought or an angry feeling, it soon melted in the rising tide of holier emotions. The quiet and softness of the night became, for the time, a portion of his own being; and the pale light, resting on his features, communicated to them much of its gentleness and beauty. For several hours he continued in deep reverie. At length he began to feel chilly, as the thin watery light, which precedes the dawn, made its appearance; and he reluctantly withdrew to rest; but only to dream over the images of beauty with which his mind was surcharged.

Next morning broke forth—a benign and balmy Sabbath. He was the earliest at church, and lingered the latest in the church-yard. The subject of Mr. Manners' discourse was charity; but when the people came out, they passed by Jones with a scowl, and went on their several ways, talking mysteriously together. Jones, however, had again seen Miss Manners. It is uncertain whether or not he threw himself in her way; but, whether from design or accident, their eyes met. She bowed gracefully to him; but he was not prepared for this public recognition. For the moment he felt confused, his heart fluttered, and he passed on with two or three hurried steps. This incident, trifling as it was, deprived him of a whole night's sleep. He feared he had betrayed some awkwardness on the occasion; and yet, somehow or other, he had no fear of obtaining her forgiveness. Often and often he walked in the neighbourhood of the manse, avoiding being seen by her, but still seeing her; or, if not, indulging the delight of being near her. He had no heart to walk in any other direction. If he strolled out in the morning, or in the quiet of the evening, he proceeded almost instinctively towards the manse; and if he passed any distance beyond it, an irresistible impulse caused him to retrace his steps.

These lonely walks, often at unseasonable hours, and without any apparent object, were not unobserved by the villagers, and gave rise to much speculation. Many weeks passed, and still the mystery continued; and Jones found, ere long, that he was regarded not only with suspicion, but terror. All the petty crimes, too, which occurred in the neighbourhood, were set down to his charge; and time, which he thought would clear his name, seemed only to blacken it the more. Every means, too, were taken to persecute him, and drive him from the place; but absence to him was now despair. He was chained to the spot by an uncontrollable destiny; and felt that, although pressed to the uttermost, he was yet wholly incapable of retreat.

Jones was proprietor of a small property in the village, which had been left him by an uncle, and which first induced him to take up his residence in that quarter; he had also a small sum of money laid out at interest; and, both together, had hitherto yielded him a sufficient competency.

One by one, however, the houses on which he chiefly relied became tenantless, and nothing seemed to await him but poverty and wretchedness.

But then Miss Manners! Like a star in the heavens, she became brighter as his prospects darkened; and yet he feared that, like a star, he could only admire her at a distance. He had told his love to the listening winds; he had whispered it to his pillow; he had mingled his plaint with that of the running brooks. But, to human ear, he had breathed it neither in sighs nor words. Him, a wanderer and an outcast, what maid could ever love? Could he have asked Miss Manners to share happiness with him, the case might have been otherwise; but what must be his fate when he had only wretchedness to offer? He thought of her till she became purely a being of his imagination; and, being all that his imagination could paint her, she became too much for him to hope ever to possess.

It is difficult to say what, at this early stage of their acquaintance, were Miss Manners' feelings towards Jones. Certain it is, however, that she had conceived for him a kind of romantic interest. She was eccentric in her disposition, but fervent in her attachments; and, without knowing much about him, she had, partly from compassion and partly, perhaps, from a secret love of being regarded singular, uniformly advocated his cause whenever occasion offered.

One evening, two or three young girls were assembled at the manse. They were the daughters of a person of some consideration in the place, and Miss Manners' occasional associates. After tea, Mr. Manners withdrew to his studies; and, as the evening had set in rather cold, the ladies drew near the fire to converse.

"Come, now," said Miss Manners, as she stirred the fire till it blazed and crackled right merrily, "let us make ourselves comfortable and happy. Emily, here"—sitting down beside the dullest of her guests—"looks as sad as if she had just lost her sweetheart."

"Oh, she'll be thinking of Willie Green!" said another of the girls.

A third giggled. Emily looked sad; and Miss Manners cheered her by remarking that Willie was a very decent fellow.

"He's no sweetheart of mine," said Emily, indifferently, at the same time glancing up to the ceiling.

An enormous "Good gracious!" or some such expression, rushed to the eyes of another of the girls; but, as Miss Manners had checked her, she did not get telling how often she had seen her and Willie together, and how well known it was that the day was all but fixed.

"Now, don't tease her," said Miss Manners. "I see we must change the subject."

Accordingly, Willie Green was dismissed, and William Jones introduced. Every one, except Miss Manners, had something to say against him—some frightful story to relate in which he had acted a principal part. One told how, on one evening—darker than all other evenings—he had been seen lounging in the neighbourhood of such and such a farm; and how, next morning, one of the farmer's children died. Another related how he had been heard to rave to himself when he thought no one was near; and many were the extraordinary casualties in which he was declared to have been concerned.

"Pshaw! idle tales," said Miss Manners, who had sat for some time silent. "I have seen the man, and do not think him one-half so bad as he is represented. Never yet have I met any one who had seen him do a wrong action; and yet every one will swell the cry against him. O world! world!"

The young ladies were somewhat surprised at the serious tone in which Miss Manners spoke, but laughed it off, without attempting to argue the matter. How little did they know—how little did Miss Manners know—that, at that very time, the man they spoke of was wandering in the darkness, not far off, with his eyes fixed on the lighted window of the room in which they sat! And, O, what feelings would have filled the breast of poor Jones, if he had known that the light on which he gazed so intently was rendered still brighter by those eyes which he loved best in the world being kindled in his defence.

However, the conversation soon took a lighter turn; and was only interrupted, at length, by the appearance of Willie Green, who was ushered in "by accident," and seemed very desirous to impress upon all present that he had no particular errand. Sly looks were interchanged, which no one, of course, saw; and Willie was speedily inducted as one of the party. Supper followed, at which Mr. Manners was present; and, when the hour of departure came, Miss Manners threw on her bonnet, to trot them, as she expressed it, to the garden gate.

On going down the walk, Mr. Green, who was the pink of politeness, offered Miss Manners his arm; but the latter knew she would not offend him by refusing. One by one, he applied to the other girls; till, as a last resource, he made an appeal to Emily, who, after some feeble show of following their example, relented; and, while Miss Manners and the rest proceeded onwards, Green and Emily lagged gradually behind. Miss Manners escorted the party a considerable distance on their way, and then bade them good night. Mr. Green offered to accompany her back; but she broke off, saying she was not afraid. The night was rather dark; but, in truth, it was not late; and she tripped on her way homewards without fear of molestation.

As she approached the garden, however, she saw the figure of a man walking on before her, with that slow and apparently lounging step which indicates the absence of any pressing or definite object. It was Jones. Her heart failed her for a moment; but, instantly recovering herself, she proceeded on her way, and passed him. It was dark. There was no one else near. A rush of frightful thoughts came upon her mind; her step faltered; and she felt as if about to faint.

This was a moment, with Jones, of intense—of overwhelming emotion. He had heard her light step behind him, but knew not that it was hers. No sooner, however, had her graceful form caught his eye, than a strange wildness of thought and feeling seized him, approaching almost to delirium. She was alone. He had long wished for such an opportunity to declare his passion; and yet, now that it had arrived, he trembled to embrace it. To allow it to pass was, in all probability, to entail upon himself many more weeks or months of racking anxiety, uncertainty, and suspense; and yet to embrace it was, perhaps, to set the last seal to his despair. On such a subject he could have debated for weeks; but now, the least hesitation, and the opportunity was lost.

While these contending thoughts distracted his mind, Miss Manners started, and almost paused, as if seized with a sudden panic. This fixed his resolution.

"Dear lady!" he said, in a bland and tremulous voice, "you seem frightened. I trust it is not of me you are afraid. Believe me, you are near one who would protect, not harm you."

"Who are you?" she inquired, faintly.

"Who am I?" he replied. "In truth, I can hardly tell you who I am. I am one, madam, lost both to himself and the world—an outcast—a wanderer in solitary places—a madman—a dreamer! O, sweet lady!—but I am wrong to speak thus."

"I know you now," she said, gaining courage; "your name is Jones, is it not?"

"Ay, madam," he answered, "that is my unfortunate name; but, if the world knew all—or if you knew all, I would not care for the world."

"Tell me," she said, but with some hesitation, as if in doubt whether it was proper to stay.

"I will, if you'll forgive me," he said; "but my story is, perhaps, long. Will you walk on?"

Miss Manners proceeded slowly along, with Jones at her side.

"I have now," resumed the latter, "resided for nearly six years in this village. In my intercourse with the world I had been unfortunate, and retirement was what I sought. I found it here; and, between the study of books and nature, I felt myself happy, and associated but little with my neighbours. I do not weary you?"

"No," said Miss Manners; "go on."

"At length," he continued, "I began to feel that marriage would be an addition to my happiness; and, accordingly, I cast my eyes round among the fair maidens of the village. They fell upon the unfortunate Jessie Renton. She lived within a few doors of me, and I had often seen and admired her in my walks. I thought I loved her—for, at that time, I had not learned what true love was—and offered to make her my wife. I dealt candidly and openly with her. In education, I need not say that I knew she was much beneath me; but she seemed warm-hearted and docile, and I thought it would be a loving pastime for me to make her my pupil. I was not ignorant, however, that she had other lovers; and, although she certainly encouraged my addresses, I saw reason to discontinue my suit. About this time, the awful event took place, the particulars of which are already known to you; and, simply because I had been abroad on the evening of the murder, and near the fatal spot, and partly, no doubt, from the circumstance of my attachment, which I had taken no pains to conceal, suspicion fastened upon me. I will not—indeed I cannot—tell you what laceration of feeling—what distraction of mind—I have since suffered. But you—you, O lady! is it wonderful that I should love you?—you who, when all the world was against me, spoke kindly to me?—you——forgive me, but I love—I adore you; day and night you have been my dream—my idol! But I rave; and yet, do not think me quite mad; for I know I am partly so, and madness knows not itself. O lady!—pardon me! but my heart will not let my tongue speak, lest it should wrong it—could my heart speak, could"——

"Sir—sir!" interrupted Miss Manners; "this is frenzy! I beg, sir, you will desist. So sudden—so"——

"Sudden!" exclaimed Jones. "My love may have been sudden; but, for weeks, for months, it has taken possession of me. But, pardon me, madam," he added, in a calmer tone. "Do not mistake me. I know too well that I dare not hope; but an humble offering may be laid upon a lofty shrine. All I ask is your compassion; say only you pity me, and I shall embalm the words in my memory for ever!"

Miss Manners did pity him; but begged him, as he valued his own happiness, to banish from his mind all such thoughts as he had expressed.

"Ah, madam," said he, "ask me to part with life, and I may obey you; but, while life remains, I never can cease to love you."

They had now reached the entrance to the garden; and Miss Manners held out her hand, saying—

"Good night."

Jones took the hand. There was no glove on it; and, gently raising it, he pressed it to his lips.

"Madam," he articulated, "good night; farewell. While you are asleep, I shall be thinking of you. On this road, gazing on the window of the room in which I think you are, I shall enjoy more rest than anywhere else I can go."

He was about to add something more; but his utterance became choked; and, again pressing her hand to his lips, while a tear fell on it, he turned abruptly away. Miss Manners said not a word—her heart was too full—but closed the gate behind her and disappeared. Jones listened. He heard her step as she went up the gravel walk, and he heard nothing more. The night was, by this time, fearfully dark, and everything around him was silent. He walked on a short distance, returned, and again walked on. His mind was whirling and confused. He tried to recollect every word which Miss Manners had said, and by this means to get at the real state of her feelings; but he was too much agitated for reflection. On gaining his lodging, he felt faint, and put himself immediately to bed. All night long he tossed about in sleepless excitement; and, in the morning, fell into a feverish doze, broken by unintelligible dreams. When he awoke, he rose up, and felt so giddy as to be unable to stand, and again went to bed. During the day, he felt shivering and unwell; and, the next day, the same symptoms continued, and with increased violence. Another day arrived—another, and another—and all consciousness left him. Several weeks elapsed, and found him still bedridden, but convalescent; and it was nearly three months before he was enabled to venture out, and then only when the sun was warm.

"You have been long out, Marion," said Mr. Manners to his daughter, as she returned from her accidental interview with Jones. "I was afraid some accident had befallen you."

"No," said Miss Manners, whose eyes were slightly inflamed; for, somehow or other, she had wept before entering the house: "no accident."

"Child," said her father, "what has happened—you look ill!"

Miss Manners told all—her meeting with Jones, and his passionate declaration; but, notwithstanding that her father conjured her not to think of him, she thought of him all night long.

The news of Jones' illness spread rapidly through the village; but, as might be expected, excited little sympathy. With the exception of Mr. Manners and the surgeon of the village, no one looked near his abode; and many were the remarks made by the gossips, that few tears would be shed for him, and that he might bless heaven he was allowed to die in bed. From the manse, however, he received much attention. Anxious inquiries concerning the state of his health were made almost daily, accompanied, occasionally, with presents of wine and jellies. This afforded Jones delightful materials for reflection; and, while his health continued to improve, he occupied his mind with dreams of the future, which his better judgment told him were too bright ever to be realised.

It was on a mild spring morning that the poor invalid sallied forth, for the first time, since his illness. He was still rather pale and feeble; but the air was warm for the season, and he felt happy on being released from his confinement. His appearance, as he walked through the village, brought the people to their doors as before; and the old remarks about "the man that was tried for murder," were made from mouth to mouth. Nevertheless, he was allowed to pass unmolested, and was soon clear of the houses. The effect of natural scenery, and more particularly, perhaps, of the weather, on the animal spirits, has often been remarked, and the pleasing train of thought which now passed through the mind of our hero, might partly have arisen from this cause. The sun was unshaded, and the road warm and dry. On either side, the leaves were budding from the hedges, and the cheerful warbling of birds infused a delicious and summer-like feeling into his heart. He had gone out without any precise object, and merely to enjoy a walk in the fresh air—so delightful after long confinement to a sick chamber; but his steps had led him almost involuntarily in the direction of the manse. On reaching the gate, he stopped, loitered on for a few yards, and again stopped. He then turned back and hesitated, and at last made bold to enter. As he wound his way slowly up the walk, which was neatly laid off on either side with flowers and shrubbery, he felt more collected than, under the circumstances, he could have imagined possible; and, in a few moments, he was seated in the neat drawing-room of the manse, pouring out his gratitude to Miss Manners for the kindness and attention he had experienced during his illness.

