first; but as he looked he began to detect features which riveted his eyes; where the reagent was so sharp and penetrating, the analysis was rapid—­it was also hopeful—­it was also fearful.  Yes, it was true that that woman was his Mary Brown.  The light-brown ringlets were reduced to a white stratum of thin hair; the blue eyes were grey, without light and without speculation; the roses on the cheeks were replaced by a pallor, the forerunner of the colour of death; the lithe and sprightly form was a thin spectral body, where the sinews appeared as strong cords, and the skin seemed only to cover a skeleton.  Yet, withal, he saw in her that identical Mary Brown.  That wreck was dear to him; it was a relic of the idol he had worshipped through life; it was the only remnant in the world which had any interest for him; and he could on the instant have clasped her to his breast, and covered her pale face with his tears.  But how was he to act?  A sudden announcement might startle and distress her.

“There was once a Mary Brown,” said he, “who was once a housemaid in Mr. Peter Ramsay’s inn in St. Mary’s Wynd.”

“And who can it be that can recollect that?” was the answer, as she turned the sightless orbs on the speaker.  “Ye maun be full o’ years.  Yes, that was my happy time, even the only happy time I ever had in this world.”

“And there was one William Halket there at that time also,” he continued.

Words which, as they fell upon the ear, seemed to be a stimulant so powerful as to produce a jerk in the organ; the dulness of the eyes seemed penetrated with something like light, and a tremor passed over her entire frame.

“That name is no to be mentioned, sir,” she said nervously, “except aince and nae mair; he was my ruin; for he pledged his troth to me, and promised to come back and marry me, but he never came.”

“Nor wrote you?” said Halket.

“No, never,” replied she; “I would hae gien the world for a scrape o’ the pen o’ Will Halket; but it’s a’ past now, and I fancy he is dead and gone to whaur there is neither plighted troth, nor marriage, nor giving in marriage; and my time, too, will be short.”

A light broke in upon the mind of Halket, carrying the suspicion that Mr. Dreghorn had, for the sake of keeping him at Peach Grove, never forwarded the letters, whereto many circumstances tended.

“And what did you do when you found Will had proved false?” inquired Halket.  “Why should that have been your ruin?”

“Because my puir heart was bound up in him,” said she, “and I never could look upon another man.  Then what could a puir woman do?  My mother died, and I came here to work as she wrought—­ay, fifty years ago, and my reward has been the puir boon o’ the parish bread; ay, and waur than a’ the rest, blindness.”

“Mary!” said Halket, as he took her emaciated hand into his, scarcely less emaciated, and divested of the genial warmth.