Mrs Jameson gave Malcolmson a full account of all that had taken place on board, spoke with enthusiastic admiration of the struggle, in both the lovers, between “passion and principle,” and ended with saying that she considered Jessie a fortunate woman to have gained the affection of so amiable and estimable a man. “But where is he? You must introduce me to him. I will go and bring him to you. I daresay I shall find him somewhere on deck.” And away he went in search of him. The deck was strewed with passengers’ luggage, and a young and handsome man was moving about among it, apparently selecting his own. “I think this be one of your trunks, Mr Morton,” said one of the men to him. “Ah, there’s my man!” said Malcolmson. “Pray, sir, is your name Morton?” “Yes, sir, it is. May I beg, in return, to know whom I have the pleasure of addressing?” “_My_ name, sir, is Malcolmson; yours is familiar to my ear, as that of the guardian of a near relative whom I have never had the pleasure of meeting. Pray, Mr Morton, are you Irish?” “Yes; but Morton is an adopted name—that of a kind relative and benefactor. My own name is Denby, Philip Denby.” “Gracious Powers! my brother! I am Edward Malcolmson, the son of your mother. But come with me into Miss Martin’s cabin.” And Philip followed him, dreading that in his brother he had met his happy rival. “Philip,” said his brother, “how shall we commemorate this happy meeting? I must give you some memento to recall it to your recollection. Here,” said he, taking Jessie’s hand in his own, “this little hand is mine. I know you will prize it; so I make over my claim to you, if you can prevail upon Jessie to consent to the change of owners.” Need we say that that consent was granted? The lovers were united; and their example was soon followed by Edward Malcolmson and the fair object of his affections, who afterwards accompanied Morton and his bride home, to cheer their mother with the sight of the happy reunion of her family. THE HAWICK SPATE. The bursting of water-spouts is a phenomenon not often witnessed in Scotland; yet that such an accident has sometimes happened there, there are not a few melancholy tales to prove; and to this testimony we could add the story with which the following pages are occupied. About the close of the seventeenth century, the town of Hawick was visited with such a calamity as that just spoken of, although we believe it was not attended with any singularly disastrous consequences. The water-spout which burst over the town, on the occasion alluded to, was of such immense magnitude, that the deluge of waters it discharged filled the main street in an instant from side to side, to the depth of from four to five feet. But it did not remain long here. The inclination of the street gave it motion, and away it swept with the force and impetuosity of a swollen river, carrying everything before it; and in its furious career razing no fewer than fifteen houses to their foundations.