"Done," said he; "there's five guineas for them, and you can gie them to Meg as a present. Now, are ye firm?" "Firm!" she cried, as she clutched the money, and gave a shrill laugh, from a nerve that was never softened by pity or penitence. "I think nae mair on't, man--sir, I mean, for ye proved yoursel' a gentleman to me afore--than I do now in spaeing twins to your wife at her next doun-lying." A rap on the table, from the bottom of the pewter measure, brought in the landlord. "Fill that again," said the writer. And the man having re-entered with the pewter measure---- "You're to give this woman board and lodging for a day or two, and I will pay you before I start." "That will be oot o' the five hundred frae her uncle," said the man, laughing. "She's my lady noo; but what will become o' the mice?" "There's Meg Davidson passing the window e'en noo," said the woman. "Send her in," said the writer to the change-house keeper. The woman going under this name was immediately introduced by the man, with a kind of mock formality; for he could not get quit of the impression that his old customer had really succeeded to the five hundred pounds--a sum, in his estimation, sufficiently large to insure respect. "Maggy," said the writer, "tak this chair, and here's a dram. What think ye?" "I dinna ken." "Ye're to get the twa white mice and the cage for naething, and this dram to boot." Meg's face cleared up like a June sun come out in a burst. "Na," she said; "ye're joking." "But it's upon a condition," rejoined he. "Weel, what is't--that I'm to feed them weel, and keep them clean?" "You'll do that too," said he, laughing, "for they're valuable creatures, and bonny; but you're to say you've had them for a year." "For twa, if you like," replied the woman; "a puir fusionless lee that, and no worth sending a body to the deil for." "Here they are," said the tramp; "and you're to tak care o' them. They've been my staff for mony a day, and they're the only creatures on earth I care for and like; for they never said to me, 'Get out, ye wretch,' or banned me for a witch; but were aye sae happy wi' their pickles o' barley, and maybe a knot o' sugar, when I could get at a farmer's wife's bowl." Even hags have pathetic moods. Meg was affected; and the writer, having appreciated the virtue, whispered in the ear of his _protegée_, "Seven o'clock on Wednesday night," and left them to the remainder of the whisky. At the door he settled with the man, and, mounting his horse, which he had ordered a bottle of strong ale for, in addition to his oats, he set off at his old trot. "Now let the Crown blood-hounds catch Meg Davidson and her mice," he said, as he pushed on.