Marion--for such was her name--had long been wooed in vain by a wealthy suitor who resided at a short distance from her father's house. This person, whose name was Maitland, was a miller to business, and a sufficiently respectable man; but he was precisely three times the age of the young creature whose hand he sought. He was, besides, a widower, with several children, and was otherwise by no means such an object as was likely to attract the eye or engage the affections of a woman younger than the youngest of his own daughters. But John Maitland was wealthy--a circumstance which, though it was of no weight whatever in the eyes of Marion herself, was of great consequence in those of her parents. They, however, although they secretly wished that their daughter would give a favourable ear to the miller's suit, did not urge her, at least otherwise than by indirect allusions and hints, to admit his addresses; and from even this, seeing that her repugnance to him was unconquerable, they had latterly abstained altogether. Notwithstanding Marion's coldness to him, however, and her dislike of him, which she could not conceal, Maitland continued his visits, and persevered in his suit, although to all but himself it seemed an utterly hopeless one. But Marion's conduct in this matter did not proceed solely from a dislike to Maitland. It was influenced by a double motive--a repugnance to him, and love for another. The favoured suitor, whose name was Richard Spalding, was a young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened circumstances; and their united labours--for they tilled and sowed the same fields together--were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in arrears--arrears which he could not pay--to his landlord. Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to the scene which that digression interrupted. After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her mother, the latter again spoke. "Oh, my John--my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in this hour o' distress!" "Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?--and how comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares? How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow before me?"