‘Hout fie, Mr. Dinmont, that’s no like you, to gie the country an ill name. I wot, there has been nane stirred in the Waste since Sawney Culloch, the travelling-merchant, that Rowley Overdees and Jock Penny suffered for at Carlisle twa years since. There’s no ane in Bewcastle would do the like o’ that now; we be a’ true folk now.’ ‘Ay, Tib, that will be when the deil’s blind; and his een’s no sair yet. But hear ye, gudewife, I have been through maist feck o’ Galloway and Dumfries-shire, and I have been round by Carlisle, and I was at the Staneshiebank Fair the day, and I would like ill to be rubbit sae near hame, so I’ll take the gate.’ ‘Hae ye been in Dumfries and Galloway?’ said the old dame who sate smoking by the fireside, and who had not yet spoken a word. ‘Troth have I, gudewife, and a weary round I’ve had o’t.’ ‘Then ye’ll maybe ken a place they ca’ Ellangowan?’ ‘Ellangowan, that was Mr. Bertram’s? I ken the place weel eneugh. The Laird died about a fortnight since, as I heard.’ ‘Died!’ said the old woman, dropping her pipe, and rising and coming forward upon the floor--‘died? are you sure of that?’ ‘Troth, am I,’ said Dinmont, ‘for it made nae sma’ noise in the country-side. He died just at the roup of the stocking and furniture; it stoppit the roup, and mony folk were disappointed. They said he was the last of an auld family too, and mony were sorry; for gude blude’s scarcer in Scotland than it has been.’ ‘Dead!’ replied the old woman, whom our readers have already recognised as their acquaintance Meg Merrilies--‘dead! that quits a’ scores. And did ye say he died without an heir?’ ‘Ay did he, gudewife, and the estate’s sell’d by the same token; for they said they couldna have sell’d it if there had been an heir-male.’ ‘Sell’d!’ echoed the gipsy, with something like a scream; ‘and wha durst buy Ellangowan that was not of Bertram’s blude? and wha could tell whether the bonny knave-bairn may not come back to claim his ain? wha durst buy the estate and the castle of Ellangowan?’ ‘Troth, gudewife, just ane o’ thae writer chields that buys a’ thing; they ca’ him Glossin, I think.’ ‘Glossin! Gibbie Glossin! that I have carried in my creels a hundred times, for his mother wasna muckle better than mysell--he to presume to buy the barony of Ellangowan! Gude be wi’ us; it is an awfu’ warld! I wished him ill; but no sic a downfa’ as a’ that neither. Wae’s me! wae’s me to think o’t!’ She remained a moment silent but still opposing with her hand the farmer’s retreat, who betwixt every question was about to turn his back, but good-humouredly stopped on observing the deep interest his answers appeared to excite. ‘It will be seen and heard of--earth and sea will not hold their peace langer! Can ye say if the same man be now the sheriff of the county that has been sae for some years past?’