, and the vagrant departed, without having dropped a single hint
which could be taken hold of respecting Tamar. In the meantime troubles
were pressing upon poor Dymock, the interest of moneys lent on the
motgage was not forthcoming, and the Laird having no better friend (and
as to a sincerer he needed none,) than poor Shanty, used from day to day
to go down to the shed, to open his heart to the old man.

Shanty had long advised his patron to tell his situation to Mrs.
Margaret, and to advertise the sale of the castle, but Dymock's pride
had not yet so far submitted itself, as to enable him to make so public
a confession of the downfall of the family, as an advertisement
would do.

"I cannot open my heart to my aunt, Shanty," he said, "she, poor
creature, has devoted her whole life to keeping up the dignity of the
house; how, then, will she bear to see the whole labour of her life
annihilated?"

"The sooner she knows of what is coming the better," returned Shanty,
"if she is not prepared, the blow when it comes, will go nigh utterly to
overpower her," and the old man proposed to go himself, to open the
matter to her.

"You shall, Shanty, you shall," said the Laird, "but wait a little, wait
a little, we may hear of a purchaser for the castle, and when such a one
is found, then you shall speak to my aunt."

"But first," said Shanty, "let me prepare your adopted one, let me open
the matter to her; she is of an age, in which she ought to think and act
no longer as a child; it is now fourteen years since I carried her up in
my arms to Dymock's Tower, and though the young girl is too much filled
up with pride, yet I fear not but that she is a jewel, which will shine
brighter, when rubbed under the wheel of adversity; allowing what I
hope, that there is a jewel under that crust of pride."

"Pride!" repeated Dymock, flying off into the region of romance, "and if
a daughter of Zion, a shoot from the Cedar of Lebanon, is not to carry
her head high, who is to do so? the fate of her race may indeed follow
her, and she may be brought down, to sit in the dust, but still even in
the dust, she may yet boast her glorious origin."

Shanty raised his hands and eyes, "Lord help you! Dymock," he said, "but
you are clean demented. I verily believe, that the child is nothing
mere than the offspring of a begging gipsy, and that if her mother had
been hanged, she would only have met with her deserts."

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