me very charitable females nodded and winked something meant
to be significant, about some people's not being easily known--and that
some people, provided that they got a _grip_ of a man, would not be very
nice about the object or the manner!

Oh, what a blessed thing it was when King William came in!--and with him
came amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer
evening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious
disappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was
sitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old
tree, which had been converted into a _dais_, or out-of-doors seat. It was
about the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months,
when Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford's Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon
one of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can
boast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a
thousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all
blooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier
above tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left
were the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away
into the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley
from the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea
of storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun's
effulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and
hard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing
Linn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!--how deeply art
thou impressed upon this poor brain!--go where we will--see what we
may--thou art still unique to us--thou art still superior to all other
lands.

It was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise
entered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old
mansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The
steps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long
lost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her
followed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and
perhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out
a fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at
the breast! It was indeed a joyous