verence which an _a priori_ knowledge of its contents only
could have inspired, my worthy host tenderly brushed off its coating of
sawdust, gently inserted the screw, drew the cork, with a calm,
cautious, steady pull, and, in the next moment, had filled up two
brimmers of the finest old port that the cellars of Oxton Hall could
produce. Having done ample justice to the good things before us--

"Now, my good sir, the story, the story, if you please," said I.

"Oh, to be sure," replied my kind host, smiling. "The story you shall
have. But first let us take another glass of wine, to inspire me with
fortitude to begin so long a story, and you with patience to listen to
it."

The procedure thus recommended having been complied with, the good old
man immediately began:--

"About a hundred and thirteen years since," he said, "there lived in the
neighbourhood of one of the principal cities in Scotland, a farmer of
the name of Flowerdew. He was a man of respectable character, and of
sober and industrious habits. His family consisted only of himself, his
wife, and an only child--a daughter, named Jessy. Gentle and
affectionate, of the most winning manners, and surpassingly beautiful in
form and feature, Jessy was not only the darling of her father, but the
favourite character of the neighbourhood in which she lived. All yielded
the homage of admiration to her supreme loveliness, and of the tenderest
esteem to her worth.

For many years, Jessy's father contrived, notwithstanding of an enormous
rent, to keep pace with the world, and eventually to raise himself a
little above it; but, in despite of all his industry and all his
prudence, reverses came. A succession of bad crops was followed by a
series of losses of various kinds, and James Flowerdew found himself a
ruined man.

'It's not for myself I care,' said the honest man, when speaking one day
with his wife of the misfortunes which had overwhelmed them--'it's for
our puir bit lassie, guidwife. God help her! I thought to have left her
independent; but it's been ordained otherwise, and we must submit. But
what's to become of her I know not. Being brocht up a little abune the
common, she cannot be asked to enter into the service of ony o' our
neebors; yet, I see nae other way o't. It must come to that in the lang
run.'

'I suppose it must, guidman--I suppose it must,' replied his wife,
raising the corner of her apron to her eye, and then bursting into
tears. 'My puir, dea