“I will never pretend sorrow,” said I; and, to say the truth, during his absence Miss Grant and I had been embellishing the place in fancy with plantations, parterres, and a terrace, much as I have since carried out in fact.

Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Rankeillor gave us a good welcome, being indeed out of the body to receive so great a visitor.  Here the Advocate was so unaffectedly good as to go quite fully over my affairs, sitting perhaps two hours with the Writer in his study, and expressing (I was told) a great esteem for myself and concern for my fortunes.  To while this time, Miss Grant and I and young Rankeillor took boat and passed the Hope to Limekilns.  Rankeillor made himself very ridiculous (and, I thought offensive) with his admiration for the young lady, and to my wonder (only it is so common a weakness of her sex) she seemed, if anything, to be a little gratified.  One use it had:  for when we were come to the other side, she laid her commands on him to mind the boat, while she and I passed a little further to the ale-house.  This was her own thought, for she had been taken with my account of Alison Hastie, and desired to see the lass herself.  We found her once more alone—­indeed, I believe her father wrought all day in the fields—­and she curtsied dutifully to the gentry-folk and the beautiful young lady in the riding coat.

“Is this all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding out my hand.  “And have you no more memory of old friends?”

“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, “God’s truth, it’s the tautit[19] laddie!”

“The very same,” says I.

“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am I to see in your braws,"[20] she cried.  “Though I kent ye were come to your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that I thank ye for with a’ my heart.”

“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by with ye, like a good bairn.  I didnae come here to stand and hand a candle; it’s her and me that are to crack.”

I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came forth I observed two things—­that her eyes were reddened, and a silver brooch was gone out of her bosom.  This very much affected me.

“I never saw you so well adorned,” said I.

“O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said she, and was more than usually sharp to me the remainder of the day.

About candlelight we came home from this excursion.

For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona:  my Miss Grant remaining quite impenetrable, and stopping my mouth with pleasantries.  At last, one day that she returned from walking and found me alone in the parlour over my French, I thought there was something unusual in her looks; the colour heightened, the eyes sparkling high, and a bit of a smile continually bitten in as she regarded me.  She seemed indeed like the very spirit of mischief, and walking briskly in the room, had soon involved me in a kind of quarrel over nothing and (at the least) with nothing intended on my side.  I was like Christian in the slough; the more I tried to clamber out upon the side, the deeper I became involved; until at last I heard her declare, with a great deal of passion, that she would take that answer at the hands of none, and I must down upon my knees for pardon.