The Baron could hardly believe his eyes, and he marvelled aloud that Colonel Talbot had not thought fit to replace the Bradwardine arms by his own. But here the Colonel, suddenly losing patience, declared that he would not, even to please these foolish boys, Waverley and Frank Stanley (and his own more foolish wife), continue to impose upon another old soldier. So without more ado he told the Baron that he had only advanced the money to buy back the Barony, and that he would leave Bailie Macwheeble to explain to whom the estate really belonged. Trembling with eagerness the Bailie advanced, a formidable roll of papers in his hand. He began triumphantly to explain that Colonel Talbot had indeed bought Bradwardine, but that he had immediately exchanged it for Brere-wood Lodge, which had been left to Edward under his father's will. Bradwardine had therefore returned to its ancient Lord in full and undisputed possession, and the Baron was once more master of all his hereditary powers, subject only to an easy yearly payment to his son-in-law. Tears were actually in the old gentleman's eyes as he went from room to room, so that he could scarce speak a word of welcome either to the guests within, or of thanks to the rejoicing farmers and cottars who, hearing of his return, had gathered without. The climax of his joy was, however, reached when the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine itself, the golden cup of his line, mysteriously recovered out of the spoil of the English army by Frank Stanley, was brought to the Baron's elbow by old Saunders Saunderson. Truth to tell, the recovery of this heirloom afforded the old man almost as much pleasure as the regaining of his Barony, and there is little doubt that a tear mingled with the wine, as, holding the Blessed Bear in his hand, the Baron solemnly proposed the healths of the united families of Waverley-Honour and Bradwardine. THE END OF THE LAST TALE FROM "WAVERLEY." RED CAP TALES TOLD FROM GUY MANNERING GUY MANNERING WHERE WE TOLD THE SECOND TALE SUMMER there had been none. Autumn was a mockery. The golden harvest fields lay prostrate under drenching floods of rain. Every burn foamed creamy white in the linns and sulked peaty brown in the pools. The heather, rich in this our Galloway as an emperor's robe, had scarce bloomed at all. The very bees went hungry, for the lashing rain had washed all the honey out of the purple bells.