“Come now!  Come now! my dear, good young lady,” said the housekeeper, coaxingly.

“Ye’ll nae believe it!  Ye’ll nae believe he’s my ain gude mon wha has marrit the heiress the morn?  Look here, then!  And look here!  And look here!” continued the girl, impetuously, as she took a small morocco letter-case from her bosom and opened it, and took out one after another—­a parchment, a letter, and a photograph.

“Yes, dear, I’ll look at anything you like,” said the housekeeper, with a sigh, for she thought she was only humoring a lunatic.

“Here’s my marritge lines.  And I was marrit here, in Lunnun town, at a kirk ye ca’ St. Margaret’s, by a minister ca’ed Smith.  It’s a’ doon here in the lines.  Look for yoursel’.  Ye can read.  See!  Here will be my name, Rose Cameron.  And here will be my gudeman’s—­de’il ha’e him!—­Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle.  And here will be the minister’s name at the fut—­James Smith; and the witnesses—­John Jones, clerk, and Ann Gray, (she waur an auld body in a black bonnet and shawl).  Noo! is that a’ richt and lawfu’?” demanded Rose, triumphantly.

“Indeed, ma’am, it looks so!” said the perplexed housekeeper.  And these indiscreet words burst from her lips, almost without her own volition—­“But the idea of the young Marquis of Arondelle marrying of you in downright earnest is beyond belief!  It is, indeed!”

“And what for nae?” cried Rose, angrily.  “What for nae, wad he nae marry me, if he lo’ed me?  He wad na hae me without marritge ye suld ken.”

“No offence, my dear young madam.  None at all.  I was only astonished, that’s all,” said the housekeeper, deprecatingly, though she wondered and doubted whether all she heard and saw was truth.

“And, here!  See here!  Here is a letter I got frae him sune after the wedding.  Ye ken the Dooke o’ Harewood was Markiss o’ Arondelle time when he married me?”

“Yes, so it seems,” said the housekeeper.

“Aweel then, see here.  This letter begins—­’My ain dear Wifie,’ ye mind?—­’My ain dear Wifie’—­and gaes on wi’ a lot o’ luve, and a’ that, whilk I need na read, till ye.  And it ends, look here—­’Your devoted husband—­ARONDELLE.’  There! what do ye think o’ that?”

“I’m so astonished, ma’am, I don’t know what to think.”

“But ye ken weel noo, that my gude mon wha ca’ed himsel’ John Scott, was the Markiss o’ Arondelle, and is noo the Dooke of Harewood?”

“Yes, ma’am, I know that!—­that is, if I’m awake and not dreaming,” added the woman.

“And ye ken weel that the Dooke of Harewood hae get me lappet up here in prison sae I canna get out to prevent him ha’eing his wicked will, in marrying the heiress o’ Lone?”

“I know that, too, ma’am—­that is, if I’m not dreaming, as I said before,” answered the bewildered old woman.

“Aweel, noo, I canna get out to forestal this graund wickedness.  The shamefu’ villain took gude care to prevent that, but I can circumvent him, for a’ that, gin ye will help me, Mrs. Brown.  Will ye?”