period, had it not been that at a certain hour of a certain day William fell in love with a certain Mary Brown, who had come on that very day to be an under-housemaid in the inn; and strange enough, it was a case of “love at first sight,” the more by token that it took effect the moment that Mary entered the stable with a glass of whisky in her hand sent to him by Mrs. Ramsay.  No doubt it is seldom that a fine blooming young girl, with very pretty brown hair and very blue eyes, appears to a young man with such a recommendation in her hand; but we are free to say that the whisky had nothing to do with an effect which is well known to be the pure result of the physical attributes of the individual.  Nay, our statement might have been proved by the counterpart effect produced upon Mary herself, for she was struck by William at the same moment when she handed him the glass; and we are not to assume that the giving of a pleasant boon is always attended with the same effect as the receiving of it.

But, as our story requires, it is the love itself between these two young persons, whose fates were so remarkable, we have to do with—­not the causes, which are a mystery in all cases.  Sure it is, humble in position as they were, they could love as strongly, as fervently, perhaps as ecstatically, as great people—­nay, probably more so, for education has a greater chance of moderating the passion than increasing it; and so, notwithstanding of what Plutarch says of the awfully consuming love between Phrygius and Picrea, and also what Shakespeare has sung or said about a certain Romeo and a lady called Juliet, we are certain that the affection between these grand personages was not more genuine, tender, and true, than that which bound the simple and unsophisticated hearts of Will Halket and Mary Brown.  But at best we merely play on the surface of a deep subject when we try with a pen to describe feelings, and especially the feelings of love.  We doubt, if even the said pen were plucked from Cupid’s wing, whether it would help us much.  We are at best only left to a choice of expressions, and perhaps the strongest we could use are those which have already been used a thousand times—­the two were all the world to each other, the world outside nothing at all to them; so that they could have been as happy on the top of Mount Ararat, or on the island of Juan Fernandez, provided they should be always in each other’s company, as they were in St. Mary’s Wynd.  And as for whispered protestations and chaste kisses—­ for really their love had a touch of romance about it you could hardly have expected, but which yet kept it pure, if not in some degree elevated above the loves of common people—­these were repeated so often about the quiet parts of Arthur’s Seat and the King’s Park, and the fields about the Dumbiedykes and Duddingstone Loch, that they were the very moral aliments on which they lived.  In short, to Mary Brown the great Duke of Buccleuch was as nothing compared to Willie Halket, and to Willie