It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The contents were as follows:— MY DEAREST ANDREW,—I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy, still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made right again—vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours, named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton’s face glowed with delight); he seemed to know me—how I cannot tell—for he stopt and spoke to me of you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul! He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again. With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms