mistake; but the moment she got to where our branches joined--to the
trunk, as it were, of our family-tree--she went on glibly, like
child repeating a well-conned lesson. All this while the old
attendant kept up the unceasing accompaniment of her ballad, which
she must have sung through several times, for I heard the first
line--

'A bailie's daughter, fair was she'--

at least thrice.

Though I addressed several questions to my singular relation, she
made no attempt to answer them. It seemed that what she had uttered
was all she was capable of; and this, I learned afterwards, was
partly true. Circumstances of her early life had given her a taste
for family history, particularly that of her own, and her faculties,
though otherwise impaired, still retained everything relating to
what concerned her ancestry.

On our way back from this singular scene, my cousin remarked that it
had saddened me. 'It would sadden you more,' she continued, 'were you
to know the history of the domestic wreck we have just left behind.'

'That is precisely what I intended to inquire of you.'

'It is a deeply-affecting story; but'--and here the young lady
blushed and hesitated--'I think it would not be right in me to reveal
it. I believe I am the only person existing who knows the truth; and
the means by which I obtained my knowledge would be deemed scarcely
correct, though not perhaps exactly dishonourable.'

This avowal sharpened my curiosity, and I entreated her to say at
least how she became possessed of the story.

'To that there can be no objection,' was the reply. 'In one of my
rambles over the old house, I espied in a small escritoire a packet
of letters bound up in tape, which was sealed at the ends. The tape
had, however, been eaten by moths, and the letters liberated from it.
Female curiosity prompted me to read them, and they gave me a full
exposition of our great-aunt's early history.'

During the rest of my stay in that part of the country, I never
failed to urge my cousin to narrate the events which had brought
Coote-down to its present melancholy plight. But it was not till I
called to take leave of her, perhaps for ever, that she complied.
On that occasion, she placed in my hands a neatly-written manuscript
in her own handwriting, which she said contained all the particulars
I required. Circumstances have since occurred that render it not
indelicate in me to publish the narrative, which I do with but
little alteratio