The next was an old hand, a most outrageous virago, who thought nothing of giving her husband a knock down when he offended her, and who used to make great disturbance about the fire in the cooking way. Every one uttered their wishes audibly that she would lose: and her husband, if we could judge from his countenance, seemed to wish so too. She boldly plunged her hand into the hat, and drew out a ticket; and opening it, she held it up triumphantly, and displayed ‘to go.’ ‘Hurra,’ said she, ‘old Meg will go yet, and live to scald more of you about the fireside.’ A general murmur of disappointment ran through the whole. ‘Hang the old wretch!’ said some of them, ‘she has the devil’s luck and her own.’ The next in turn was the wife of a young man, who was much respected in the company for his steadiness and good behaviour. She was remarkable for her affection for her husband, and beloved by the whole company for her modest and obliging disposition. She advanced with a palpitating heart and trembling hand, to decide on (what was to her, I believe) her future happiness or misery. Every one prayed for her success. Trembling between fear and hope she drew out one of the tickets, and attempted to open it: but her hand shook so that she could not do it. She handed it to one of the men to open.—When he opened it, his countenance fell, and he hesitated to say what it was. She cried out to him, in a tone of agony, ‘Tell me, for God’s sake, what it is.’ ‘Not to go,’ said he in a compassionate tone of voice. ‘Oh, God, help me! O Sandy!’ she exclaimed, and sunk lifeless in the arms of her husband, who had sprung forward to her assistance, and in whose face was now depicted every variety of wretchedness. The drawing was interrupted, and she was carried by her husband to his berth, where he hung over her in frantic agony. By the assistance of those around her, she was soon recovered from her swoon; but she awoke only to a sense of her misery. The first thing she did was to look round for her husband, when she perceived him she seized his hand, and held it, as if she was afraid that he was going to leave her. ‘O, Sandy, you’ll no leave me and your poor babie, will you?’ The poor fellow looked in her face with a look of agony and despair. The scene drew tears from every eye in the room with the exception of the termagant whom I have already mentioned, who said, ‘What are ye a’ makin’ sic a wark about? let the babie get her greet out. I suppose she thinks there’s naebody ever parted with their men but her, wi’ her faintin’, and her airs, and her wark.’ ‘Oh, you’re an oul hard-hearted devil,’ said Dennis, ‘an unfeeling oul hag, and the devil ’ill never get his due till he gets you;’—and he took her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. She would have turned on Dennis; but she had got a squeeze from him on a former occasion, and I daresay she did not like to run the risk of another.