“Tell her,” said the faithful postmistress, winking to her compeers, “to come back the morn at ten o’clock, and I’ll let her ken--we havena had time to sort the mail letters yet--she’s aye in sic a hurry, as if her letters were o’ mair consequence than the best merchant’s o’ the town.” Poor Jenny, a girl of uncommon beauty and modesty, could only draw her cloak about her to hide the sigh of disappointment and return meekly home to endure for another night the sickness of the heart occasioned by hope delayed. “There’s something about a needle and a pole,” said Mrs. Shortcake, to whom her taller rival in gossiping had at length yielded a peep at the subject of their curiosity. “Now, that’s downright shamefu’,” said Mrs. Heukbane, “to scorn the poor silly gait of a lassie after he’s keepit company wi’ her sae lang, and had his will o’ her, as I make nae doubt he has.” “It’s but ower muckle to be doubted,” echoed Mrs. Shortcake;--“to cast up to her that her father’s a barber and has a pole at his door, and that she’s but a manty-maker hersell! Hout fy for shame!” “Hout tout, leddies,” cried Mrs. Mailsetter, “ye’re clean wrang--It’s a line out o’ ane o’ his sailors’ sangs that I have heard him sing, about being true like the needle to the pole.” “Weel, weel, I wish it may be sae,” said the charitable Dame Heukbane,--“but it disna look weel for a lassie like her to keep up a correspondence wi’ ane o’ the king’s officers.” “I’m no denying that,” said Mrs. Mailsetter; “but it’s a great advantage to the revenue of the post-office thae love-letters. See, here’s five or six letters to Sir Arthur Wardour--maist o’ them sealed wi’ wafers, and no wi’ wax. There will be a downcome, there, believe me.” “Ay; they will be business letters, and no frae ony o’ his grand friends, that seals wi’ their coats of arms, as they ca’ them,” said Mrs. Heukbane;--“pride will hae a fa’--he hasna settled his account wi’ my gudeman, the deacon, for this twalmonth--he’s but slink, I doubt.” “Nor wi’ huz for sax months,” echoed Mrs. Shortcake--“He’s but a brunt crust.” “There’s a letter,” interrupted the trusty postmistress, “from his son, the captain, I’m thinking--the seal has the same things wi’ the Knockwinnock carriage. He’ll be coming hame to see what he can save out o’ the fire.” The baronet thus dismissed, they took up the esquire--“Twa letters for Monkbarns--they’re frae some o’ his learned friends now; see sae close as they’re written, down to the very seal--and a’ to save sending a double letter--that’s just like Monkbarns himsell. When he gets a frank he fills it up exact to the weight of an unce, that a carvy-seed would sink the scale--but he’s neer a grain abune it. Weel I wot I wad be broken if I were to gie sic weight to the folk that come to buy our pepper and brimstone, and suchlike sweetmeats.”