While the two sat conversing together, Mr. Manners entered. He congratulated Jones on his recovery; but the latter did not fail to observe that his manner towards him was less frank than formerly. The truth is, that the old man was a good deal alarmed for his daughter, whom he had warned to discourage his addresses; and, although desirous to treat him with kindness, endeavoured to avoid everything which might seem an approval of his suit. Jones had the good sense not to prolong his visit; and, after cordially repeating his thanks for the various acts of kindness he had experienced, rose up and took his leave.

To her poor lover, Miss Manners had never appeared so lovely as on this occasion. He left the house with the intention of never beholding her more; but scarcely had he quitted her presence, than he felt that to remain long away were impossible. Her beauty; her goodness; her kind words; her kinder looks; all—all rushed to his mind; and his feelings, which had been somewhat calmed by his illness, acquired even more than their wonted fire. Day after day, as he continued to gather strength, he revisited all his old haunts, and felt as if he had just returned from a sojourn in a distant land. Everything was new and fresh; but, with every scene, old feelings were associated. To him Miss Manners was still the presiding genius of the place, from whom it derived all its beauty, and to whom the worship of his heart was involuntarily offered.

Meanwhile, Miss Manners had received strict injunctions from her father not to receive his visits except when he himself was at home. To this course he had been urged, not so much by his own feelings towards him, as by the advice of his friends. Indeed, Jones was rather a favourite with him. He would willingly have done much to serve him; and yet, when the happiness of his daughter was at stake, he often reflected on the awful consequences which might ensue, if he were really the guilty wretch whom so many suspected he was.

About this time a circumstance occurred, which put an end to his doubts.

Among those who mourned the unhappy fate of the poor village maiden, the grief of her lover, George Merrideth, had been observed to be the wildest. For some days, he had wandered about like one demented; and all who witnessed, respected and commiserated his anguish. Latterly, however, he had disappeared entirely from the public view; and it was hinted by some, that his mind had been seriously affected by the occurrence. One morning, Mr. Manners was suddenly sent for to attend at his deathbed. When he entered, the patient had fallen into a kind of dozing sleep; and he was motioned to a seat near the bed. The light was almost entirely excluded from the chamber; and the only other person present was the mother of the dying lad, who was a widow. She was wasted with grief and watching, and seemed just such a figure as a painter would have chosen to heighten the melancholy of such a scene. As she came round and whispered some scarcely articulate words into the clergyman's ear, her son murmured in his sleep, became restless, and woke as in terror. Mr. Manners spoke to him in soothing words, and referred to a state of happiness hereafter.

"Aha!" cried he, "can I enter heaven with my hand bloody? Her spirit is sainted. I could not go near it. Oh no—no—never—never."

"Of what is it he speaks?" inquired Mr. Manners.

"Oh, sir!" answered his mother, "his thoughts are wandering. I canna think he killed the lassie he loved."

"Ay, mother," said the youth, with an effort, "this hand did it. O fool!—cut it off—off with it—it is not my hand—my hand never would have done it. Oh—oh—mother—Jessie."

Mr. Manners was dumb with amazement. It was but too evident from whence the agony of the youth flowed, and he sat regarding him with looks of awe and terror.

"It grows dark," continued the patient; "but, softly. You know I loved you when you were a child; but now you love another!—ay, that's it—you will not be mine! It grows still darker!—ha, ha, ha!—fly—fly!—it is done! O God! if I could draw back!"

The dying man waxed wilder in his ravings. After a time, however, he became comparatively calm; and, on Mr. Manners addressing him, recognised his voice.

"Ah, that voice!" he said. "I have often heard it. I have not attended to its counsel; but if it could console—oh, no, I cannot be consoled. Your hand, sir!—forgive—forgive."

"Do not ask forgiveness of me," said Mr. Manners. "May God in his mercy pardon you!"

The wretched youth muttered a kind of incoherent prayer, while his mother dropped on her knees by the bed-side. All afterwards was wildness and despair, only relieved by intervals of exhaustion. Mr. Manners continued to administer such consolation as the circumstances of the case admitted of, and did not leave the house till the voice of the guilty man had become hushed in death, and nothing broke the silence but the moanings of the afflicted mother.

Several days had now passed since Jones visited the manse; and he could hold out no longer. On the very day on which Mr. Manners was engaged in the melancholy duty we have described, the unhappy lover bent his steps thither, with an anxious and fluttering heart. As he walked up the garden, he observed Miss Manners watering a small bed, in which she had planted some favourite flowers. The young lady was a good deal embarrassed on beholding him. Her father's injunctions against receiving his visits had made a deep impression on her mind, and she had directed the servant, the next time he called, to say that she could not be seen. Now, however, there was no escape. Jones walked towards her with a smile of mingled fear and admiration; and, if not with cordiality, she received him at least with politeness. Their conversation, as they strolled through the garden, was at first embarrassed, but became more free by degrees, and assumed at length an almost confidential tone. To a person of a romantic disposition, Jones' conversation was in a high degree fascinating; and his companion in this delightful walk did not conceal the pleasure with which she listened to it. His candour and unreserve she admired; his misfortunes she commiserated; and, with much that he said she could not fail to be both interested and flattered. Nevertheless, she avoided any word by which she thought she might give encouragement to his hopes; while he, on the other hand, although freely expressing his passion, was careful to avoid a syllable which might lead her to believe that, in his present disgrace and poverty, he presumed to the honour of her hand. After wandering about for some time, their souls melting into each other, Miss Manners could not resist inviting him into the house to rest. Scarcely, however, had they seated themselves in the parlour, when Mr. Manners appeared. He entered with rather a hasty step, and his manner was a good deal agitated. On perceiving Jones, he bowed to him, then turning to his daughter—

"My child!" he said.

"What is it?" inquired Miss Manners, in a tone of alarm.

"Have you," he continued, "forgotten my injunctions?"

Miss Manners cast her eyes on the ground, and seemed displeased at being taken to task before a stranger.

Jones, observing her embarrassment, said—

"Sir, I shall be sorry if my presence here should occasion you any uneasiness. Believe me, I am the last person in the world to intrude where I am not welcome. It will, no doubt, cost me a pang, sir; but if it be your wish that I should not see your daughter more, I shall try to tear my heart from her—I shall go and hide myself in obscurity, and endeavour to forget all I have most loved in this world!"

Mr. Manners raised his hand, as if commanding silence, and gazed stedfastly on his daughter. The latter looked up to him with tears in her eyes, and exclaimed—

"I think Mr. Jones is innocent!"

"He is innocent," said the old man, emphatically. "Come to my arms, both!"

Both moved forward and took the hand he offered, but with amazement depicted on their countenances.

"Oh, my children!" he said, "I have witnessed such a scene!"

The old man sat down on the sofa, and, for a few moments, covered his eyes with his hands.

"I have been," he, at length, proceeded, "by the dying bed of the poor village maiden's murderer—I have heard the fearful confession from his own lips. O God! may I never behold such another deathbed!"

Jones dropped on his knee, and Miss Manners clasped her hands as in mute prayer.

"Thank God!" at length exclaimed the latter; "the innocent will no longer suffer for the guilty!"

"No!" said the old man. "Mr. Jones, you have been deeply wronged."

