thees, shalloons, and right Scotch plaids. Can you recollect all these articles?"
"I should need a better memory than I have to recollect half of 'em," replied Jacob.
"I would send her some stuffs to look at, if you think her father wouldn't object," said the mercer: "this black velvet would suit her exactly; or this rich Italian silk."
"It would cost me my place to take them," replied Jacob; "and yet, as you say, they would become her purely." But it's of no use thinking of them," he added, walking away.
"One word more, Jacob," said Mr. Deacle, detaining him, and whispering in his ear—"I did not like to ask the question before the women—but they do say your master's a Papist and a Jacobite."
"Who say so?" cried Jacob, loudly and gruffly. "Speak up,"and tell me."
"Why, the neighbours," replied the mercer, somewhat abashed.
"Then tell 'em from me that it's a lie," rejoined Jacob. And, heedless of any further attempts to detain him, he strode away.
One night, about a month after the incident above related, which took place at the latter end of April, 1744, just as Peter Pokerich was in the act of shutting up his shop, he observed a horseman turn out of Kingstreet, and ride towards him. It was sufficiently light to enable him to discover, on a nearer approach, that the stranger was a young man, about one or two and twenty, with a tall, well-proportioned figure, at once vigorous and symmetrical, extremely regular and finely formed features, glowing with health and manly beauty, and slightly, though not unbecomingly, embrowned by exposure to the sun. Apparently disdaining to follow the fashion of the period, or proud of his own waving, brown locks, the young man suffered them to fall in their native luxuriance over his shoulders. The fashion of his dark green riding-dress—which, ill made as it appeared in the eyes of the knowing barber, revealed his fine figure to great advantage, as well as his general appearance—proclaimed him from the country. Looking hard at Peter as he advanced, the stranger drew up beside him.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Scarve lives?" he asked. Peter started, and stared at his interrogator in speechless astonishment. The young man looked surprised in his turn, and repeated the inquiry.
"Miser Scarve—beg pardon—Mr. Scarve; but he is generally known by the former name hereabouts," cried Peter. "Oh yes, sir; I do know where Mr. Starve lives."
"Then, probably you will have the goodness to direct me to the house," returned the young man. "This is the Little Sanctuary, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, yes," replied Peter. "But what may be your business with Miser Starve—beg pardon again, Mr. Scarve?"
"My business is not of much consequence," rejoined the young man, somewhat coldly and haughtily, "but it refers to Mr. Scarve himself."
"Beg pardon, sir; no offence, I hope," returned Peter, in a deprecatory tone; "but Mr. Starve—bless me, how my tongue runs—Mr. Scarve is such a very odd man. He wont see you unless your business is very particular. Will you favour me with your name, sir?"
"My name is Randulph Crew," returned the stranger.
"Crew—Crew!" repeated Peter; "that should be a Cheshire name. Excuse the liberty, but are you from that county, sir?"
"I am—I am," replied the other, impatiently.
"Ah! knew it at once, sir. Can't deceive me," rejoined Peter. "Fine
