Having discovered that the Earl was in love with a certain lady and was in the habit of frequently visiting her, some of his enemies discovered where she lived, and, calling on her, promised an exceeding rich reward if she could draw the royal secret from her lover, and communicate it to them.  Easily bought over by the offer of so rich a bribe, the treacherous woman, like Delilah of old, soon prevailed upon the Earl to give her the desired information, and the secret was revealed.  As soon as the Earl’s enemies were apprised of the same, they lost no time in hurrying to the king, and submitting to him the proofs of his protege’s imprudence.  They gained their end, for the next time the Earl came into the royal presence, the King said to him in a sad but firm voice, “Lumley, you have lost a friend, and I a good servant.”  This was a bitter shock to the Earl, for he learnt now for the first time that she in whom he had reposed his love and faith had been his worst enemy, and that, as far as his relations to the King were concerned, he was disgraced as a man of honour in his estimation.  With his proud and haughty spirit, unable to bear the misery and chagrin of his fall and ruin, he had recourse to the suicide’s escape from trouble—­he shot himself.

But another secret, no less tragic and of a far more sensational nature, related to a certain Mr. Macfarlane.  One Sunday, in the autumn of the year 1719, Sir John Swinton, of Swinton, in Berwickshire, left his little daughter Margaret, who had been indisposed through a childish ailment, at home when he went with the rest of his family to church, taking care to lock the outer door.  After the lapse of an hour or so, the child had become dull through being alone, and she made her way into the parlour below stairs, where, on her arrival, she hastily bolted the door to keep out any ghost or bogie, stories relating to which had oftentimes excited her fears.  But great was her terror when, on looking round, she was confronted by a tall lady, gracefully attired, and possessed of remarkable handsome features.  The poor child stood motionless with terror, afraid to go forwards or backwards.  Her throbbing heart, however, quickly recovered from its fright, as the mysterious lady, with a kind eye and sweet smile, addressed her by name, and taking her hand, spoke: 

“Margaret, you may tell your mother what you have seen, but, for your life, to no one else.  If you do, much evil may come of it, some of which will fall on yourself.  You are young, but you must promise to be silent as the grave itself in this matter.”

Full of childish wonderment, Margaret, half in shyness and half in fear at being an agent in so strange a secret, turned her head towards the window, but on turning round found the lady had disappeared, although the door remained bolted.  Her curiosity was now more than before aroused, and she concluded that after all this lady must be one of those fairies she had often read of in books; and it was whilst pondering on what she had seen that the family returned from church.