“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said I. “I never had a friend to my name till I met in with you.” “And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked. “O, yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is a man, and that is very different.” “I would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite different.” “And then there was one other,” said I. “I once thought I had a friend, but it proved a disappointment.” She asked me who she was? “It was a he, then,” said I. “We were the two best lads at my father’s school, and we thought we loved each other dearly. Well, the time came when he went to Glasgow to a merchant’s house, that was his second cousin once removed; and wrote me two-three times by the carrier; and then he found new friends, and I might write till I was tired, he took no notice. Eh, Catriona, it took me a long while to forgive the world. There is not anything more bitter than to lose a fancied friend.” Then she began to question me close upon his looks and character, for we were each a great deal concerned in all that touched the other; till at last, in a very evil hour, I minded of his letters and went and fetched the bundle from the cabin. “Here are his letters,” said I, “and all the letters that ever I got. That will be the last I’ll can tell of myself; ye know the lave [26] as well as I do.” “Will you let me read them, then?” says she. I told her, _if she would be at the pains_; and she bade me go away and she would read them from the one end to the other. Now, in this bundle that I gave her, there were packed together not only all the letters of my false friend, but one or two of Mr. Campbell’s when he was in town at the Assembly, and to make a complete roll of all that ever was written to me, Catriona’s little word, and the two I had received from Miss Grant, one when I was on the Bass and one on board that ship. But of these last I had no particular mind at the moment. I was in that state of subjection to the thought of my friend that it mattered not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in her presence or out of it; I had caught her like some kind of a noble fever that lived continually in my bosom, by night and by day, and whether I was waking or asleep. So it befell that after I was come into the fore-part of the ship where the broad bows splashed into the billows, I was in no such hurry to return as you might fancy; rather prolonged my absence like a variety in pleasure. I do not think I am by nature much of an Epicurean: and there had come till then so small a share of pleasure in my way that I might be excused perhaps to dwell on it unduly. When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet. “You have read them?” said I; and I thought my voice sounded not wholly natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail her. “Did you mean me to read all?” she asked. I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice. “The last of them as well?” said she.