At this moment my eyes encountered those of Sir Murdock’s, and my heart smote me; for in language more touching than sounds of harmony could impart, they said, “Pity me, for I am the child of sorrow; respect me, for I am acquainted with grief.” I blushed, and forgot Malvolio. For several days, however, I could not reconcile myself to the _keenness_ and peculiar attention with which these large blue eyes surveyed me. An expression in them of a famished look (I cannot better define its eagerness) yielded, as he continued to gaze on my face, to a melancholy softness, not unfrequently heightened by a tear; but I found that he was subject to an absence of mind, which it appears has resulted from many years bad health and low spirits. This, with his ceremonious demeanour, and the no inconsiderable degree of his national accent, render him peculiarly singular. Not expecting much amusement on the road with a companion to whom you may speak half a score times before he is sensible you expect an answer, I took care to provide myself with a book; and, by chance, I robbed the counsellor of Macpherson’s Ossian. The united libraries of the ancient and modern world, could not have better supplied me with an author calculated to rouse the attention of Sir Murdock. I was tempted to read aloud some passages, and he listened with a feeling that surprised me to the sorrows of Malvina. “Have you never read Ossian?” asked I. “If I have,” replied he, “I have forgotten him during an indisposition that left me nothing but a capacity to feel my own wretchedness.” A deep sigh and the depression of his head silenced me. He soon urged me for more of my book; but I was grieved that I had introduced to his acquaintance a work so powerfully calculated to “awaken fancy, and to touch the heart” of the poor baronet.