ugh, I canna but say he seems to be a
decent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy." Here the good
woman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a
second or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well
calculated to excite.

"Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?" said Mr Adair, with a sort of
good-natured impatience. "The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen
in the end, nae doot."

"God grant it!" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the
conversation dropped for the time.

We now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of
his life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the
day on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy
Adair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was
a letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:--

* * * * *

"DEAR NARESBY,--The appearance of this well-known hand--well known to you,
my friend--will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem
to you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long
years since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much
to say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you at Wansted--a pleasure which I hope to have in
about three weeks hence--when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap,
some new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea
had ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the
valleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that
the sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run?
Would you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to
be true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay,
as that I am to be--how can I come out with the word!--to be--to be
married, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married--I repeat it
slowly and solemnly--and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that
ever the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true,
Naresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess
it; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your
own eyes.

"So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I
thought--nay