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.

ROB ROY. 139
above all, against the secret counsellor whom she had chosen for'her confidant. Such were the arguments which my will boldly preferred to my
conscience, as coin which ought to be current; and which conscience, like
a grumbling shopkeeper, was contented to accept, rather than come to an
open breach with'a customer, though more than doubting that the tender
was spurious.
While I paced the green alleys, debating these things pro and con, I suddenly alighted upon Andrew Fairservice, perched up like a statue by a
range of bee-hives, in an attitude of devout contemplation - one eye, however, watching the motions of the little irritable citizens, who were settling
in their straw-thatched mansion for the evening, and the other fixed on a
book of devotion, which much attrition had deprived of its corners, and
worn into an oval shape; a circumstance which, with the close print and
dingy colour of the volume in question, gave it an air of most respectable
antiquity.
"I was e'en taking a spell o' worthy Mes John Quackleben's Flower of
a Sweet Savour sawn on the Middenstead of this World," said Andrew,
closing his book at my appearance, and putting his horn spectacles, by way
of mark, at the place where he had been reading.
"And the bees, I observe, were dividing your attention, Andrew, with
the learned author?"
" They are a contumacious generation," replied the gardener; " they hae
sax days in the week to hive on, and yet it's a common observe that they
will aye swarm on the Sabbath-day, and keep folk at hame frae hearing
the word- But there's nae preaching at Graneagain chapel the e'enthat's aye ae mercy."
"You might have gone to the parish church as I did, Andrew, and heard
an excellent discourse.."
"Clauts o' cauld parritch - clauts o' cauld parritch," replied Andrew,
with a most supercilious sneer, - "gude aneuch for dogs, begging your
honour's pardon - Ay! I might nae doubt hae heard the curate linking
awa at it in his white sark yonder, and the musicians playing on whistles,
mair like a penny-wedding than a sermon -and to the boot of that, I
might hae gaen to even-song, and heard Daddie Docharty mumbling his
mass muckle the better I wad hae been o' that!"
" Docharty!" said I (this was the name of an old priest, an Irishman, I
think, who sometimes officiated at Osbaldistone-Hall) - " I thought Father
Vaughan had been at the Hall. He was here yesterday."
" Ay," replied Andrew; "but he left it yestreen, to gang to Greystock,
or some o' thae west-country haulds. There's an unco stir among them a'
e'enow. They are as busy as my bees are - God sain them! that I suld
even the puir things to the like o' papists. Ye see this is the second swarm,
and whiles they will swarm off in the afternoon. The first swarm set
off sune in the morning. - But I am thinking they are settled in their
skeps for the night; sae I wuss your honour good-night, and grace, and
muckle o't."
So saying, Andrew retreated; but often cast a parting glance upon the
skeps, as he called the bee-hives.
I had indirectly gained from him an important piece of information, that
Father Vaughan, namely, was not supposed to be at the Hall. If, therefore, there appeared light in the windows of the library this evening, it
either could not be his, or he was observing a very secret and suspicious
line of conduct. I waited with impatience the time of sunset and of twilight. It had hardly arrived, ere a gleam from the windows of the library
was seen, dimly distinguishable amidst the still enduring light of the evening. I marked its first glimpse, however, as speedily as the benighted
sailor descries the first distant twinkle of the light-house which marks his
course. The feelings of doubt and propriety, which had hitherto contended