a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit; and the
weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and
my cabinet being lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at
last obliged to desist from this diversion (such as it was), and
pass the rest of my time of waiting in a very burthensome vacuity.
The sound of people talking in a near chamber, the pleasant note of
a harpsichord, and once the voice of a lady singing, bore me a kind
of company.

I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long come, when the
door of the cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light behind
him, of a tall figure of a man upon the threshold. I rose at once.

"Is anybody there?" he asked. "Who in that?"

"I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord
Advocate," said I.

"Have you been here long?" he asked.

"I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours," said I.

"It is the first I hear of it," he replied, with a chuckle. "The
lads must have forgotten you. But you are in the bit at last, for
I am Prestongrange."

So saying, he passed before me into the next room, whither (upon
his sign) I followed him, and where he lit a candle and took his
place before a business-table. It was a long room, of a good
proportion, wholly lined with books. That small spark of light in