ue, but when told to say an unattached "something," he
could not even think of "How do you do this morning? it is a very fine
day;" and the more he cudgelled his brains for "something," the more they
gave no response. He could not even converse further with the stranger
beyond plain "yes" and "no"; so he went on with his supper, and in
thinking of what he was eating and drinking for the moment forgot to
ransack his brain. No sooner had he left off ransacking it, than it
suggested something--not, indeed, a very brilliant something, but still
something. On having grasped it, he laid down his knife and fork, and
with the air of one distraught he said--

"My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flock--a frugal swain."

"I heard you," exclaimed the stranger, "and I can interpret every word of
what you have said, but it would not become me to do so, for you have
conveyed to me a message more comforting than I can bring myself to
repeat even to him who has conveyed it."

Having said this he bowed his head, and remained for some time wrapped in
meditation. My father kept a respectful silence, but after a little time
he ventured to say in a low tone, how glad he was to have been the medium
through whom a comforting assurance had been conveyed. Presently, on
finding himself encouraged to renew the conversation, he threw out a
deferential feeler as to the causes that might have induced Mr. Balmy to
come to Fairmead. "Perhaps," he said, "you, like myself, have come to
these parts in order to see the dedication of the new temple; I could not
get a lodging in Sunch'ston, so I walked down here this morning."

This, it seemed, had been Mr. Balmy's own case, except that he had not
yet been to Sunch'ston. Having heard that it was full to overflowing, he
had determined to pass the night at Fairmead, and walk over in the
morning--starting soon after seven, so as to arrive in good time for the
dedication ceremony. When my father heard this, he proposed that they
should walk together, to which Mr. Balmy gladly consented; it was
therefore arranged that they should go to bed early, breakfast soon after
six, and then walk to Sunch'ston. My father then went to his own room,
where he again smoked a surreptitious pipe up the chimney.

Next morning the two men breakfasted together, and set out as the clock
was striking seven. The day was lovely beyond the power of words, and
still fresh--for Fairmead was som