Several years ago I was on my way from B---- to Edinburgh; and being as familiar with every cottage, tree, shrub, and whin-bush on the Dunbar and Lauder roads as with the face of an acquaintance, I made choice of the less-frequented path by Longformacus. I always took a secret pleasure in contemplating the dreariness of wild spreading desolation; and, next to looking on the sea when its waves dance to the music of a hurricane, I loved to gaze on the heath-covered wilderness, where the blue horizon only girded its purple bosom. It was no season to look upon the heath in the beauty of barrenness, yet I purposely diverged from the main road. About an hour, therefore, after I had descended from the region on the Lammermoors, and entered the Lothians, I became sensible I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my footsteps to Edinburgh. It was December; the sun had just gone down; I was not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to trust to chance for finding a comfortable resting-place for the night. Perceiving a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from the road, I resolved to turn towards them, and make inquiry respecting the right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest inn. The "town," as the three or four houses and mill were called, was all bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and scouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned that all this note of preparation arose from the "maister" being to be married within three days. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a tall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of accosting me partook more of kindness than civility; and his inquiries were not free from the familiar, prying curiosity which prevails in every corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular. "Where do you come fra, na--if it be a fair question?" inquired he. "From B----," was the brief and merely civil reply. "An' hae ye come frae there the day?" he continued. "Yes," was the answer. "Ay, man, an' ye come frae B----, do ye?" added he; "then, nae doot, ye'll ken a person they ca' Mr. ----?" "Did he come originally from Dunse?" returned I, mentioning also the occupation of the person referred to. "The vera same," rejoined the miller; "are ye acquainted wi' him, sir?" "I ought to be," replied I; "the person you speak of is merely my father." "Your faither!" exclaimed he, opening his mouth and eyes to their full width, and standing for a moment the picture of surprise--"Gude gracious! ye dinna say sae!--is he really your faither? Losh, man, do you no ken, then, that I'm your cousin! Ye've heard o' your cousin, Willie Stewart." "Fifty times," replied I.