She considered me with a burning eye, her lips pressed close together into twenty creases, her hand shaking on her staff. “This cows all!” she cried. “Ye come to me to speir for her? Would God I knew!” “She is not here?” I cried. She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry at me, so that I fell back incontinent. “Out upon your leeing throat!” she cried. “What! ye come and speir at me! She’s in jyle, whaur ye took her to—that’s all there is to it. And of a’ the beings ever I beheld in breeks, to think it should be to you! Ye timmer scoun’rel, if I had a male left to my name I would have your jaicket dustit till ye raired.” I thought it not good to delay longer in that place, because I remarked her passion to be rising. As I turned to the horse-post she even followed me; and I make no shame to confess that I rode away with the one stirrup on and scrambling for the other. As I knew no other quarter where I could push my inquiries, there was nothing left me but to return to the Advocate’s. I was well received by the four ladies, who were now in company together, and must give the news of Prestongrange and what word went in the west country, at the most inordinate length and with great weariness to myself; while all the time that young lady, with whom I so much desired to be alone again, observed me quizzically and seemed to find pleasure in the sight of my impatience. At last, after I had endured a meal with them, and was come very near the point of appealing for an interview before her aunt, she went and stood by the music-case, and picking out a tune, sang to it on a high key—“He that will not when he may, When he will he shall have nay.” But this was the end of her rigours, and presently, after making some excuse of which I have no mind, she carried me away in private to her father’s library. I should not fail to say she was dressed to the nines, and appeared extraordinary handsome. “Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us have a two-handed crack,” said she. “For I have much to tell you, and it appears besides that I have been grossly unjust to your good taste.” “In what manner, Mistress Grant?” I asked. “I trust I have never seemed to fail in due respect.” “I will be your surety, Mr. David,” said she. “Your respect, whether to yourself or your poor neighbours, has been always and most fortunately beyond imitation. But that is by the question. You got a note from me?” she asked. “I was so bold as to suppose so upon inference,” said I, “and it was kindly thought upon.” “It must have prodigiously surprised you,” said she. “But let us begin with the beginning. You have not perhaps forgot a day when you were so kind as to escort three very tedious misses to Hope Park? I have the less cause to forget it myself, because you was so particular obliging as to introduce me to some of the principles of the Latin grammar, a thing which wrote itself profoundly on my gratitude.”