“Come, we will try what we can discover in a quarter where an end of the ravelled string ought to be found, whether complicated into a knot by the twisting power of self-interest or no.”

And leading the way, he proceeded with his client down the High Street, where, along under the glimmering lamps, were the usual crowds of loungers, composed of canny Saxon and fiery Celt, which have always made this picturesque thoroughfare so remarkable.  Not one of all these had any interest for our two searchers; but it was otherwise when they came toward the Canongate Tolbooth, where, out from a dark entry sprang a young woman, and bounding forward, seized our good dame round the neck.  This was no other than Henney Hislop herself, who, having been alarmed at the long absence of her “mother,” as she called her, and of course believed her to be, was so delighted to find her, that she sobbed out her joy in such an artless way, that even the writer owned it was interesting to behold.  Nor was the picture without other traits calculated to engage attention; for the girl whose fortunes had been so strange, and were perhaps destined to be still more strange, was dressed in the humblest garb—­the short gown and the skirt peculiar to the time; but then every tint was so bright with pure cleanliness, the earrings set off so fine a skin, the indispensable strip of purple round the head imparted so much of the grace of the old classic wreath; and beyond all this, which might be said to be extraneous, her features—­if you abated the foresaid cast or slight squint in the eyes, which imparted a piquancy—­were so regular, if not handsome, that you could not have denied that she deserved to be a Napier, if she was not a very Napier in reality.  A few words whispered in Mrs. Hislop’s ear, and the girl was off, leaving our couple to proceed on their way.  Even this incident had its use; for Mr. White, who had known Mr. Napier, and had faith (as who has not?) in the hereditary descent of bodily aspects, could not restrain himself from the remark, however much it might inflame the hopes of his client—­“The curse has left no blight there,” said he.  “That is the very face of Mr. Napier—­the high nose especially; and as for the eyes, with that unmistakeable cast, why, I have seen their foretypes in the head of John Napier a hundred times.”

An observation so congenial to Mrs. Hislop, that she could not help being a little humorous, even in the depth of an anxiety which had kept her silent for the full space of ten minutes.

“Nose, sir! there wasn’t a man frae the castle yett to Holyrood wha could have produced that nose except John Napier.”