On the same evening the Edinburgh coach, when it arrived at the door of the George Inn, at Fendie, deposited there a young adventurer fresh from the far North. He had been travelling on the outside of the coach, and was benumbed with cold, though his face glowed from contact with the wind. A small portmanteau was the extent of his luggage, and beyond that his worldly possessions were of the smallest; good looks, good blood, an honest heart, a happy temper, and five one-pound notes in the end of a blue silken purse--he had nothing more. It was no great amount of capital with which to begin the arduous struggle of life; and upon his glowing healthful face there sat a little anxiety, which was not by any means care. He had one special and particular aim in this journey, but if it failed, how many means of success yet offered themselves to the young, hopeful, ingenuous spirit, with the world lying all before him, where to choose. The stranger hastily entered the inn and ordered some very simple refreshments. It was his first considerable journey, and the youth was not without the natural shyness which attends those who have passed all their lives in the quietness of one domestic circle. When he had discussed the inexpensive meal placed before him, and thoroughly thawed himself before the fire, and resolved one of his pound notes into shillings by the payment of his bill, the young man, much to the surprise of the waiter at the George, began to button his great-coat once more. “Do you know,” he inquired, “how far it is to Mossgray?--there is a place called Mossgray in the neighbourhood, is there not?” The waiter answered readily in the affirmative, with the addition that it was “maybes, a mile,” and an inquiry if the gentleman would want a conveyance. The gentleman thought he should not--a mile was no great distance--and requested his attendant to direct him how to go. The waiter, encouraged by seeing the portmanteau left behind, graciously complied. The youth’s appearance was frank and prepossessing, and the waiter at the George was a good-humoured fellow, so he extended his courtesy so far as to look out upon the idlers round the door--it was the evening of the market-day--and ask,-- “Is there ony of you gaun the road to Mossgray?” John Brown, Mrs Fendie’s factotum, was within hearing. He had been down making purchases at the market, and now, with his light cart moderately well filled, was about starting home. On hearing the question, he responded briskly,-- “Ay, I’m gaun to the Mount--wha’s speiring?” “Is’t you, John Brown?” said the waiter; “there’s a gentleman here, a stranger, that disna ken the road. He’s gaun to Mossgray.” “If he’s a decent lad,” said the authoritative John, “I’ll gie him a hurl if he likes; and if he’s no a decent lad, or if he’s ower proud to ride in a cart, if he can keep up wi’ the powny, I’ll let him see the road.”