"Oh, if I had had a mother, a loving mother! if there had been one being
in the world that loved me, or cared for me, I should not have become an
utter castaway," exclaimed Hugh Crombie.

The landlord's pathos, like all pathos that flows from the winecup, was
sufficiently ridiculous; and his companion, who had already overcome his
own brief feelings of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud.

"Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle," he cried in his usual
hard, sarcastic tone; "be a man as much as in you lies. You had always a
foolish trick of repentance; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a
morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. And now, Hugh, fill the
quart pot again, and we will to business."

When the landlord had complied with the wishes of his guest, the latter
resumed in a lower tone than that of his ordinary conversation,--"There is
a young lady lately become a resident hereabouts. Perhaps you can guess
her name; for you have a quick apprehension in these matters."

"A young lady?" repeated Hugh Crombie. "And what is your concern with her?
Do you mean Ellen Langton, daughter of the old merchant Langton, whom you
have some cause to remember?"

"I do remember him; but he is where he will speedily be forgotten,"
answered the traveller. "And this girl,--I know your eye has been upon
her, Hugh,--describe her to me."

"Describe her!" exclaimed Hugh with much animation. "It is impossible in
prose; but you shall have her very picture in a verse of one of my own
songs."