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.

THE FORT UNES OF N'IGEL. 73
I know nothing of her likings, or mislikings -only her coffin is there; and
I leave your lordship to guess what a live person has to do with a coffin.
As little as a ghost with a lantern, I trow."
" What reason," repeated Nigel, "can a creature, so young and so
beautiful, have already habitually to contemplate her bed of last long
rest?"
"In troth, I kenna, my lord," answered Moniplies; "but there is the
coffin, as they told me who have seen it. It is made of heben-wood, with
silver nails, and lined all through with three-piled damask, might serve a
princess to rest in."
" Singular," said Nigel, whose brain, like that of most active young spirits, was easily caught by the singular and the romantic; " does she not
eat with the family?"
"Who — she 1" exclainmed Moniplies, as if surprised at the question;
"they would need a lang spoon would sup with her, I trow. Always there
is something put for her into the Tower, as they call it, whilk is a whigmtaleery of a whirling-box, that turns round half on the tae side o' the wa',
half on the tother."
"I have seen the contrivance in foreign nunneries," said the Lord of
Glenvarloch. "And is it thus she receives her food?"
" They tell me something is put in ilka day, for fashion's sake," replied
the attendant; "but it's no to be supposed she would consume it, ony mair
than the images of Bel and the Dragon consumed the dainty vivers that
were placed before them. There are stout yeomen and chamber-queans in
the house, enow to play the part of Lick-it-up-a', as well as the threescore
and ten priests of Bel, besides their wives and children."
"And she is never seen in the family but when the hour of prayer
arrives?" said the master.
"Never, that I hear of," replied the servant.
"It is singular," said Nigel Olifaunt, musing. "Were it not for the
ornaments which she wears, and still more for her attendance upon the service of the Protestant Church, I should know what to think, and should
believe her either a Catholic votaress, who, for some cogent reason, was
allowed to make her cell here in London, or some unhappy Popish devotee,
who was in the course of undergoing a dreadful penance. As it is, I know
not what to deem of it."
His reverie was interrupted by the linkboy knocking at the door of
honest John Christie, whose wife came forth with "quips, and becks, and
wreathed smiles," to welcome her honoured guest on his return to his
apartment.