It was in the month of November, 17—­, when a young English gentleman, who had just left the University of Oxford, being benighted while sightseeing in Dumfriesshire, sought shelter at Ellangowan, on the very night the heir was born.  Our hero, Guy Mannering, entering into the simple humour of Mr. Bertram, his host, agreed to calculate the infant’s horoscope by the stars, having in early youth studied with an old clergyman who had a firm belief in astrology.

Mannering had once before tried a similar piece of foolery, at the instance of the young lady to whom he was betrothed, and now found that the result of the scheme in both cases presaged misfortune in the same year to the infant as to her.  To the baby, three periods would be particularly hazardous—­his fifth, his tenth, his twenty-first year.

He mentally relinquished his art for ever, and to prevent the child being supposed to be the object of evil prediction, he gave the paper into Mr. Bertram’s hand, and requested him to keep it for five years with the seal unbroken, after which period he left him at liberty, trusting that the first fatal year being safely overpast, no credit would be paid to its farther contents.

When Mrs. Bertram was able to work again, her first employment was to make a small velvet bag for the scheme of nativity; and though her fingers itched to break the seal, she had the firmness to enclose it in two slips of parchment, and put it in the bag aforesaid, and hang it round the neck of the infant.

It was again in the month of November, more than twenty years after the above incident, that a loud rapping was heard at the door of the Gordon Arms at Kippletringan.

“I wish, madam,” said the traveller, entering the kitchen, where several neighbours were assembled, “you would give me leave to warm myself here, for the night is very cold.”

His appearance, voice, and manner, produced an instantaneous effect in his favour.  The landlady installed her guest comfortably by the fireside, and offered what refreshment her house afforded.

“A cup of tea, ma’am, if you will favour me.”  Mrs. MacCandlish bustled about, and proceeded in her duties with her best grace, explaining that she had a very nice parlour, and everything agreeable for gentlefolks; but it was bespoke to-night for a gentleman and his daughter, that were going to leave this part of the country.

The sound of wheels was now heard, and the postilion entered.  “No, they canna’ come at no rate, the laird’s sae ill.”

“But God help them,” said the landlady.  “The morn’s the term—­the very last day they can bide in the house—­a’ things to be roupit.”

“Weel, I tell you, Mr. Bertram canna be moved.”

“What Mr. Bertram?” said the stranger.  “Not Mr. Bertram of Ellangowan, I hope?”

“Just e’en that same, sir; and if ye be a friend o’ his, ye’ve come at a time when he’s sair bested.”