"Ay," said Jones; "but not by you. From you only have I received kindness—kindness often better deserved, but never more needed—often, perhaps, bestowed, but never received with deeper gratitude. While every door was barred against me, yours was open—while every heart"——

His utterance became choked, and he was altogether unable to proceed. Mr. Manners shook him warmly by the hand; and, with many expressions of thankfulness, Jones withdrew, leaving Miss Manners in tears.

On returning homewards, it was obvious that the news of Merrideth's death, together with its fearful revelations, had spread like wildfire through the village. How different was Jones' reception!—nods, recognitions, congratulations, cheers, wherever he passed! Of these, however, he thought not: he thought only of the girl he had left behind him weeping. That very night he again repaired to the manse. He went often; and every succeeding time seemed to be made more welcome.

A pleasant—a delightful change had now taken place in his feelings. The consciousness of having outlived the slander which had so long sullied his name, filled his bosom with a sensation of honest pride, and inspired him with a degree of ease and confidence which he had not previously experienced. Miss Manners was scarcely less gratified by the mystery having been at length cleared up, and the public mind disabused. From her first interview with Jones, she had entertained a strong impression of his innocence; and the fact of her good opinion of him being confirmed, she regarded with feelings almost of triumph. Accordingly, their meetings were mutually delightful. If, at any time, the latter doubted the propriety of encouraging his visits, the reflection that she had done right, in the first instance, in following the dictates of her heart, caused her to continue in the same course. The truth is, she pitied Jones; and pity, it is well known, is akin to a still tenderer emotion.

Two or three weeks after the scene we have described, there was a small evening party at the manse. It was given in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Green, who had just been a few days married. The young couple were ushered into the drawing-room in gay attire, and with their faces wreathed into still gayer smiles; and, in the fair bride, Jones, who was, of course, present, recognized the lady who had, on one occasion, betrayed so much alarm on his doing her a trifling act of kindness. The affair, in the absence of more important topic of conversation, was talked and laughed over; and the bride acknowledged herself to have been a very silly girl. All the company were soon in high spirits, and the merriment was kept up till it was near midnight. On separating, the company could not help expressing their admiration of the serenity of the night. It was a clear, lovely moonlight; and the exquisite stillness and beauty of the scene caused some of the younger individuals of the party to regret that they had spent so much time within doors. When they reached the gate, Miss Manners, who had accompanied them through the garden, bade them "good night." "Good night," said they, and parted; but Jones, who was the last to shake hands with her, could not part. He lingered, pressed her hand, wished her "good night," and still lingered.

"I must escort you a little way back," he at length said; and, accordingly, the two strolled up the garden, hand in hand—she speaking of the lateness of the hour, and he of the loveliness of the moon and stars, until night, moon, and stars, were all forgotten.

After a few moments' silence, Jones suddenly paused, and, pressing her hand in both of his, said—

"Marion, I would we might never part. I never leave you without pain."

"I know not why it should be so," she said; "but you must just come back the oftener."

"Ay," said he; "but even to be absent from you a little while, is torture."

"I fear," she said, "you are but a poor philosopher."

"Ah," he replied, "philosophy can do many things, but it cannot cure the heartache. O Marion! I love to call you by that name! It is in your power to end all my anxieties: a word—a word will do it! How say you? May I hope? Nay, I do hope; but, may I call you by that name?"

"What name?" interrupted Miss Manners, tremulously.

"That name, dear heart, which is the tenderest man can bestow on woman?"

Her reply was inaudible. Jones, however, kissed her lips, and she forbade him not. On parting, he again kissed her, and returned to his lodgings with feelings of unmixed ecstacy.

A few weeks passed—they were weeks of delicious expectancy, of unrestrained intercourse, of active preparation; and the event which was to crown their happiness was duly solemnized. It was a day of great rejoicing in the village; and, as they dashed off on their marriage jaunt, they were honoured with the blessings and cheers of a large crowd of people who had assembled to wish them joy. On returning, a few days afterwards, similar demonstrations of respect awaited them; and they continued to live in the neighbourhood, greatly esteemed and beloved by all who knew them—esteemed for their many virtues, and beloved for their simple and unostentatious manners.

One little incident, which happened many years afterwards, is perhaps worth relating. An old man, who had been long unable to work, and to whom Jones had shown much kindness, grasped him one day by the hand, and said—

"Sir, I once struck you on the head with a stone; do you forgive me?"

"I do," was the reply; "but you must not do so again."



THE SERGEANT'S TALES.

THE PALANTINES.[G]

Of all the countless numbers that take their pleasure walks upon the Calton Hill of Edinburgh, none that do not remember it an isolated spot, of awkward access, can have any recollection of Sergeant Square's tall and gaunt figure, his cue, cocked hat, gaiters, and military appearance, as he took his daily promenade around the airy and delightful walks, or sat upon its highest point, where Nelson's Monument now stands, in stately solitude, as if he had been the genius of the hill, resting his square and bony chin on the top of his gold-headed cane, with his immense hands serving as a cushion between. Thus would he sit for hours, gazing on the busy scene beneath, as if he knew what occupied the bustling crowds, and directed their labours according to the impulse of his will. We had passed and repassed each other in our walks for weeks, before any approach to recognition took place between us. I was the first to make an advance, by giving him a slight bow, as we passed; this he returned, and an acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy. Under his stiff and formal air, I found one of the most kind and communicative hearts I ever communed with. It is long since I laid his head in the grave; and I never visit the hill, but memory conjures up his remarkable figure, as vividly as if we stood face to face, till I almost think I may meet him at each turn, while I saunter along, lost in musing on days that are gone. I may meet with new piles of stone and mortar profaning the sacred spot; but, Sergeant Square I shall never meet there again! But to proceed. It was on that day the 42d regiment marched into Edinburgh, after their return from Egypt, that we were enjoying our usual walk. It was a spirit-stirring time, and our talk was of war, and the gallant exploits of our countrymen. His eye flashed; his gold-headed cane rested on his shoulder as if it had been a musket; his walk became a march; he was evidently thinking of the battles he had been in; when, embracing the opportunity, I requested a short account of his adventures. It was some time before he took any notice of my request, so completely was his mind absorbed in his own recollections. We had reached the north-east angle of the hill before he spoke. At length he seated himself on the smooth green turf—I by his side; and, after a pause—

"If you have the patience to listen to me," he said, "I do not care if I do give you some account of what I have seen, suffered, and enjoyed in this strange world."

[G] Palantine—a name given by the Americans and seamen, to kidnapped individuals, or those who went out voluntarily to be indented, for a time agreed upon, with any person in America willing to pay the sum of money required by the captain for their passage out. The famous Williamson, who first invented the penny-post and directories, obtained damages from the magistrates of Aberdeen for suppressing his narrative, in which he exposed them for this traffic.—ED.

"It is of small importance," he began, "where a man was born, or who was his father—his own actions must bring him fame or shame. The first sounds that ever attracted my particular attention, were those of the music bells of old St. Giles', and the firing of the guns in Edinburgh Castle. I had reached my twelfth year, when my father, who was a Jacobite, joined the Highland army at Duddingstone, while Prince Charles was in Holyrood House, and I never saw him again. My mother, who was weakly at the time, and our circumstances very poor—for my father was only a day-labourer—took it so much to heart that she survived only a few months, and I was thrown destitute upon my own resources, which, God knows, were scant enough. I was tall and stout for my age, and roughed it out, ragged, hungry, and cold, about the city, for three years and some months—running messages, or doing any little thing I could get to do for a piece of bread or a mouthful of victuals; and choosing the warmest stair, or any other convenient place, for a bedroom. Rough as this training was, I was far from being unhappy; for I had my enjoyments, humble as they were—as yet innocent, and as keenly relished as if they had been those of luxury. These few years of hardships were soon to be of eminent service to me—perhaps the means of saving my life.

