“Upon my soul, you will be taken for a Methodist, Mary, if you talk in this manner,” said Mr. Douglas, with some marks of disquiet, as he turned round at the salutation of a fat elderly gentleman, whom he presently recognised as Bailie Broadfoot.

The first salutations over, Mr. Douglas’s fears of Mary having been overheard recurred, and he felt anxious to remove any unfavourable impression with regard to his own principles, at least, from the mind of the enlightened magistrate.

“Your fine views here have set my niece absolutely raving,” said he, with a smile; “but I tell her it is only in romantic minds that fine scenery inspires romantic ideas.  I daresay many of the worthy inhabitants of Edinburgh walk here with no other idea than that of sharpening their appetites for dinner.”

“Nae doot,” said the Bailie, “it’s a most capital place for that.  Were it no’ for that I ken nae muckle use it would be of.”

“You speak from experience of its virtues in that respect, I suppose?” said Mr. Douglas gravely.

“’Deed, as to that I canna compleen.  At times, to be sure, I am troubled with a little kind of a squeamishness after our public interteenments; but three rounds o’ the hill sets a’ to rights.”

Then observing Mary’s eyes exploring, as he supposed, the town of Leith, “You see that prospeck to nae advantage the day, miss,” said he.  “If the glasshouses had been workin’, it would have looked as weel again.  Ye hae nae glass-houses in the Highlands; na, na.”

The Bailie had a share in the concern; and the volcanic clouds of smoke that issued from thence were far more interesting subjects of speculation to him than all the eruptions of Vesuvius or Etna.  But there was nothing to charm the lingering view to-day; and he therefore proposed their taking a look at Bridewell, which, next to the smoke from the glass-houses, he reckoned the object most worthy of notice.  It was indeed deserving of the praises bestowed upon it; and Mary was giving her whole attention to the details of it when she was suddenly startled by hearing her own name wailed in piteous accents from one of the lower cells, and, upon turning round, she discovered in the prisoner the son of one of the tenants of Glenfern.  Duncan M’Free had been always looked upon as a very honest lad in the Highlands, but he had left home to push his fortune as a pedlar; and the temptations of the low country having proved too much for his virtue, poor Duncan as now expiating his offence in durance vile.

“I shall have a pretty account of you to carry to Glenfern,” said Mr. Douglas, regarding the culprit with his sternest look.

“Oh ‘deed, sir, it’s no’ my faut!” answered Duncan, blubbering bitterly; “but there’s nae freedom at a’ in this country.  Lord, an’ I war oot o’t!  Ane canna ca’ their head their ain in’t; for ye canna lift the bouk o’ a prin but they’re a’ upon ye.”  And a fresh burst of sorrow ensued.