But I have not patience to dwell upon that time at length. When I was in company with these young politics I was borne down with shame for myself and my own plain ways, and scorn for them and their duplicity. Of the two evils, I thought Prestongrange to be the least; and while I was always as stiff as buckram to the young bloods, I made rather a dissimulation of my hard feelings towards the Advocate, and was (in old Mr. Campbell’s word) “soople to the laird.” Himself commented on the difference, and bid me be more of my age, and make friends with my young comrades. I told him I was slow of making friends. “I will take the word back,” said he. “But there is such a thing as _Fair gude s’en and fair gude day_, Mr. David. These are the same young men with whom you are to pass your days and get through life: your backwardness has a look of arrogance; and unless you can assume a little more lightness of manner, I fear you will meet difficulties in the path.” “It will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear,” said I. On the morning of October 1st I was awakened by the clattering in of an express; and getting to my window almost before he had dismounted, I saw the messenger had ridden hard. Somewhile after I was called to Prestongrange, where he was sitting in his bedgown and nightcap, with his letters round him. “Mr. David,” add he, “I have a piece of news for you. It concerns some friends of yours, of whom I sometimes think you are a little ashamed, for you have never referred to their existence.” I suppose I blushed. “See you understand, since you make the answering signal,” said he. “And I must compliment you on your excellent taste in beauty. But do you know, Mr. David? this seems to me a very enterprising lass. She crops up from every side. The Government of Scotland appears unable to proceed for Mistress Katrine Drummond, which was somewhat the case (no great while back) with a certain Mr. David Balfour. Should not these make a good match? Her first intromission in politics—but I must not tell you that story, the authorities have decided you are to hear it otherwise and from a livelier narrator. This new example is more serious, however; and I am afraid I must alarm you with the intelligence that she is now in prison.” I cried out. “Yes,” said he, “the little lady is in prison. But I would not have you to despair. Unless you (with your friends and memorials) shall procure my downfall, she is to suffer nothing.” “But what has she done? What is her offence?” I cried. “It might be almost construed a high treason,” he returned, “for she has broke the king’s Castle of Edinburgh.” “The lady is much my friend,” I said. “I know you would not mock me if the thing were serious.” “And yet it is serious in a sense,” said he; “for this rogue of a Katrine—or Cateran, as we may call her—has set adrift again upon the world that very doubtful character, her papa.”