“A week, sir, is an age; but to oblige you, as a last act of filial duty, I will live another week.  It is now Thursday evening, twenty-five minutes past seven.  At this hour next Thursday love and fate shall smile on me, or I will drink my last pint of port in this world.”

Mr. Glowry ordered his travelling chariot, and departed from the abbey.

* * * * *

On the morning of the eventful Thursday, Scythrop ascended the turret with a telescope and spied anxiously along the road, till Raven summoned him to dinner at five, when he descended to his own funeral feast.  He laid his pistol between his watch and his bottle.  Scythrop rang the bell.  Raven appeared.

“Raven,” said he, “the clock is too fast.”

“No, indeed,” said Raven.  “If anything it is too slow——­”

“Villain,” said Scythrop, pointing the pistol at him, “it is too fast!”

“Yes, yes—­too fast, I meant!” said Raven, in fear.

“Put back my watch!” said Scythrop.

Raven, with trembling hand, was putting back the watch, when the rattle of wheels was heard; and Scythrop, springing down the stairs three steps together, was at the door in time to hand either of the young ladies from the carriage; but Mrs. Glowry was alone.

“I rejoice to see you!” said he.  “I was fearful of being too late, for I waited till the last moment in the hope of accomplishing my promise; but all my endeavours have been vain, as these letters will show.”

The first letter ended with the words:  “I shall always cherish a grateful remembrance of Nightmare Abbey, for having been the means of introducing me to a true transcendentalist, and shall soon have the pleasure of subscribing myself

“CelindaFlosky.”

The other, from Marionetta, wished him much happiness with Miss Toobad, and finished with:  “I shall always be happy to see you in Berkely Square, when, to the unalterable designation of your affectionate cousin, I shall subjoin the signature of

“Marionettalistless.”

Scythrop tore both the letters to atoms, and railed in good, set terms against the fickleness of women.

“Calm yourself, my dear Scythrop,” said Mr. Glowry.  “There are yet maidens in England; and besides, the fatal time is past, for it is now almost eight.”

“Then that villain Raven deceived me when he said the clock was too fast; but I have just reflected these repeated crosses in love qualify me to take a very advanced degree in misanthropy.  There is therefore, good hope that I may make a figure in the world.”

Raven appeared.  Scythrop looked at him very fiercely, and said, “Bring some Madeira!”

* * * * *

JANE PORTER

The Scottish Chiefs