Chapter I.

December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up with extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even knew of their existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond interest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events-- though these may have far more interest for the multitude-- immediately passing before their eyes. If this should be the case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me! . . . If I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her family history after I knew her； but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must arrange events in the order in which they occurred--not that in which I became acquainted with them.

There is a great old hall in the north-east of

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