"Sandy Shiel, the herd o' the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep ae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to the size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath; an' there was Sandy standin' i' the sun afore his sheep, whistling an' singing, and knitting his stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken-leggit hare by his very foot--Every Scotsman's keen of a hunt--Sandy flings the plaid frae him, an' after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and crying on his dog to kep. As he gaed o'er the brow he was close upon her, an' had up his stick just to knock her dead--Tut! the hare vanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit round-about an' round about--'What the devil's come o' my hare now? Is she sant.i.t? or yirdit? or flown awa'?'--Sandy lookit up into the air, but she wasna to be seen there neither. She was gane, an' for ever! Sandy was amaist swarf'd, the cauld sweat brak on him, an' he clew his head. 'Now, gude faith, I hae seen muckle,' quo' Sandy, 'but the like o' that I saw never.' Sandy trodged back, wantin' his hare, to lift his plaid. But what think ye? The hale volume o' snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and burried it fifty feet deep; it was nae mair seen till the month o' May. Sandy kneeled down among the snaw and thankit his Maker; he saw brawly what the hare had been.

"I'll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd's house at Glen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had ance been a farm-steading, but it was at the time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd, his wife, and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest girl came running in, crying, 'Bless me, sirs, come here--Here is the grandest lady coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.' They all ran to the door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at the distance of only about twenty paces--She was never more seen! But that very moment the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful crash; and thus a worthy family was saved from momentary destruction.

Ah! I wadna hae given that man's feelings of grat.i.tude that night toward his Maker and Preserver, for a' the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heart.i.t philosophers!"

"Nor would I," said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.

Barnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend that it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk at the farm-houses and cottages as they pa.s.sed, for there was no house of accommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had refreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had promised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the story of the profligate laird.

"That's an awfu' story," said Barnaby, "but it is soon tauld. It was the Laird o' Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow's corn, and never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin' the foundation-stane was laid, an' for a' the grandeur that was about it, there's nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if he didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o'

high kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to the house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an' as blithe as a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad, and unco pale at times; an' they whiles came on her greetin by hersel.

It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an' there was nae mair peace about the house. At length it was spread ower a' the parish that the lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an' up comes hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird's auld companion in wickedness, wi' a saddle an' a pad to take her away. When they set her on ahint him, Molly shook hands wi' a' the servants, but couldna speak, for she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o'

taking her away i' the fair day-light, i' the ee o' G.o.d an' man, he took her away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an' instead o'

gaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross at twal o'clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor heard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the Alemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was some yellow hair, too, on the scull, that was unco like Molly's, but nae body could say.

"Then there was a fine strapping la.s.s came in her place, a farmer's daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and a half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came hurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a' hae sutten down on their knees wad she gae wi' him; she grat an' pray'd, an'

they fleeched an' flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o' their teeth, and shamed them a'. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to the nursing, far away some gate, an' there was nae body ony mair fashed wi' him.

"It wad be endless to tell ye ower a' their wickedness, for it can hardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at a distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye the langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that the laird was walking at the back o' his garden, in the moon-light. It was thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that was conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming towards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held up her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she was; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon came to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but rather like ane dement.i.t. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he lived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and swore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu' things that folk didna understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o' desperation, that the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his ain hearth-stane, at a time o' life when he should scarcely have been at his prime.

"But it wasna sae wi' Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life; and, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two nights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but always a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble cries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again.

The family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and women, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his confessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died clean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him, and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed, and the voice cried, "O, Charley, spare my life!--Spare my life! For your own soul's sake and mine, spare my life!" On which the corpse again sat up in the bed, pawled wi' its hands, and stared round wi' its dead face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was gane. They sought a' the house, and in behind the bed, and could find naething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain house, up in the howe o' the Baileylee-linn, a' torn limb frae limb, an'

the dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o'er the muir that day, carrying something atween them, an' fock suspect.i.t it was Charley's soul, for it was heard makin' a loud maen as they flew o'er Alemoor. At the same time it was report.i.t, that there was to be seen every morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor loch, wi' her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck.

It's an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o' the day, and even then it gars a' my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard it, and G.o.d only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to mony ane."

Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed her,--it having been even more shocking than the former ones were delightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual events, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to inform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in view of his father's cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very wildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the confluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each side of the house and _kail-yard_, and mingled their waters immediately below these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills on each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long black shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these like streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and repose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane's heart danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of the mountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was going to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how equivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for such a retreat, and as she was not dest.i.tute of money, she determined to proffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather than be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen, and seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which would not suffer him to p.r.o.nounce the words aright. Two fine s.h.a.ggy healthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at a timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than them both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping away from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at his feet, and whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion's hand, and capered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby's. The whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured near; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not what to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the corner of Jane's mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the house.--George was perfectly delighted.

"I think," said Jane, "the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty welcome within!"

"Ay, that it does," answered Barnaby; "a dog that is brought up with a man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself."

Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot--pa.s.sengers never.

They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby's mother standing amid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach, and they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, "Aigh! Geordie, yon's our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help's motions; but wha she is that he's bringing wi' him, is ayont my comprehension."

She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was then to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the colour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the corner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old shepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a shoe. Barnaby strode up to him. "How are ye the night, father?"

