CHAPTER IV.

This is no pilgrim's morning--yon grey mist Lies upon hill, and dale, and field, and forest, Like the dun wimple of a new-made widow; And, by my faith, although my heart be soft, I'd rather hear that widow weep and sigh, And tell the virtues of the dear departed, Than, when the tempest sends his voice abroad, Be subject to its fury. _The Double Nuptials._ The spring was far advanced, when, after a week spent in sport and festivity at Burgh-Westra, Mordaunt Mertoun…