I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my
footsteps to Edinburgh. It was December; the sun had just gone down; I
was not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to
trust to chance for finding a comfortable resting-place for the night.
Perceiving a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from
the road, I resolved to turn towards them, and make inquiry respecting
the right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest
inn.

The "town," as the three or four houses and mill were called, was
all bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and
scouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned that all this note
of preparation arose from the "maister" being to be married within three
days. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a
tall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of
accosting me partook more of kindness than civility; and his inquiries
were not free from the familiar, prying curiosity which prevails in
every corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular.

"Where do you come fra, na--if it be a fair question?" inquired he.

"From B----," was the brief and merely civil reply.

"An' hae ye come frae there the day?" he continued.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Ay, man, an' ye come frae B----, do ye?" added he; "then, nae doot,
ye'll ken a person they ca' Mr. ----?"

"Did he come originally from Dunse?" returned I, mentioning also the
occupation of the person referred to.

"The vera same," rejoined the miller; "are ye acquainted wi' him, sir?"

"I ought to be," replied I; "the person you speak of is merely my
father."

"Your faither!" exclaimed he, opening his mouth and eyes to their
full width, and standing for a moment the picture of surprise--"Gude
gracious! ye dinna say sae!--is he really your faither? Losh, man, do
you no ken, then, that I'm your cousin! Ye've heard o' your cousin,
Willie Stewart."

"Fifty times," replied I.

"Weel, I'm the vera man," said he--"Gie's your hand; for, 'odsake, man,
I'm as glad as glad can be. This is real extraordinar'. I've often heard
o' you--it will be you that writes the buiks--faith ye'll be able to mak
something o' this. But come awa' into the house--ye dinna stir a mile
far'er for a week, at ony rate."

So saying, and still grasping my hand, he led me to the farm-house. On
crossing the threshold--

"Here, lassie," he cried,