in, a scene, which we must interrupt them to
describe, was taking place in the coffee-room of the "Mitre." As
everything, however, has an origin, it is necessary, before we raise the
curtain, which, for the present, excludes us from that scene, to enable
the reader to become acquainted with the cause of it. That morning,
after breakfast, Sir Thomas Gourlay went to his study, where, as usual,
he began to read his letters and endorse them--for he happened to be one
of those orderly and exact men who cannot bear to see even a trifle
out of its place. Having despatched three or four, he took up one--the
last--and on opening it read, much to his astonishment and dismay, as
follows;

"Sir Thomas Gourlay,--There is an adventurer in disguise near you.
Beware of your daughter, and watch her well, otherwise she may give you
the slip. I write this, that you may prevent her from throwing herself
away upon an impostor and profligate. I am a friend to her, but none to
you; and it is on her account, as well as for the sake of another, that
you are now warned."

On perusing this uncomfortable document, his whole frame became moved
with a most vehement fit of indignation. He rose from his seat, and
began to traverse the floor with lengthy and solemn strides, as a man
usually does who knows not exactly on whom to vent his rage. There hung
a large mirror before him, and, as he approached it from time to time,
he could not help being struck by the repulsive expression of his own
features. He was a tall, weighty man, of large bones and muscles; his
complexion was sallow, on a black ground; his face firm, but angular;
and his forehead, which was low, projected a good deal over a pair of
black eyes, in one of which there was a fearful squint. His eyebrows,
which met, were black, fierce-looking, and bushy, and, when agitated,
as now, with passion, they presented, taken in connection with his
hard, irascible lips, short irregular teeth and whole complexion, an
expression singularly stern and malignant.

On looking at his own image, he could not help feeling the conviction,
that the visage which presented itself to him was not such a one as was
calculated to diminish the unpopularity which accompanied him wherever
he went, and the obloquy which hung over his name.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, however, although an exceedingly forbidding and
ugly man, was neither a fool nor novice in the ways of the world. No man
could look upon his plotting forehead,