The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 50\7,woman? Thus she spoke:'I am now a forlorn widow,' she said,' whom
sorrow has made selfish.'
Peveril started, for these were the very words the Countess had used; but
he instantly recovered himself, and replied, "Be your information of what
nature it will, I deny, and I defy it, so far as it <attaches aught like guilt to
me. There lives not a man more innocent of a disloyal thought, or of a
traitorous purpose. What I say for myself, I will, to the best of my knowledge, say and maintain, on account of the noble Countess, to whom I am
indebted for nurture."
"Perish, then, in thy obstinacy!" said Bridgenorth; and turning hastily
from him, he left the room, and Julian heard him hasten down the narrow
staircase, as if distrusting his own resolution.
With a heavy heart, yet with that confidence in an overruling Providence
which never forsakes a good and brave man, Peveril betook himself to his
lowly place of repose.
Ul aptar ttp (tUvt4-,ffff
The course of human life is changeful still,
As is the fickle wind and wandering rill;
Or, like tile light dance which the wild-breeze weaves
Amidst the fated race of fallen leaves;
Which now its breath hears down, now tosses high,
Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky.
Such, and so varied, the precarious play,
Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day!
ANOnYMIOUS.
WnHILST, overcome with fatigue, and worn outby anxiety, Julian Peveril
slumbered as a prisoner in the house of his hereditary enemy, Fortune was
preparing his release by one of those sudden frolics with which she loves to
confound the calculations and expectancies of humanity; and as she fixes
on strange agents for such purposes, she condescended to employ, on the
present occasion, no less a personage than Mistress Deborah Debbitch.
Instigated, doubtless, by the pristine reminiscences of former times, no
sooner had that most prudent and considerate dame found herself in the
vicinity of the scenes of her earlier days, than she bethought herself of a
visit to the ancient housekeeper of iMartindale Castle, Dame Ellesmere by
name, who, long retired from active service, resided at the'keeper's lodge,
in the west thicket, with her nephew, Lance Outram, subsisting upon the
savings of her better days, and on a small pension allowed by Sir Geoffrey
to her age and faithful services.
Now Dame Ellesmere and Mistress Deborah had not by any means been
formerly on so friendly a footing, as this haste to visit her might be supposed to intimate. But years had taught Deborah to forget and forgive; or
perhaps she had no special objection, under cover of a visit to Dame Ellesmere, to take the chance of seeing what changes time had made on her old
admirer the keeper. Both inhabitants were in the cottage, when, after
having seen her master set forth on his expedition to the Castle, Mistress
Debbitch, dressed in her very best gown, footed it through gutter, and over
stile, and by pathway green, to knock at their door, and to lift the latch at
the hospitable invitation which bade her come in.
Dame Ellesmere's eyes were so often dim, that, even with the aid of spectacles, she failed to recognise, in the portly and mature personage who en