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.

82 WAVERLEY NOVELS.
Margaret-if he has come up a caterpillar, like some of his countrymen, he
may cast his slough like them, and come out a butterfly.-So I drink goodnight and sweet dreams to you, in another parting cup of sack; and you
shall hear tidings of me within four-and-twenty hours. And, once more, I
commend you to your pillow, my pearl of pearls, and Marguerite of Marguerites!"
So saying, she kissed the reluctant cheek of her young friend, or patroness, and took her departure with the light and stealthy pace of one accustomed to accommodate her footsteps to the purposes of despatch and secrecy.
Margaret Ramsay looked after her for some time in anxious silence. " I
did ill," she at length murmured, " to let, her wring this out of me; but she
is artful, bold, and serviceable —and I think faithful-or, if not, she will be
true at least to her interest, and that I can command. I would I had not
spoken, however-I have begun a hopeless work. For what has he said to
me, to warrant my meddling in his fortunes?-Nothing but words of the
most ordinary import - mere table-talk, and terms of course. Yet who
knows —" she said, and then broke off, looking at the glass the while;
which, as it reflected back a face of great beauty, probably suggested to her
mind a more favourable conclusion of the sentence than she cared to trust
her tongue withal.
So pitiful a thing is suitor's state!
Most miserable man, whom wicked fate
Hath brought to Court to sue; for Had I weist,
That few have found, and many a one hath' miss'd!
Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
What hell it is, in sueing long to hide:
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-nlorrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her Peers';
To have thy asking, yet wait many years;
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares —
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs.
T'o faiwn, to crouch, to wait, Io ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.
MIOTHE nItUBBARD'S TALE.
ON the morning of the day on which George Heriot had prepared to escort
the young Lord of Glenvarloch to the Court at Whitehall, it may be reasonably supposed that the youno man, whose fortunes were likely to depend
on this cast, felt. himself more than usually anxious. He rose early, made
his toilette with uncommon care, and being enabled, by the generosity of
his more plebeian countryman, to set out a very handsome person to the
best advantage, he obtained a momentary approbation from himself as he
glanced at the mirror, a loud and distinct plaudit from his landlady, who
declared at once, that, in her judgment, he would take the wind out of the
sail of every gallant in the presence —so much had she been able to enrich
her discourse with the metaphors of those with whom her husband dealt.
At the appointed hour, the barge of Master George Heriot arrived, handsomely manned and appointed, having a tilt, with his own cipher, and the
arms of his company, painted thereupon.
The young Lord of Glenvarloch received the friend, who had evinced such
disinterested attachment, with the kind courtesy which well became him.