A settlement in mortmain is in Scotland termed a mortification, and in one great borough (Aberdeen, if I remember rightly) there is a municipal officer who takes care of these public endowments, and is thence called the Master of Mortifications. One would almost presume that the term had its origin in the effect which such settlements usually produce upon the kinsmen of those by whom they are executed. Heavy at least was the mortification which befell the audience who, in the late Mrs. Margaret Bertram’s parlour, had listened to this unexpected destination of the lands of Singleside. There was a profound silence after the deed had been read over. Mr. Pleydell was the first to speak. He begged to look at the deed, and, having satisfied himself that it was correctly drawn and executed, he returned it without any observation, only saying aside to Mannering, ‘Protocol is not worse than other people, I believe; but this old lady has determined that, if he do not turn rogue, it shall not be for want of temptation.’ ‘I really think,’ said Mr. Mac-Casquil of Drumquag, who, having gulped down one half of his vexation, determined to give vent to the rest--‘I really think this is an extraordinary case! I should like now to know from Mr. Protocol, who, being sole and unlimited trustee, must have been consulted upon this occasion--I should like, I say, to know how Mrs. Bertram could possibly believe in the existence of a boy that a’ the world kens was murdered many a year since?’ ‘Really, sir,’ said Mr. Protocol, ‘I do not conceive it is possible for me to explain her motives more than she has done herself. Our excellent deceased friend was a good woman, sir--a pious woman--and might have grounds for confidence in the boy’s safety which are not accessible to us, sir.’ ‘Hout,’ said the tobacconist, ‘I ken very weel what were her grounds for confidence. There’s Mrs. Rebecca (the maid) sitting there has tell’d me a hundred times in my ain shop, there was nae kenning how her leddy wad settle her affairs, for an auld gipsy witch wife at Gilsland had possessed her with a notion that the callant--Harry Bertram ca’s she him?--would come alive again some day after a’. Ye’ll no deny that, Mrs. Rebecca? though I dare to say ye forgot to put your mistress in mind of what ye promised to say when I gied ye mony a half-crown. But ye’ll no deny what I am saying now, lass?’ ‘I ken naething at a’ about it,’ answered Rebecca, doggedly, and looking straight forward with the firm countenance of one not disposed to be compelled to remember more than was agreeable to her. ‘Weel said, Rebecca! ye’re satisfied wi’ your ain share ony way,’ rejoined the tobacconist.