Fortunately for the character and credit of M’Pherson’s hospitality, his wife was of an equally kind and generous disposition with himself; so that his absences from home, which were frequent, and sometimes long, did not at all affect the treatment of the stranger under his roof, or make his welcome less cordial.

But the hospitality exercised at Morvane, which was the name of M’Pherson’s farm, sometimes, it must be confessed, led to occasional small depredations—­such as the loss of a pair of blankets, a sheet, or a pair of stockings, carried off by the ungrateful vagabonds whom he sometimes sheltered.  There were, however, one pair of blankets abstracted in this way, that found their road back to their owner in rather a curious manner.

The morning was thick and misty, when the thief (in the case alluded to) decamped with his booty, and continued so during the whole day, so that no object, at any distance, however large, could be seen.  After toiling for several hours, under the impression that he was leaving Morvane far behind, the vagabond, who was also a stranger in the country, approached a house, with the stolen blankets snugly and carefully bundled on his back, and knocked at the door, with the view of seeking a night’s quarters, as it was now dusk.  The door was opened; but by whom, think you, good reader?  Why, by M’Pherson!

The thief, without knowing it, had landed precisely at the point from which he had set out.  Being instantly recognised, he was politely invited to walk in.  To this kind invitation, the thief replied by throwing down the blankets, and taking to his heels—­thus making, with his own hands, a restitution which was very far from being intended.  Poor M’Pherson, however, did not get all his stolen blankets back in this way.

This, however, is a digression.  To proceed with our tale.  One night, when M’Pherson was absent, attending a market at some distance, an elderly female appeared at the door, with the usual demand of a night’s lodging, which, with the usual hospitality of Morvane, was at once complied with.  The stranger, who was a remarkably tall woman, was dressed in widow’s weeds, and of rather respectable appearance; her deportment was grave, even stern, and altogether she seemed as if suffering from some recent affliction.

During the whole of the early part of the evening she sat before the fire, with her face buried between her hands, heedless of what was passing around her, and was occasionally observed rocking to and fro, with that kind of motion that bespeaks great internal anguish.  It was noticed, however, that she occasionally stole a look at those who were in the apartment with her; and it was marked by all (but whether this was merely the effect of imagination, for all felt that there was something singular and mysterious about the stranger, or was really the case, we cannot decide) that, in these furtive glances, there was a peculiarly