on the breast o' its dead mother; ay, and bent her stiff arms sae as to
bring them ower her bairn, just as if she had been faulding it to her
bosom. And sae in this fashion were they buried."

"And you would swear to that, Mrs. Temple?" said the writer.

"Ay, upon fifty Bibles, ane after anither," was the reply, in something
like a tone of triumph.

Nor could the woman be induced to swerve from these assertions,
notwithstanding repeated interrogations; and the writer was left to the
conclusion--which he preferred, rather than place any confidence in the
funeral letter--that the nurse's statement was in some mysterious way
connected with the visit of Isabel Napier; and yet, not so very
mysterious, after all, when we are to consider that her brother was
preparing to claim Eastleys, as well as the valuable furniture of the
house in Meggat's Land, as the nearest lawful heir of his deceased
uncle. The salvo was at least comfortable to both Mr. White and his
client, and no doubt it helped to lighten their steps, as, bidding adieu
to the "hard witness," they left her to the nursing which comes "aye
hame in the end."

But their inquiries were not finished; and retracing their steps up the
Canongate, they landed in the Fountain Close, where, under the leading
of Mrs. Hislop, the writer was procured another witness, with a name
already familiar to him through the communication of his client; and
this was no other than that same Jean Graham, who was sent to Toddrick's
Wynd on that eventful night, fifteen years before, to bring Mrs. Hislop
to the house in Meggat's Land;--one of those simple souls--we wish there
were more of them in the world--who look upon a lie as rather an operose
affair, and who seem to be truthful from sheer laziness. There was,
accordingly, no difficulty here; for the woman rolled off her story just
as if it had been coiled up in her mind for all that length of time.

"There was a terrible stir in the house that night," she began. "The
nurse, wha is yet living in Lochend Close, and Mrs. Kemp the howdie, wha
is dead, were wi' my lady; and John Cowie, the butler, was busy
attending our master, who had been the haill day in ane o' his dark
fits, for we heard him calling for Cowie in a fierce voice ever and
again; and his step sounded ower our heads upon the floor as he walked
back and fore in his wrath. Then I was sent for you, and brought you,
and you'll mind how Cowie bade me go along; but I had mair sense