though I have to complain of Mr. Ratcliffe’s conduct to me personally, I, nevertheless, believe him a just and upright man, with whom you may safely consult on your affairs, not to mention that to cherish his good opinion will be the best way to retain that of your kinsman.  Remember me to Marchie—­I hope he will not be troubled on account of late matters.  I will write more fully from the Continent.  Meanwhile, I rest your loving father, Richard Vere.”

The above letter throws the only additional light which we have been able to procure upon the earlier part of our story.  It was Hobbie’s opinion, and may be that of most of our readers, that the Recluse of Mucklestane-Moor had but a kind of a gleaming, or twilight understanding; and that he had neither very clear views as to what he himself wanted, nor was apt to pursue his ends by the clearest and most direct means; so that to seek the clew of his conduct, was likened, by Hobbie, to looking for a straight path through a common, over which are a hundred devious tracks, but not one distinct line of road.

When Isabella had perused the letter, her first enquiry was after her father.  He had left the castle, she was informed, early in the morning, after a long interview with Mr. Ratcliffe, and was already far on his way to the next port, where he might expect to find shipping for the Continent.

“Where was Sir Edward Mauley?”

No one had seen the Dwarf since the eventful scene of the preceding evening.

“Odd, if onything has befa’en puir Elshie,” said Hobbie Elliot, “I wad rather I were harried ower again.”

He immediately rode to his dwelling, and the remaining she-goat came bleating to meet him, for her milking time was long past.  The Solitary was nowhere to be seen; his door, contrary to wont, was open, his fire extinguished, and the whole hut was left in the state which it exhibited on Isabella’s visit to him.  It was pretty clear that the means of conveyance which had brought the Dwarf to Ellieslaw on the preceding evening, had removed him from it to some other place of abode.  Hobbie returned disconsolate to the castle.

“I am doubting we hae lost Canny Elshie for gude an’ a’.”

“You have indeed,” said Ratcliffe, producing a paper, which he put into Hobbie’s hands; “but read that, and you will perceive you have been no loser by having known him.”

It was a short deed of gift, by which “Sir Edward Mauley, otherwise called Elshender the Recluse, endowed Halbert or Hobbie Elliot, and Grace Armstrong, in full property, with a considerable sum borrowed by Elliot from him.”

Hobbie’s joy was mingled with feelings which brought tears down his rough cheeks.

“It’s a queer thing,” he said; “but I canna joy in the gear, unless I kend the puir body was happy that gave it me.”

“Next to enjoying happiness ourselves,” said Ratcliffe, “is the consciousness of having bestowed it on others.  Had all my master’s benefits been conferred like the present, what a different return would they have produced!  But the indiscriminate profusion that would glut avarice, or supply prodigality, neither does good, nor is rewarded by gratitude.  It is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind.”