The reader has already anticipated Mouat’s narrative. During the recital of the first part of it, John, who had thrown himself on the back of his chair, continued rocking backwards and forwards with the best counterfeited indifference in the world. It was evident that Jean Gallie was nothing to him. As the story proceeded, he drew himself up leisurely, and with firmness, until he sat bolt upright, and the motion ceased. Mouat described the selfishness of Jean’s husband, and his disgusting intemperance. He spoke of the confusion of his affairs. He hinted at his cruelty to Jean when he squandered all. John could act no longer--he clenched his fist and sprang from his seat. “Sit down, man,” said Mouat, “and hear me out--the fellow is dead.”--“And the poor widow?” said John. “Is, I believe, nearly destitute;--you have heard of the box of broad-pieces left her by her father?--she has few of them now.” “Well, if she hasn’t, I have; that’s all. When do you sail for Cromarty?” “To-morrow, my dear fellow, and you go along with me; do you not?” Almost any one could supply the concluding part of my narrative. Soon after John had arrived at his native town, Jean Gallie became the wife of one who, in almost every point of character, was the reverse of her first husband; and she lived long and happily with him. Here the novelist would stop; but I write from the burying-ground of St. Regulus, and the tombstone of my ancestor is at my feet. Yet why should it be told that John Feddes experienced the misery of living too long--that, in his ninetieth year, he found himself almost alone in the world? for, of his children, some had wandered into foreign parts, where they either died or forgot their father, and some he saw carried to the grave. One of his daughters remained with him, and outlived him. She was the widow of a bold enterprising man, who lay buried with his two brothers, one of whom had sailed round the world with Anson, in the depths of the ocean; and her orphan child, who, of a similar character, shared, nearly fifty years after, a similar fate, was the father of the writer. [Sidenote: ANDREW LINDSAY.]