In which respect, as we conclude, the reader is by this time on a par with Lord Teysham, we quit the conclave at Fushie Bridge, and proceed to the more splendid apartments in Douglas's Hotel. In the little drawing-room that looks to St Andrew Square, the evening seemed to have passed stupidly enough. Aunt Alice, after yawning till tea time, and scolding the greater part of that excellent time-killer, had at last, at about nine o'clock, betaken herself to her bedroom, to bring down the _Scottish Chiefs_--a book of manners and statistics from which all her notions of the Scottish nation of an early period were derived. _Waverley_, and the other northern stories of the enchanter, supplied her with all her modern information; and not very bad sources they would have been, if Miss Alice had been able to understand the language in which they were written. But our noble vernacular was to her a more impenetrable mystery than any revealed at Eleusis, and it was, perhaps, on this account that she entertained so decided a preference for the performance of Miss Porter. Jane Somers, whom we have hitherto represented as either listless or sleeping, was sitting busily engaged in the somewhat unusual occupation of thinking. And, as her thoughts were wandering about Lansdowne, and a vast apartment, nobly lighted and filled with the sounds of revelry by night, we need not be surprised if they occasionally made a detour to the stables of Fushie Bridge, and the sight that met her there. While musing deeply on these very interesting subjects, our friend Copus entered the room and said-- "Please, mum, one of the vaiters here knows all about them there places as master talks so much on; p'raps Miss Alice would like to hear about 'em?" "I will tell my aunt, William," said the young lady, and returned to her former musings. Copus retired and shut the door. A low voice at her ear as she again rested her head upon the arm of the sofa, whispered "Jane!" On looking up she saw a tall man dressed in the usual waiter's costume, with a large white cloth spread over his left arm. "Harry Raymond!" she said, but by some unaccountable instinct speaking, even in the extremity of her surprise, in a tone of voice that scarcely reached beyond the person she addressed,--"In Heaven's name, what do you here?--in this disguise? Aunt Alice will detect you, and then my situation will be made doubly miserable." "Then it _is_ miserable, Jane? Why do you submit to it? Ah, Jane, you have forgotten, surely, the promises you gave me." "Forgetfulness seems to have existed on more sides than one. I have been four months in Lancashire, and am indebted, at last, to a chance meeting in Scotland for being recalled to your recollection."