ness, could be courteous and
cordial to a poor plain girl. Bourhope could never overtake Chrissy
coming from Dr. Stark's again. He spied and peeped and threw out hints,
and hurried or loitered on the way to no purpose. Chrissy took care
that people should not notice the fact of her being escorted home in the
early morning by Bourhope.

A chance conversation between Mrs. Spottiswoode and Corrie was
overheard one day by Bourhope, when they imagined him deep in
"Blackwood;" for it was the days of the "Noctes." Mr. Hunter, of
Redcraigs, Corrie's father, had not been well one day, and a message
had been sent to that effect to her. But Corrie was philosophic, and
not unduly alarmed. "Papa makes such a work about himself," she said
candidly to Mrs. Spottiswoode. "Very likely he has only taken lobster
at supper, or his Jamaica rum has not agreed with him, and he is
bilious this morning. I think I will send out a box of colocynth, and
a bit of nice tender veal, to put him in good humour again. You know,
Agnes, if I were to drive out, I would not get back in time for the
evening walk in the meadows. Besides, I was to see Miss Aikin about
the change in the running on of my frills. It would overturn all my
plans to go, and my head gets so hot, and I look so blowsy, when my
plans are disarranged," Corrie concluded, almost piteously.

"Yes, but Corrie," hesitated Mrs. Spottiswoode, "you know Dr. Stark is
not easy about papa just now. I think I had better go out myself. It is
unlucky that Spottiswoode is to have several other yeomen who do
business at the Bank, at dinner to-day with Bourhope; but I dare say
Mary will manage that, as Chrissy will mix the pudding for her. So I
will go myself to Redcraigs; all things considered, it would be a pity
for you not to be in your best looks----"

Bourhope at this point fell into a fit of coughing, and lost the rest of
the dialogue; but perhaps his occasional snort of disapprobation was
called forth as much by this interlude as by the audacious judgments of
the Shepherd and Tickler.

The day unluckily turned out very rainy, and the drill was gone through
in a dense white mist, which caused every horse to loom large as an
elephant, and every rider to look a Gog or Magog. The young ladies, so
fond of a change of costume at this time in Priorton, could do no
shopping; the walk in the meadows at sunset with the lounging yeomen had
to be given up. The green meadows were not inviting, the grass wa