thoughts he precipitated his journey.

When he arrived in Edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily
commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. Many inhabitants
of that city had seen and known him as Edward Waverley; how, then, could
he avail himself of a passport as Francis Stanley? He resolved,
therefore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as
possible. He was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation of
a letter from Colonel Talbot, and he was also to leave his own address,
under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. With this latter
purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known streets,
carefully shunning observation, but in vain: one of the first persons
whom he met at once recognised him. It was Mrs. Flockhart, Fergus
Mac-Ivor's good-humoured landlady.

'Gude guide us, Mr. Waverley, is this you? na, ye needna be feared for
me. I wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. Eh, lack-a-day!
lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets; how merry Colonel Mac-Ivor and
you used to be in our house!' And the good-natured widow shed a few
natural tears. As there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance,
Waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his
own situation. 'As it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by
to our house and tak a dish o' tea? and I am sure if ye like to sleep in
the little room, I wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad ken
ye; for Kate and Matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' Hawley's
dragoons, and I hae twa new queans instead o' them.'

Waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or
two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature
than anywhere else. When he entered the parlour his heart swelled to see
Fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little
mirror.

'Ay,' said Mrs. Flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his
eyes, 'the puir Colonel bought a new ane just the day before they
marched, and I winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it
ilka day mysell; and whiles I look at it till I just think I hear him cry
to Callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging
out. It's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a Jacobite, but they may say
their say--I am sure it's no for that--but he was as kind-hearted a
gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. Oh, d'ye ken, sir, when
h