"Ha, ha!" she replied, "I aye thought it would come to this; it's but sitting silent when they examine,-there's nae torture in our days; and if there is, let them rend me. It's ill o' the vassal's mouth that betrays the bread it eats." "Speak to her, Edie," said the Antiquary, "she knows your voice, and answers to it most readily." "We shall mak naething mair out o' her," said Ochiltree; "when she has clinkit herself down that way, and faulded her arms, she winna speak a word, they say, for weeks thegither. And besides, to my thinking, her face is sair changed since we came in. However, I'll try her once more to satisfy your honour. So you canna keep in mind, cummer, that your auld mistress, the Countess Joscelin, has been removed?" "Removed!" she exclaimed, for that name never failed to produce its usual effect upon her, "then we maun a' follow. A' maun ride when she is in the saddle: tell them to let Lord Geraldin know we're on before them. Bring my hood and scarf; ye wadna hae me gang in the carriage wi' my leddy, and my hair in this fashion?" She raised her shrivelled arms, and seemed busied like a woman who puts on her cloak to go abroad, then dropped them slowly and stiffly; and the same idea of a journey still floating apparently through her head, she proceeded in a hurried and interrupted manner-"Call Miss Neville; what do you mean by Lady Geraldine? I said Eveline Neville-not Lady Geraldine-there's no Lady Geraldine; tell her that, and bid her change her wet gown, and no' look so pale. Teresa-Teresa, my lady calls us! Bring a candle, the grand staircase is as mirk as a yule midnight. We are coming, my lady!" With these words she sunk back on the settle, and from thence sidelong to the floor. Edie ran to support her, but hardly got her in his arms before he said, "It's a' ower, she has passed away even with that last word." [Illustration: 036] [Illustration: 037] Mr Cruikshank has portrayed with his wonted humour the amusing scene at the Post-Office, in which Mrs Heukbane and Mrs Shortcake are examining, with eager countenances, the love-letter of Richard Taffrail to Jenny Caxon. They threw themselves on the supposed love-letter, like the weird sisters in Macbeth, upon the pilot's thumb, with curiosity as eager, and scarcely less malignant. Mrs Heukbane was a tall woman; she held the precious epistle up between her eyes and the window. Mrs Shortcake, a little squat personage, strained and stood on tiptoe to have her share of the investigation. "It's frae him sure enough," said the butcher's lady; "I can read Richard Taffrail on the corner; and it's written, like John Thomson's wallet, frae end to end.' "Haud it lower down, madam," exclaimed Mrs Shortcake, in a tone above the prudential whisper which their occupation required; "haud it lower down; div ye think naebody can read hand o' writ but yoursel'?" "Whisht, whisht," said Mrs Mail-letter, "there's somebody in the shop." ROB ROY,