It was the spring of the year. The winter had been very severe, and I was rejoicing in the thought of summer, which, for the poor, has fewer wants and less of suffering. Loitering, as usual, upon the High Street, hungry enough, and looking for some little job to earn a breakfast, I was accosted by a rough-looking man, rather genteelly dressed, who inquired if I would carry a parcel for him to Leith, and he would give me a sixpence. My heart bounding with joy at the rich reward, I said I would. Whereupon he inquired if my parents would not be angry at my going, or my master, if I had one. I told him I had neither parent nor master, not even a friend in the world to find fault with me how I spent my time. A grim smile of satisfaction came over his countenance; he put the offered sixpence again into his pocket, and gave me a small paper parcel, with the direction where I was to carry it; adding, as I stood waiting for my reward—'Run quick, like a good boy. Tell them to give you some breakfast, and wait until I come and give you the sixpence.' Away I ran, like a greyhound from the slip, to get a breakfast and earn my sixpence. Swift as was my flight, never did the Canongate or the Easter Road—the only one to Leith from Edinburgh at this time—appear so long to me. When I arrived at the house to which I had been directed, in one of the dark alleys near the shore, I was ushered into a small, darkened room. A stout, thick-set man, in a seaman's dress, heard my message, received my parcel, without once opening his lips, and locked the door.

Hungry, disappointed, and alarmed at this unlooked-for reception, I stood for some time lost in amazement. At length I looked around; there was no furniture in the room, not even so much as a seat of any kind. My fears became excessive. I screamed to be set at liberty, and beat upon the door with my hands and feet, until I sank upon the floor from fatigue, and burst out into a fit of weeping. No answer was made, nor any notice taken of my efforts. I looked through my tears at the window; but it was high, small, and strongly secured with iron stanchels. I had lain thus on the floor for an hour or two, when I heard the key turn in the lock. I sprung to my feet as the door opened; and the same person entered, bearing a pewter tankard of beer, some bread, and salt beef. A thick stick under his arm caught my eye, and excited new terrors. He set the victuals upon the floor, and then, brandishing the bludgeon over my head, threatened to beat my brains out if I made such a noise again—giving, in pure cruelty and wantonness of power, a few blows across the shoulders, to teach me, as he said, what I might expect if I did not attend to his orders. Pointing to the food, he surlily ordered me to eat, and immediately again locked the door. Hungry as I had been a short time before, my heart was too full for me to eat; and the blows I had received pained me very much. I sat down and wept more bitterly than I had done; but the hunger of a boy is keener than his grief—so I at length made a hearty meal, moistened by my tears, and wept myself asleep.

How long I had lain thus I had no means of ascertaining. I was roused by the voice of mirth and singing in another apartment. All was dark; so much so, I could not even distinguish the small grated window from the dead walls. I listened for some time in surprise, and would fain have persuaded myself I had been in an unpleasant dream; but my shoulders were still sore, and the small basket and tankard, I felt, were still at my side. For some time I revolved in my mind what step to take—whether to remain quiet, or knock upon the door, and implore my liberty—at least to be made acquainted with the cause of my being detained. At length my suspense became so unbearable that I resolved to brave every danger, and began to knock at the door, for which I had groped, tapping gently at first, and gradually knocking louder and louder. The voice of my jailor, evidently in extreme anger, again sounded fearfully through the key-hole—'Be quiet, or I will come in and beat your noisy body to a mummy.' I shrunk from the door, and leaned upon the wall, as far from him as the small dimensions of the room would admit, trembling, in fearful expectation of his entrance. While I stood thus, a prey to the keenest anguish, the mirth and jollity for a time increased, and at length grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased. All was still for a little; then I heard the noise of footsteps approaching the door of my prison-room, and a sound as if something was in the act of being dragged along the passage. The key was placed in the door, and it opened. My heart beat as if it would have burst my bosom, when I saw the ruffian who had locked me up, and another like himself, dragging what appeared to me to be the dead body of a man. I uttered a suppressed scream, and must have fallen to the ground, had I not been pent up in the corner. My eyes were as if they would have started from their sockets, and I could not withdraw them from the horrid sight. One of the men held a lanthorn in his left hand, which threw a feeble light upon the group; while, with his right hand, he grasped the left arm of the body; and, his companion exerting all his strength, they dragged it to the side of the room, and dropped it upon the floor. A stifled groan issued from it, which thrilled through my ears like an order for my execution; and I would have darted from the spot, wild with despair, although I saw the eyes of both watching me, as they deposited the body, with a malignant grin of satisfaction; but my limbs refused to obey my will, and I stood the image of despair. The men spoke not a word, but, retiring, locked the door upon me, and left me with a thing my nature revolted from. Scarce were they gone when similar sounds fell upon my ear, and they again entered with a second victim. This was more than I could endure: a wild energy came over me; I sank upon my knees, and implored them not to murder me, or leave me alone with the bodies, for mercy's sake! I sank upon the floor, and grasped their legs in the fervency of my supplications. With a fiendish laugh, they spurned me from them; and, as they locked the door, growled—

'What does the fool mean?—beware, the cudgel!'

As the sound of the closing and locking of the door died away, I was roused from my stupor of fear to an agony of terror, that drove me almost to madness. A movement in one of the bodies, accompanied by deep guttural sounds, indicated that the objects of my terror were coming to life again, or were not yet quite dead. This produced new terrors, and I dashed myself upon the door, uttering the most piercing cries. The ruffians again entered, and beat me without mercy; but I was now beyond the fear of personal suffering; and I really believe, so intense was my feeling of fear and horror, that I would have leaped into a furnace to avoid or free myself from my situation. Their threats and blows were vain. I reiterated my cries more intensely; for I saw both the bodies become apparently animated, and turn their dull, stupid gaze on me, as I struggled to wrench myself from the grasp of the ruffians. Our struggle was short; for one of them set down the lanthorn, forced down my arms behind me, and held me fast, while the other dropped the cudgel with which he had been beating me, and, taking a piece of rope-yarn from his jacket pocket, bound my wrists behind my back; he then deliberately took the large key out of the lock of the door, placed it in my mouth, across between my teeth, tied it firm behind my head, and so effectively gagged me, that I could not utter a sound. How I retained my reason at this fearful period I know not, for I expected death every moment; and there was a misty vagueness about my fate that had even greater terror than death itself. As soon as I was thus silenced, they stood grinning at my agony for a minute before either spoke. At length—

'This is a troublesome customer enough, for noise part,' said the first ruffian to the other; 'but he will now be quiet enough, I think. I wish the boat were come, or we shall have plenty on our hands soon, when these two have slept it off. It is full tide now, and they were to have been here an hour ere flow. What can detain the lubbers, think you?'

'Can't say,' replied the other; 'perhaps something is in their way. There they are.'

At this moment a low whistle sounded faintly into the room, as if coming from under the window. One of the men answered by a similar whistle, and both left the room; and in a few minutes four sailors entered, and, taking up one of the objects of my dread, carried it out. One of the ruffians then assisted me to rise, and, holding me by the collar, dragged me out of the house after them, down to the Ferry-boat Stairs at the quay, more dead than alive. The four seamen had placed their burden in a boat that lay there. I was placed beside it. It lay inanimate; and I, seated on one of the thwarts, was guarded by two seamen, who kept watch, while the four were away for the other victim. At length they came, deposited their burden beside the other, pushed off from the pier, and rowed out of the harbour's mouth. As they pulled along, I felt my spirits revive, the fear of immediate death passed from my mind; and, besides, I was in company with living beings like myself, however cruel they might be. Before we reached the beacon, the ruffian who had first locked me up, and who was now in the boat with us, loosened the key from my mouth, and undid the cord from my hands, which had begun to swell, from the tight manner in which they were tied. This act almost relieved me of my fears; still all was silence in the boat, not a word had as yet been spoken by any one; but afterwards, as we gained distance from the shore, they began to converse.

'So the Betsy sails to-morrow, without fail,' said the first ruffian.

'She does,' was the answer of the seaman.

'Why has her stay been so short this trip?' again asked the man. 'We will make but a poor job of it. We have only nabbed five.'

'Why, I think you have done pretty well,' answered the sailor; 'twenty-five pounds for two days' work is good pay. Old Satan, you are never content.'

'None of your slack, mate,' rejoined the other; 'I won't stand it. Two days more would have made it fifty or better; and no man, more than I, would be content with one half of what he might and ought to have.'

'I believe we are full, old Grumbler,' said the tar; 'others are more active than you; but here, we are just alongside of the Betsy. Ship, ahoy! Throw us a rope! Are you all asleep?'

In a few minutes, a rope was thrown; it was made fast by the fore thwarts, when the ruffians and mate went on board, and remained for some time. At length the mate returned, and, holding the end of the rope from the vessel, ordered me to ascend, which I did with difficulty. My two companions were then hoisted on board, being fastened to a rope, and dragged up by the crew of the vessel. As soon as they were on deck, the ruffians descended into a boat without speaking a word, and put off for the harbour.

When it was gone, I was conducted to the hold of the vessel; and the two companions of my adventure were carried, and placed beside me. My terror of them had now entirely fled; for, from their contortions and half-muttered expressions, I had perceived they were not dead, but in a beastly state of intoxication. Even to be from under the same roof with the cause of my sufferings was to me a change much for the better. With a mind comparatively at ease, I fell asleep upon the hard deck, where I had at first taken my station, and remained in happy unconsciousness until I was awoke after sunrise, in consequence of the bustle and noise around me. For a few minutes I revolved the events of the preceding day and night in my mind, and shuddered as the recollection dawned upon me. Raising myself upon my elbow, I gazed around as well as the obscurity would permit (for the main hatch was closed), and saw the two young men who had caused me so much alarm, lying close beside me, in a profound sleep, and breathing very heavily. I attempted to rise; but felt so sick and giddy that I could not keep my feet, from the motion of the vessel. I longed for the presence of some of the crew; but none of them came near us. The two lads at length awoke from their sleep, bewildered and sick almost to death; they gazed around them with a vacant stare, as if they had just passed into a new state of existence. They spoke not a word; their minds were occupied in examining all around them, and, as I thought, ascertaining their own identity. Young as I was, had I been at ease, I could have enjoyed the extraordinary scene before me; but, alas! I was a partaker of all the feelings that were passing in their minds. At length they broke silence—

'Willie, Willie, what's come owre us now?' cried Peter.

'Indeed I do not know, Peter,' replied he; 'but I fear it is no good.'

'What good can be expected from such company as we were in last night?' continued the first, 'and such drinking as we had. O Willie, had you come away when I wanted—but I am as bad as you, or I would have left you when I threatened.'

'There is no use to reflect upon what is done, when it cannot be undone,' said his friend. 'I fear the deceitful scoundrels drugged our liquor; for I have no recollection of anything that occurred after your proposing to leave them.'

Then, addressing me, he asked if I knew where they were, or in what ship. I answered that I did not, further than that, from what I had seen and heard, I thought we were on board of a vessel they called the Betsy; and then gave them an account of all I had witnessed the evening before. The younger of the two began to weep like a child; while the other, whose rage knew no bounds, swore fearfully at the two ruffians who had betrayed them into their present situation. When he became more calm, I requested him to explain himself; and learned from him his own history and that of his companion. They were schoolfellows, cousins, and fellow-apprentices; had served their time as joiners; and then left their native village, to pursue their calling in the capital, with some views, though not matured, of emigrating to America. Having been unsuccessful in obtaining work in the city, they had come down to Leith to make inquiries about a passage to America; and were so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of one of the notorious plantation-crimps, who, pretending to be intimate with the captain of a trading vessel about to sail, enticed them to his den, that they might obtain all the information they required. They were plied with liquor; robbed of all the money they had; and placed in the situation in which I now saw them. From the inquiries they had made in Leith, and our mutual explanations, it was too evident to us all three that we had been kidnapped and sold to a palantine vessel, to be carried out to Virginia, and there sold as slaves, to the highest bidder. The young men were inconsolable; as for me, I cared little about it, now that I was assured there was no immediate personal violence to be feared: hard fare and hard living were my lot—I knew no other. While others, bred to better things, were in misery, I was comparatively in happiness. Such is the influence of habit. To have my provisions regularly served, with nothing to do but lie upon the floor of the hold, or walk about in its narrow limits, was to me sufficient recompense for an evil, which to others would have appeared irremediable.

The next tide after we were put on board, the Betsy left Leith Roads, and sailed for Aberdeen, on her progress north. Our number was there augmented to eighteen—the recruits being all boys about my own age, who, not being kidnapped, but trepanned with false promises, came on board in great spirits, and full of hope. I could notice the various operations going forward, in consequence of my cheerful and contented manner having obtained for me permission to come on deck and range over the vessel. My slight sickness went off as soon as we were under way; and, pleased with my new mode of life, I began to make myself as useful to the crew as I could; but the two lads were not so fortunate; for they were continually abusing the captain, or importuning him to put them on shore. In the forenoon of the day before we sailed from Aberdeen, a boat, containing a quantity of luggage, came alongside, and a genteelly-dressed couple came on board, and were ushered into the cabin. The female appeared very dejected; and, hanging upon the male with anxious fondness, expressed through her silent tears, bent her gaze, alternately looking towards the shore with an expression of regret, and then in his face with a languid smile. He was as well-made and good-looking a man as I have ever seen in all my wanderings; but there was a marble-like rigidity in his features, only enlivened by a peculiar cast of his piercing black eyes, that created a peculiar feeling of uneasiness in me as I looked at him. He left the vessel; but when I know not; for we sailed before sunset; and I never again saw the female he left until we had passed Cape Wrath, some few days after. As for myself, I was quite happy, and felt myself more at home than I had done since my mother's death. The ship was a home to me. I had my allowance with the other palantines; slept in the hold with them at night; and enjoyed, along with many of them, the pleasure of building castles in the air—anticipations of the wealth and comforts we were to enjoy in the land of promise. It was, indeed, by delusive accounts of America, that most of them had been induced to embark.

