interesting intelligence to him than even the convalescence, as it was supposed, of his favourite son. Mrs. George Walkinshaw had, for some time, given a large promise, in her appearance, of adding to the heirs of Kittlestonheugh; but, by her residence in Glasgow, and holding little intercourse with the Grippy family (owing to her own situation, and to her dislike of the members, especially after Walter had been brought back with his child), the Laird and Leddy were less acquainted with her maternal progress than might have been expected, particularly when the anxiety of the old man, with respect to male issue, is considered. Such things, however, are of common occurrence in all families; and it so happened, that, during the course of this interesting night, Mrs. George had been delivered; and that her husband, as in duty bound, in the morning dispatched a maid-servant to inform his father and mother of the joyous event. The messenger, Jenny Purdie, had several years before been in the servitude of the Laird’s house, from which she translated herself to that of George. Being something forward, at the same time sly and adroit, and having heard how much her old master had been disappointed that Walter’s daughter was not a son, she made no scruple of employing a little address in communicating her news. Accordingly, when the Laird, disturbed in his slumber by her entrance, roused himself, and turned round to see who it was that had come into the room, she presented herself, as she had walked from the royal city muffled up in a dingy red cloak, her dark-blue and white striped petticoat, sorely scanty, and her glowing purple legs, and well spread shoeless feet, bearing liberal proof of the speed with which she had spattered and splashed along the road. ‘I wis you meikle joy, Laird! I hae brought you blithesmeat,’ was her salutation. ‘What is’t, Jenny?’ said the old man. ‘I’ll let you guess that, unless ye promise to gi’e me half-a-crown,’ was her reply. ‘T’ou canna think I would ware less on sic errand as t’ou’s come on. Is’t a laddie?’ ‘It’s far better, Laird!’ said Jenny triumphantly. ‘Is’t twins?’ exclaimed the Laird, sympathizing with her exultation. ‘A half-crown, a half-crown, Laird,’ was, however, all the satisfaction he received. ‘Down wi’ the dust.’ ‘An t’ou’s sae on thy peremptors, I fancy I maun comply. There, take it, and welcome,’ said he, pulling the money from under the flap of his waistcoat pocket; while Jenny, stretching her arm, as she hoisted it from under the cloak, eagerly bent forward and took the silver out of his hand, instantaneously affecting the greatest gravity of face. ‘Laird,’ said she, ‘ye mauna be angry wi’ me, but I did na like just to dumb-foun’er you a’ at ance wi’ the news; my mistress, it’s very true, has been brought to bed, but it’s no as ye expekit.’ ‘Then it’s but a dochter?’ replied the Laird discontentedly.