CHAPTER XII.
NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED The room was no sooner deprived of Mr.Maxwell of Summertrees's presence, than the provost looked very warily above, beneath, and around the apartment, hitched his chair towards that of his remaining guest, and began to speak In a whisper which could not have startled 'the smallest mouse that creeps on floor.' 'Mr.Fairford,' said he, 'you are a good lad; and, what is more, you are my auld friend your father's son.

Your father has been agent for this burgh for years, and has a good deal to say with the council; so there have been a sort of obligations between him and me; it may have been now on this side and now on that; but obligations there have been.

I am but a plain man, Mr.Fairford; but I hope you understand me ?' 'I believe you mean me well, provost; and I am sure,' replied Fairford, 'you can never better show your kindness than on this occasion.' 'That's it--that's the very point I would be at, Mr.Alan,' replied the provost; 'besides, I am, as becomes well my situation, a stanch friend to kirk and king, meaning this present establishment in church and state; and so, as I was saying, you may command my best--advice.' 'I hope for your assistance and co-operation also,' said the youth.
'Certainly, certainly,' said the wary magistrate.

'Well, now, you see one may love the kirk, and yet not ride on the rigging of it; and one may love the king, and yet not be cramming him eternally down the throat of the unhappy folk that may chance to like another king better.

I have friends and connexions among them, Mr.Fairford, as your father may have clients--they are flesh and blood like ourselves, these poor Jacobite bodies--sons of Adam and Eve, after all; and therefore--I hope you understand me ?--I am a plain-spoken man.' 'I am afraid I do not quite understand you,' said Fairford; 'and if you have anything to say to me in private, my dear provost, you had better come quickly out with it, for the Laird of Summertrees must finish his letter in a minute or two.' 'Not a bit, man--Pate is a lang-headed fellow, but his pen does not clear the paper as his greyhound does the Tinwald-furs.