We were now careering over the blue waves of the vast Atlantic, as if we were far above the earth. Nothing was there for the weary eye to rest upon but a dreary expanse of ocean and sky. All was still as death, save the hissing at the bows of the vessel, as she parted the unfathomable deep. The crew loitered upon the decks listlessly; and we, as palantines, huddled together around the mainmast, were whiling away the time in songs, or talking of the homes we had left behind, and future hopes in a foreign land. We were suddenly interrupted by the female I have already mentioned, who came rushing up the companion, from the cabin, and crouched amongst us like a frightened hare. I could not have believed that so short a period of time could have wrought so great a change upon a human being. She was thin, pale; her eyes red, and sunk in her head; her hair dishevelled; and her whole appearance exhibiting the extreme of neglect. We all looked upon her in astonishment; for, indeed, we were not aware that there was a female on board. Her sobs and distracted looks moved our young hearts almost to tears. She spoke nothing; fear had chained up her tongue; her eyes were either bent imploringly upon us, or turned, in aversion and terror, towards the quarter from whence she had come. All on deck was dumb show; the sailors looked on, apparently as much surprised as we were; and, in the midst of the silent scene, the captain came on deck, apparently in great agitation. He was coming towards us, when the female sank on her knees, and, raising her clasped hands, called on God to save her from that bad man; then, looking around to us, implored us, in the most thrilling accents, not to deliver her up to him. We were ourselves slaves; yet, such is the force of a woman's appeal, that we placed ourselves between her and him, while the crew stood apart, and looked silently on. The captain affected to laugh.

'Lady, what are you afraid of, that you have left the cabin?' he said. 'It was all in jest, upon my honour! You are as safe there as in your father's house. Come, madam, I shall have the pleasure to lead you back.'

'Oh, never!' screamed the female. 'Leave me! leave me! if you would not drive me mad, or into this boundless ocean. What on earth have I now to care for? I know I am your slave, by the basest and cruellest means, but worse I shall never be. A favour from your hands would be hateful to me. With these, my fellow-sufferers, I can alone feel myself secure from insult. Your cabin I shall never enter. Foolish—oh, how foolishly confiding I have been!—but criminal I shall never be. So, leave me, for mercy sake!'

While she spoke, my eyes were fixed upon him. I saw the working of passion deeply depicted on his countenance; pity had no place there. A faint shade of shame passed over him; but disappointment settled into fierce rage. Stamping upon the deck, and in a voice hoarse from emotion—

'It is well, madam,' he cried. 'You have made your choice, and shall abide by it; and those who, by their looks, indicate their resolution to abet your folly, shall not fare the better for their interference. Mate, call the crew! force the palantines below; and batten them down, as base mutineers.'

Not one of us had as yet spoken one word; the whole was the affair of a few minutes. The mate ordered us below; and we were obeying the order as fast as we could—the distressed female huddling in the midst of us, fearful to be on the deck alone—when William, in his undaunted manner, stepped up to the captain, and began to upbraid him, both for his conduct in having kidnapped us, and for his present conduct towards an unprotected female. He even threatened him with exposure as soon as we reached the shores of America. Peter, his friend, in vain urged him to refrain from irritating the captain; but the hot-headed youth heeded not the advice, and stood by his point, till the captain, who uttered not one word, bit his lip, and, hurrying to his cabin, returned with a cocked pistol in each hand. The mate, who was a good-hearted kind of lad, was, at the moment, persuading William to go below quietly; but his blood was up; and, even at sight of the pistols, he quailed not. I looked on with fear, for the captain's stern silence looked ominous. He levelled one of the pistols, and fired; the ball passed close by his intended victim, and went right through the fore-sail. The second he was in the act of raising, when William struck his hand down, and it went off, sending the ball through the deck. The furious man now called to the mate and crew to place poor William in irons. The youth stood still resolute, and would have rushed upon the captain and hurled him to the deck, or perhaps overboard (for he was a powerful lad), had not Peter held him back. The irons were now produced from the cabin—William and the captain eyeing each other meanwhile like two tigers; and three of the crew and the mate, set on by the captain, who kept blaspheming in a fearful manner, rushed to secure the young man. Peter at once loosed his hold of William, and stood in his defence; whereupon the captain, starting to give personal aid, uttered a shrill cry of pain, and fell upon the deck, which was stained with his blood. The ball had passed through his foot before it entered the wood. As many of us as the hatchway would admit, witnessed the scene; but none of us had any mind to be partakers in it. William and Peter were secured and put in irons before the vindictive villain would allow himself to be removed from the deck. It was no matter, in his anger, that his foot bled. He even stood, while the deck was streaming, till we were also battened down into the dark hold—the two companions remaining in irons above. As soon as we were all settled below, in which there was not even proper accommodation for us poor palantines, the female retired to one corner; and, seating herself on the bare boards, leaned her head to the side of the vessel, and wept bitterly. We were deeply affected by her situation and distress; but had nothing in our power whereby to alleviate her sorrow, save, indeed, our sympathy; and that we only gave in secret; for her ladylike appearance, in a great measure, overawed us, and made us retire from her. The greater part of us composed ourselves to sleep. Before morning, it blew a dreadful gale, as we could perceive by the pitching of the vessel and the noise of the rigging, which sounded fearfully in our ears. All of us became very sick. The poor lady I thought would have died; her weakness was extreme; and her suffering apparently beyond any present remeid. Two days and nights we remained in this dreadful situation, without a mouthful of food or a drop of water. Our sufferings increased hourly, and were almost more than we could endure. We shouted for help, or to be liberated from our noisome prison. Our cries were either unheeded or drowned by the noise and tumult of the storm. I and a few more had recovered from the sickness only to feel, in greater horror, our painful situation. The heat of the hold was intense, and aggravated our thirst tenfold. The air even became offensive; our breathing a kind of painful spasm of the windpipe. We crept to the foot of the ladder under the main hatch and, holding by it, sucked in some fresh air. I had been here for some time, and felt my sufferings alleviated; and the poor female's situation in the distant corner, selfish as we had all become, moved us so much to pity, that two of us agreed to relinquish our envied post, to ascertain whether she still survived.

We found her extended upon the hard boards, to all appearance dead; I placed my hand upon her heart, to ascertain if life was extinct. She opened her eyes, and made a motion with her hand as if she wished me to retire. Humanity forbade compliance; and, in the best manner we could, we conveyed her to the foot of the ladder, where she gradually began to recover and breathe more freely. This was now the third day of our confinement. The storm had almost subsided, as we could feel from the vessel lying more steady in the water; and, to our unspeakable joy, the hatch was opened, and a supply of water and biscuit given to us. Next to the water, the pure air of heaven was most welcome to us. I wet the parched lips of the pale sufferer, then held the beverage to them. She swallowed a few mouthfuls, blessed me for my kindness, then sank into her usual melancholy. We were now told by the mate that we were not to come on deck; but he would leave the hatch open. We obeyed this command, which came from the captain. William and Peter, who had witnessed and endured the whole storm, in irons, lashed at the foot of the mainmast to a ring bolt, were also liberated, and came down amongst us. We learned from them that we had been in great danger, and that the mate and crew had been alarmed for the safety of the vessel. The captain was still unable to leave his cabin; and, from all accounts, he was very bad of the wound. This was so far fortunate; for the mate, who was of a humane disposition, brought some coffee for the female, which William, with great difficulty, prevailed upon her to take. She gradually began to recover; and the more passionate bursts of her grief having subsided, we were anxious to learn how she had been reduced to her present situation, and thought of making a delicate inquiry into her history. At length the frank and generous William put the question to her in the most gentle manner; a burst of tears followed the request.