"No that ill, Barny lad--is that you? How are ye yoursel?" said a decent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time with the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion that he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful, and the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son was unutterable. Silence reigned for the s.p.a.ce of a minute. Barnaby made holes in the ground with his staff--the old shepherd began again to sew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, "It's a vely good bonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp."

"An' how hae ye been sin' we saw ye, Barny?"

"Gaylys!"

"I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi' ye?"

"I wat have I."

"Whar fell ye in wi' them?"

"I want to speak a word to you, father."

The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the corner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had sat down on the sod-seat.

"This is a pleasant evening," said he, addressing her.

"It is a very sweet evening," was the reply.

"Ye'll be weary; ye had better _gang in_ an' rest ye."

She thanked him, and was preparing to go.

"It's a muckle matter," continued he, "whan fock can depend on their ain. My Barny never deceived me a' his life, an' you are as welcome here as heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to this bit shieling, and your share of a' that's in it. Come your ways in, my bonny woman, an' think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as either a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o' oursels." So saying he took her hand in both his, and led her into the house.

"Wife, here's a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi'

ye; mak her welcome i' the mean time, an' ye'll be better acquaint.i.t by and by."

"In troth I sal e'en do sae. Come awa in by to the muckle chair--Whar is he himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk?"

"Ah, he's coming, poor fellow--he's takin a _pipe_ to himsel at the house-end--there's a shower i' the heads wi' Barny--his heart can stand naething--it is as saft as a snaw-ba', an' far mair easily thawed, but it is aye in the right place for a' that."

It was a happy evening; the conversation was interesting, and kept up till a late hour; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the benevolent disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes glowed with delight, and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before they retired to rest, the old shepherd performed family worship, with a glow of devotional warmth which Jane had never before witnessed in man.

The psalm that he sung, the portion of Scripture that he read, and the prayer that he addressed to the throne of Grace, savoured all of charity and benevolence to our fellow-creatures. The whole economy of the family was of that simple and primitive cast, that the dwellers in a large city never dream of as existing. There was to be seen contentment without affluence or ambition, benevolence without ostentation, and piety without hypocrisy; but at the same time such a mixture of gaiety, good sense, and superst.i.tious ideas, blent together in the same minds, as was altogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to our fair stranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best advantage.

But we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby to the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every day fishing, as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing, from day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer's cottage was locked, and no smoke issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone on a visit, but at length began to suspect that some alteration had taken place in her circ.u.mstances; and the anxiety that he felt to have some intelligence, whether that change was favourable or the reverse, was such that he himself wondered at it. He could not account for it even to his own mind. It was certainly _the child_ that so much interested him, else he _could not_ account for it. Lindsey might easily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in the sentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in love. But no!--all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream and brought it back again, went to disprove that. "That I can be in love with the girl is out of the question--there is no danger of such an event; for, in the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her affections, for the whole world; and in the next, I have a certain rank and estimation to uphold in society. I am a proprietor to a large extent--a freeholder of the county--come of a good family, at least by the father's side, and that I should fall in love with and marry a poor vagrant Wool-gatherer, with a"----! He was going to p.r.o.nounce a word, but it stuck, not in his throat, but in the very utmost perceptible avenues that lead to the heart. "It is a very fine child, however,--I wish I had him under my protection, then his mother might come and see him; but I care not for that, provided I had the child. I'll have the child, and for that purpose I will enquire after the mother directly."

He went boldly up to the cot, and peeped in at the little window. The hearth was cold, and the furniture neatly arranged. He examined the door, but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for many days, and the green gra.s.s was beginning to peep up around them.

"There is something extremely melancholy in this!" said he to himself.

"I could not endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost, without at least enquiring after him."

He turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but lacked the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the object of his thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish, or if he did it was against his will.

On Barnaby's return he made some sly enquiries about the causes that induced to Jane's removal without effect, the farmer had kept all so snug. But haverel Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister, knew, and though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own s.e.x, yet she could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young fellows, which her brother always accounted a very ridiculous propensity;--whether or not it is a natural one among old maids, the relater of this tale does not pretend to decide; he is induced to think it is, but is not dogmatic on that side, not having bestowed due consideration on the subject.

One day, when Barnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than usual, and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of paritch, mixed with b.u.t.ter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time sitting with his head leaned on his master's knee, watching the progress of every spoonful, thinking the latter was rather going near him that day in their wonted proportions--while Barnaby, I say, was thus delightfully and busily employed, in comes Meg, bare-footed, with a clean white wrapper and round-eared cap on. "Barny, will ye hae time to help me to the water wi' a boucking o' claes? Ye'll just only hae to carry the tae end o' the hand-barrow to the water, wait till I sinde up the sarks, an' help me hame wi' them again."

"That I will, Miss Peggy, wi' heart an' hand."

"Miss Peggy! Snuffs o' tobacco! Meg's good enough! Troth, I'm nane o'

your molloping, precise flegaries, that want to be _miss'd_ an'

_beckit_, an' _bowed_ to--Na, sooth! Meg's good enough--plain downright _Meg o' the Todburn_."

"Weel, weel; haud your tongue, I'll do a' that ye bid me, an' mair, Meg, my bonny woman."

"How war a' your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?"

"Unco weel, an' they're muckle behadden to you for your kind speering."

"I kend your father weel; he's a good cannie man."

"I wish he had belt.i.t your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye maybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him."