soon as they moved, sauntered slowly forward and met them full in the face. Purposely I got directly in front of the lady, in seeming forgetfulness, and, as she stopped in haughty surprise, I had a good look into her eyes. Then I started and looked again, upon which her glance fell before mine as surely as those of one of “my bairns” ever did. In a moment more she was past, and I was left wondering. I was puzzled and bewildered. The face seemed strangely familiar to me; I could have sworn that I had known the owner of it long before, and yet I could not tell her name or recall a single circumstance in her history. I stood there cudgelling my brains till I had almost lost sight of the couple who had so interested me; then, unable to make a better of it, I roused myself and followed them for a full hour, till they entered one of the biggest hotels in the city and remained there. A waiter running out a moment or two after, on being stopped by me, said that the couple were “Mr and Mrs Harper, from Glasgow,” and that he understood that the gentleman was very wealthy. They were in Edinburgh on a pleasure trip, and, so far as he knew, had no children. That was all I could get from the waiter, but the news did not banish that beautiful face—so full of sweetness and innocence, if a certain flash could have been taken from her fine eyes. That flash was the only thing to turn the scales, and it did that most effectually. It gave just such an expression to the whole face as I could imagine Lucrezia Borgia to have owned. Later in the day, when thinking of Brettle and his affairs, by some queer turn of memory I recalled the name of Pretty Polly, and then her sweet-looking features rose before me as vividly as if I had seen them only the day before. But that was not all; for lo! as I looked, the fine features became somewhat stouter and coarser, and rapidly changed into those of Mrs Harper, whom I had that day followed along Princes Street. “How like they are to each other!” was my mental exclamation. “It must have been that resemblance which puzzled me. But could they be the same person? Never! Brettle says Pretty Polly is dead.” This reasoning did not convince me, for there still remained the curious fact that the haughty Mrs Harper had allowed her glance to fall before my own in that fashion so suggestive to me of “auld acquaintance.” Could Pretty Polly have had a sister who resembled her? I thought not; for had not Brettle himself said, “The like of her doesn’t walk the earth?” Besides, if she had a sister, and she in such a good position, I could scarcely believe that the lady would be so heartless as to allow her brother-in-law to almost perish of want while she revelled in luxury.