Douglas had left his paternal home and native hills when only eight years of age.  A rich relation of his mother’s happening to visit them at that time, took a fancy to the boy; and, under promise of making him his heir, had prevailed on his parents to part with him.  At a proper age he was placed in the Guards, and had continued to maintain himself in the favor of his benefactor until his imprudent marriage, which had irritated this old bachelor so much that he instantly disinherited him, and refused to listen to any terms of reconciliation.  The impressions which the scenes of his infancy had left upon the mind of the young Scotsman, it may easily be supposed, were of a pleasing description.  He expatiated to his Juliana on the wild but august scenery that surrounded rounded his father’s castle, and associated with the idea the boyish exploits, which though faintly remembered, still served to endear them to his heart.  He spoke of the time when he used to make one of a numerous party on the lake, and, when tired of sailing on its glassy surface to the sound of soft music, they would land at some lovely spot; and, after partaking of their banquet beneath a spreading tree, conclude the day by a dance on the grass.

Lady Juliana would exclaim, “How delightful!  I doat upon picnics and dancing! —­apropos, Henry, there will surely be a ball to welcome our arrival?”

The conversation was interrupted; for just at that moment they had gained the summit of a very high hill, and the post-boy, stopping to give his horses breath, turned round to the carriage, pointing at the same time, with a significant gesture, to a tall thin gray house, something resembling a tower, that stood in the vale beneath.  A small sullen-looking lake was in front, on whose banks grew neither tree nor shrub.  Behind rose a chain of rugged cloud-capped hills, on the declivities of which were some faint attempts at young plantations; and the only level ground consisted of a few dingy turnip fields, enclosed with stone walls, or dykes, as the post-boy called them.  It was now November; the day was raw and cold; and a thick drizzling rain was beginning to fall.  A dreary stillness reigned all around, broken only at intervals by the screams of the sea-fowl that hovered over the lake, on whose dark and troubled waters was dimly descried a little boat, plied by one solitary being.

“What a scene!” at length Lady Juliana exclaimed, shuddering as she spoke.  “Good God, what a scene!  How I pity the unhappy wretches who are doomed to dwell in such a place! and yonder hideous grim house—­it makes me sick to look at it.  For Heaven’s sake, bid him drive on.”  Another significant look from the driver made the colour mount to Douglas’s cheek, as he stammered out, “Surely it can’t be; yet somehow I don’t know.  Pray, my lad,” setting down one of the glasses, and addressing the post-boy, “what is the name of that house?”

“Hoose!” repeated the driver; “ca’ ye thon a hoose?  Thon’s gude Glenfern Castle.”