anishing
into the darkness of the vaulted arches, was a figure, wrapped in a long
cloak which revealed nothing whatever of its wearer. Instinctively Frank
attempted to pursue, but he had not gone many yards, when he fell over a
tombstone with such a clatter that it caused the preacher to stop and
order the officers to take into custody the author of the unseemly
disturbance.

There was nothing for it, therefore, but to wait with as much patience
as he could muster for the time appointed. He did, however, see Mr.
MacVittie, his father's correspondent, when as Andrew said the "kirk
scaled." But he did not take that worthy's advice to speak to the
merchant. The hard features of the man had in them something
disagreeable and even menacing which vaguely recalled Rashleigh
Osbaldistone. And Frank, remembering the warnings of his unknown friend,
resolved to refrain from making his presence in Glasgow known, at least
for the present, to that notable merchant Mr. MacVittie.

This Sunday was the longest day of Frank Osbaldistone's life. It seemed
as if the hours would never go past. Twilight came at last, however, and
he issued forth to walk up and down in the public park, among the
avenues of trees, till the time of his appointment should arrive.

As he marched to and fro, keeping as much as possible out of sight of
the passers-by, he heard the voice of Andrew Fairservice in close and
somewhat loud conversation with a man in a long cloak and a slouched
hat. Andrew was retailing the character of his master to the stranger,
and though Frank Osbaldistone promised to himself to break Andrew's pate
for his insolence on the first suitable occasion, he could not but
acknowledge the fidelity of the likeness which Andrew painted.

"Ay, ay, Mr. Hammorgaw," Andrew was saying, "the lad is a good lad. He
is not altogether void of sense. He has a gloaming sight of what is
reasonable, but he is crack-brained and cockle-headed about his
nipperty-tipperty poetry nonsense. A bare crag wi' a burn jawing over it
is unto him as a garden garnished with flowering knots and choice
pot-herbs. And he would rather claver with a daft quean they call Diana
Vernon, than hear what might do him good all the days of his life from
you or me, or any other sober and sponsible person. Reason, sir, he
cannot endure. He is all for the vanities and the volubilities. And he
even once told me, poor blinded creature, that the Psalms of David were
excellent poetry. As