There is a mysterious kind of sympathy often existing between those who have some common cause of suffering. Two gouty old gentlemen are never tired of detailing to each other their respective symptoms of _podagra_; and weak-minded ladies subject to ‘nervous attacks’ have been overheard to interchange the most surprising confidences regarding that remarkable ailment; in the same manner a couple of lovers, not a _pair_, are drawn towards each other by a community of sorrow. Alexander Ogilvy took his place by Mary Carmichael’s side, and sought in that lady’s blue eyes, at least commiseration for his sorrows. Placing a chair for her a little out of the crowd, he conversed with her on the heat of the room, the beauty of the dresses, her own successful toilet, and such like topics, gradually lowering his voice and bringing the conversation round to the subject nearest his heart. ‘A bird hath whispered in my ear,’ said he, ‘that we must look ere long to have a king-consort at Holyrood. The Maries are more interested in the matter than the whole of Scotland besides. You will be freed from your vow: choose each of you a mate, and pair off, like the fowls of the air, ere another St Valentine be past. What say you, Mistress Carmichael? sings my little bird true or false? I am no courtier, you know.’ ‘And yet you are much at Court,’ she answered, absently, ‘particularly of late, Master Ogilvy; it was but yesterday the Queen, pointing you out to Mary Beton, commended the bravery of your attire.’ Ogilvy coloured, looking very much alarmed, yet not altogether displeased. ‘And what said Mistress Beton?’ he asked anxiously. His discomposure was so obvious, that it was well for him he had not to do with mischievous Mary Seton, or even with his present companion, had she been in other than a subdued and melancholy frame of mind. In most women the temptation to mockery would have been irresistible, but Mistress Carmichael only replied carelessly-- ‘That you were the properest man at Holyrood, and that she thought our gallants of the Court wore the French air more naturally than did the Southrons.’ ‘Did she _really_ say so?’ he exclaimed eagerly; ‘and do you believe she meant it? You know her well, Mistress Carmichael; is it not true that she is herself too irresistibly attracted towards the Southron? Do you not think that when hood and jesses are fairly doffed once for all, she will fly her pitch toward the border, aye, and strike her quarry far on the southern side?’ Mary Carmichael followed the direction of his glance to where Mistress Beton stood radiant in her Twelfth-night bravery, and listening with a heightened colour and a well-pleased air to Randolph’s flatteries; but she pitied whilst she marked the suffering that was too apparent in her questioner’s gaze, and replied gently to his thoughts rather than his words--