“And is this all the evidence,” said the writer, “you have to prove that Henrietta Hislop is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Napier?”

“Maybe no,” replied she; “if ye weren’t so like the English stranger wha curst the Scotch kail because he did not see on the table the beef that was coming from the kitchen, besides the haggis and the bread-pudding.  You’ve only as yet got the broth, and, for the rest, I will give you Mrs. Kemp, wha told me, as a secret, that the child was brought into the world by her own hands from the living body of Mrs. Napier.  Will that satisfy you?”

“No,” replied Mr. Dallas, who had got deeper and deeper into a study.  “Mr. Napier, I know, was at home that evening when his wife bore a child:  that child never could have been given away without his consent; and as for the consent itself, it is a still greater improbability, seeing that he was always anxious for an heir to Eastleys.”

“And so maybe he was,” replied she; “but I see you are only at the beef yet, and you may be better pleased when you have got the haggis, let alone the pudding.  Yea, it is even likely Mr. Napier wanted an heir, and, what is more, he got one, at least an heiress; but sometimes God gives and the devil misgives.  And so it was here; for Mr. Napier took it into his head that the child was not his, and, in place of being pleased with an heir, he thought himself cursed with a bastard, begotten on his wife by no other than Captain Preston, his lady’s cousin.  And where did the devil find that poison growing but in the heart of Isabel Napier, the sister of that very Charles who is now thinking he will heir Eastleys by pushing aside poor Henney?  And then the poison, like the old apple, was so fair and tempting; for Mr. Napier had been married ten years, and enjoyed the love that is so bonnie a ’little while when it is new,’ and yet had no children, till this one came so exactly nine months after the captain’s visit to Scotland, that Satan had little more to do than hold up the temptation.  You see, sir, how things come round; but still, according to the old fashion, after a long, weary, dreary turn.  Mrs. Napier died next day after the birth; Mr. Napier lived a miserable man; Henney was brought up in poverty, and sometimes distress, but now I hope she has come to her kingdom.”

Here Mrs. Hislop stopped; and as there could be no better winding-up of a romance than by bringing her heroine to her kingdom at last, she felt so well pleased with her conclusion, that she could afford to wait longer for her expected applause than the fair story-tellers in the brigata under Queen Pampinea; and it was as well that she was thus fortified, for the writer, in place of declaring his satisfaction, with her proofs, seemed, as he lay back in his chair in a deep reverie, to be occupied once more in hunting for flaws.  At length, raising himself on his chair, and fixing his eyes upon her with that look of scepticism which a writer assumes when he addresses a would-be new client who wants to push out an old one with a better right—­