The Mistress accordingly betook herself to Patrick’s letter with great seriousness and diligence, keeping her eyes steadily upon it, and away from Cosmo, whom, nevertheless, she could still perceive holding _his_ letter, his own especial correspondence, with the same look of shy pleasure, in his hand. Patie’s epistle had nothing of remarkable interest in it, as it happened, and the Mistress could not quite resist a momentary and troubled speculation, Who was Cosmo’s correspondent, who pleased him so much, yet made him blush? Could it be a woman? The idea made her quite angry in spite of herself--at his age! “Now, mother, read this,” said Cosmo, with the same smile. “If it’s any kind of bairn’s nonsense, dinna offer it to me,” said the Mistress, impatiently. “Am I prying into wha writes you letters? I tell you I’ve had letters enough for ae night. Peter Todhunter!--wha in the world is he?” “Read it, mother,” repeated Cosmo. The Mistress read in much amazement; and the epistle was as follows: “NORTH BRITISH COURANT OFFICE, “EDINBURGH. “DEAR SIR, “Hearing that you are the C. L. N. who have favored the _North British Courant_ from time to time with poetical effusions which seem to show a good deal of talent, I write to ask whether you have ever done any thing in the way of prose romance, or essays of a humorous character in the style of Sterne, or narrative poetry. I am just about to start (with a good staff of well-known contributors) a new monthly, to be called the _Auld Reekie Magazine_, a miscellany of general literature; and should be glad to receive and give my best consideration to any articles from your pen. The rates of remuneration I can scarcely speak decisively about until the success of this new undertaking is in some degree established; but this I may say--that they shall be _liberal_ and _satisfactory_, and I trust may be the means of inaugurating a new and better system of mutual support between publishers and authors--the accomplishment of which has long been a great object of my life. “Your obedient servant, “PETER TODHUNTER.” “The _North British Courant!_ poetry! writing for a magazine!--what does it a’ mean?” cried the Mistress. “Do you mean to tell me you’re an author, Cosmo Livingstone?--and me never kent--a bairn like you!” “Nothing but some--verses, mother,” said the boy, with a blush and a laugh, though he was not insensible to the importance of Mr. Todhunter’s communication. Cosmo’s vanity was not sufficiently rampant to say poems. “I did not send them with my name. I wanted to do something better before I showed them to you.”