he remarked, "though it is said to
have been wrought by the old mad Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini. But, Mr.
Lovel, our ancestors drank sack--you, who admire the drama, know where
that's to be found.--Here's success to your exertions at Fairport, sir!"

"And to you, sir, and an ample increase to your treasure, with no more
trouble on your part than is just necessary to make the acquisitions
valuable."

After a libation so suitable to the amusement in which they had been
engaged, Lovel rose to take his leave, and Mr. Oldbuck prepared to give
him his company a part of the way, and show him something worthy of his
curiosity on his return to Fairport.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

The pawkie auld carle cam ower the lea,
Wi' mony good-e'ens and good-morrows to me,
Saying, Kind Sir, for your courtesy,
Will ye lodge a silly puir man?
The Gaberlunzie Man.

Our two friends moved through a little orchard, where the aged
apple-trees, well loaded with fruit, showed, as is usual in the
neighbourhood of monastic buildings, that the days of the monks had not
always been spent in indolence, but often dedicated to horticulture
and gardening. Mr. Oldbuck failed not to make Lovel remark, that the
planters of those days were possessed of the modern secret of preventing
the roots of the fruit-trees from penetrating the till, and compelling
them to spread in a lateral direction, by placing paving-stones beneath
the trees when first planted, so as to interpose between their fibres
and the subsoil. "This old fellow," he said, "which was blown down last
summer, and still, though half reclined on the ground, is covered
with fruit, has been, as you may see, accommodated with such a
barrier between his roots and the unkindly till. That other tree has a
story:--the fruit is called the Abbot's Apple; the lady of a neighbouring
baron was so fond of it, that she would often pay a visit to Monkbarns,
to have the pleasure of gathering it from the tree. The husband, a
jealous man, belike, suspected that a taste so nearly resembling that
of Mother Eve prognosticated a similar fall. As the honour of a noble
family is concerned, I will say no more on the subject, only that the
lands of Lochard and Cringlecut still pay a fine of six bolls of barley
annually, to atone the guilt of their audacious owner, who intruded
himself and his worldly suspicions upon