'Much as it will pain me,' she said, 'I am so indebted to you all for your kindness and humanity, that I cannot refuse your desire. I almost feel it a duty to myself; for appearances are strongly against me. So low as I must appear at present to you all, I was born in affluence, though not of an ancient family. My father was a wealthy merchant, and the best of parents. My sainted mother died before I had reached my tenth year, leaving us both inconsolable for her loss. My father, who could scarce endure to have me out of his sight—for I was an only child—engaged a governess to complete my education. She was a young woman of engaging manners, and possessed of every accomplishment; yet under these she concealed a selfish disposition and hardness of heart, which neither my father nor myself suspected could have existed in one so young and bland in her speech. To me she was most kind and unremitting in her duties—more, indeed, like a mother than a hireling; and I loved her as if she had stood in that relation to me. This won my father's esteem for her, which, unfortunately, soon ripened into love. One day, I recollect, as I was walking in the garden, accompanied by him, he led me to an arbour, and, placing me beside him, said—

'Eliza, do you love Marian?'

I artlessly threw my arms around his neck, and exclaiming—

'Oh, yes, papa; how much I thank you for getting me so good a governess!'

I had pleased him; for he smiled and said—

'My dear Eliza, I mean to bind her to you by a stronger tie. I have watched her maternal care and affection for you, and mean to give her the right to call you daughter.'

I was delighted. The marriage was solemnised, and we lived in harmony and mutual love, so far as I could perceive, for six years. At this period my father fell into a bad state of health, which threatened to terminate fatally. Our attentions to him, unremitting and anxious, were repaid by a gratitude and love which seemed equally divided between his young wife and the child of his first love. Marian showed no jealousy; and my heart was incapable of any feelings but those of affection. Meanwhile, my dear parent, to prepare for the worst, settled his affairs. We were both in the room with him along with the lawyer. He was dissolved in tears, and asked us if we were satisfied with the manner in which he dictated the disposal of his wealth. I could only answer by my sobs. My grief was excessive. The making of a will, to my young and inexperienced mind, had all the appearance of the last act of a living person. Death soon closed the scene. By the settlement, it was provided that we were to be treated as sisters, only a greater share of power (as if she had been the elder sister) was given to his wife. It ran thus:—If neither married, we were to live together, and the survivor was to enjoy and have the disposal of all. If Marian married, she was, during her life, to enjoy one-half, which was to revert to me or my children at her death. If I married during her life, without her consent, I was to be cut off from any part of my father's property, except what she might choose to give me. This was a hard condition. I was to have no claim at law; and, in the event of me or my husband instituting an action, I was to be cut off with a shilling. This fatal clause, which I heard read to me at the time with indifference, has been the cause of all my misfortunes, and since then I have had every reason to believe my confiding father was prompted to insert it, at the suggestion of my artful stepmother. For some time, she had, at every opportunity, been speaking of foolish marriages made by young women, and their fatal consequences, illustrating them by numerous anecdotes and examples, whereby she invidiously prepared him for her selfish purpose, and at last compassed her object without the appearance of a dictation which he would have spurned. I was thus left at the mercy of this designing woman, who, when she put on her widow's robes, put off her hypocrisy towards me, and began to appear in her true colours. Alas! I have every reason to think that her acting had all along been irksome to her. She became harsh and cruel, doing all she could to make the house and her presence disagreeable to me. She became gay, and frequented company, of which I was forced to partake; and when I could scarce refrain from tears at the remembrance of some cutting speech she had used to me only a few hours before, I was forced to smile to hide my chagrin. Before strangers, there was no change towards me, neither was there anything I could complain of to my acquaintance; for so artfully did she manage to make me miserable, that every fault was imputable to my own apparent bad temper. It was when alone that I experienced her bitter manner. All was wrong I said or did, and her admonitions for my amendment were more cutting than her reproofs and abuse. I had several eligible offers for my hand; all of which she refused, under one pretence or another—covering her designs against me by the mask of an anxiety for my happiness; so that she was looked upon by all who were acquainted with her as the best of stepmothers—the kindest protector of youth. At length, her wishes were accomplished. A nephew of her own, by her invitation, came to reside with us for a short time, upon a visit. As if my good genius warned me of my fate, I disliked him so much at first, that I felt unhappy in his presence; but his assiduities gradually won upon me. I contrasted him with his aunt; love succeeded to aversion; and I was ruined.'

Here a burst of tears for a time choked her utterance. After some time, she resumed—

'I was now, for a time, happy in the delirium of youthful love. His tender attentions had completely won my heart. With a thrill of pleasure, covered by maiden modesty, I heard his first declaration of unalterable love for me. He saw too plainly the power he had over me. His aunt refused, as usual, her consent to our union; and, after upbraiding me for seducing the affections of her nephew, locked me up in my room, while she retained him in the house. Stolen interviews were the natural consequence. He was all indignation at his aunt for her unkindness to me; and, if possible, more tender and respectful than ever. To escape the tyranny I had so long suffered, I unfortunately agreed to elope with him, and be privately married. I explained to him the situation in which I was placed, by my father's will—he declared he loved me for myself alone. I was now completely in the toils; gave my consent; on the third night left my late father's house in his company, and set off in a postchaise, which was drawn up at a short distance from the gate. Next forenoon, we were lawfully married—his aunt taking no steps to prevent it by following us, but contenting herself by putting on the appearance of grief for my folly and ingratitude to her, for all the care and attention she had bestowed upon my education, and the base return I had made for all her kindness. Can there be a doubt she was the cause of all? Nay—she was the first to make known to me the prior history of my husband—the man whom she had first introduced to me, and to whom she gave every facility to win my unsuspecting heart. She herself now blushed not to say that he was a reprobate, without principle, addicted to every vice, and one whom his friends had found it out of their power to reclaim. With well-feigned tears of regret, she upbraided herself for having ever allowed him to enter her house—ascribing her motive to humanity, and a desire to reclaim him from his errors; and hinting, when she could, that I had defeated her good intentions, and ruined myself. Alas! how true the latter part has proved to me! I and my husband wrote to her letter after letter, in vain. She refused, in the most insulting manner, to allow me a shilling of my father's fortune. All I obtained was my own personal effects, and a few of the jewels that had belonged to my mother. Poverty came fast upon us, and debts increased. My husband had become unkind, and often absent from me for days—excusing himself by fears for his creditors. In our extremity, he spoke of emigration to America, describing the country in glowing colours, and dwelling on the happy prospects he anticipated from the assistance of some relations he had there. I offered no objection; for I had now no partiality for one country more than another—where my husband was, there was my heart and home; and, with a severe pang, not for their value, but for the sake of her who now was unconscious of my situation, I parted with the last of my mother's jewels, to defray the expense of our voyage. My own jewels had been long since disposed of, to supply our urgent wants. We left Edinburgh, like guilty creatures, under the cloud of night, for fear of his being arrested, and proceeded to join the vessel at Aberdeen. I can proceed no further, lest my heart should burst. My heartless husband had sold me to the captain, to be disposed of in America—trepanned me north for his wicked purpose. The rest you know.'