“Weel, then, as I live by bread,” said Caleb, “Mysie is weel and safe.  I saw her out of the castle before I left it mysell.  Was I ganging to forget an auld fellow-servant?”

“What made you tell me the contrary this moment?” said his master.

“Did I tell you the contrary?” said Caleb; “then I maun hae been dreaming surely, or this awsome night has turned my judgment; but safe she is, and ne’er a living soul in the castle, a’ the better for them:  they wau have gotten an unco heezy.”

The Master of Ravenswood, upon this assurance being solemnly reiterated, and notwithstanding his extreme wish to witness the last explosion, which was to ruin to the ground the mansion of his fathers, suffered himself to be dragged onward towards the village of Wolf’s Hope, where not only the change-house, but that of our well-known friend the cooper, were all prepared for reception of himself and his noble guest, with a liberality of provision which requires some explanation.

We omitted to mention in its place, that Lockhard having fished out the truth concerning the mode by which Caleb had obtained the supplies for his banquet, the Lord Keeper, amused with the incident, and desirous at the time to gratify Ravenswood, had recommended the cooper of Wolf’’s Hope to the official situation under government the prospect of which had reconciled him to the loss of his wild-fowl.  Mr. Girder’s preferment had occasioned a pleasing surprise to old Caleb; for when, some days after his master’s departure, he found himself absolutely compelled, by some necessary business, to visit the fishing hamlet, and was gliding like a ghost past the door of the cooper, for fear of being summoned to give some account of the progress of the solicitation in his favour, or, more probably that the inmates might upbraid him with the false hope he had held out upon the subject, he heard himself, not without some apprehension, summoned at once in treble, tenor, and bass—­a trio performed by the voices of Mrs. Girder, old Dame Loup-the-Dyke, and the goodman of the dwelling—­“Mr. Caleb!—­Mr. Caleb Balderstone!  I hope ye arena ganging dry-lipped by our door, and we sae muckle indebted to you?”

This might be said ironically as well as in earnest.  Caleb augured the worst, turned a deaf ear to the trio aforesaid, and was moving doggedly on, his ancient castor pulled over his brows, and his eyes bent on the ground, as if to count the flinty pebbles with which the rude pathway was causewayed.  But on a sudden he found himself surrounded in his progress, like a stately merchantman in the Gut of Gibraltar (I hope the ladies will excuse the tarpaulin phrase) by three Algerine galleys.  “Gude guide us, Mr. Balderstone!” said Mrs. Girder.  “Wha wad hae thought it of an auld and kenn’d friend!” said the mother.

“And no sae muckle as stay to receive our thanks,” said the cooper himself, “and frae the like o’ me that seldom offers them!  I am sure I hope there’s nae ill seed sawn between us, Mr. Balderstone.  Ony man that has said to ye I am no gratefu’ for the situation of Queen’s cooper, let me hae a whample at him wi’ mine eatche, that’s a’.”