Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume VII Part 6

"But who or what is the water-wraith?" said my friend. "We heard just now of the kelpie, and it is the kelpie that Sir Walter quotes."

"Ah," I replied, "but we must not confound the kelpie and the water-wraith, as has become the custom in these days of incredulity. No two spirits, though they were both spirits of the lake and the river, could be more different. The kelpie invariably appeared in the form of a young horse; the water-wraith in that of a very tall woman, dressed in green, with a withered meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant scowl. It is the water-wraith, not the kelpie, whom Sir Walter should have quoted; and yet I could tell you curious stories of the kelpie, too."

"We must have them all," said my friend, "ere we part; meanwhile, I should like to hear some of your stories of the Conan."

"As related by me," I replied, "you will find them rather meagre in their details. In my evening walks along the river, I have pa.s.sed the ford a hundred times out of which, only a twelvemonth before, as a traveller was entering it on a moonlight night, the water-wraith started up, not four yards in front of him, and pointed at him with her long skinny fingers, as if in mockery. I have leaned against the identical tree to which a poor Highlander clung, when, on fording the river by night, he was seized by the goblin. A lad who accompanied him, and who had succeeded in gaining the bank, strove to a.s.sist him, but in vain: the poor man was dragged from his hold into the current, where he perished. The spot has been pointed out to me, too, in the opening of the river, where one of our Cromarty fishermen, who had anch.o.r.ed his yawl for the night, was laid hold of by the spectre when lying asleep on the beams, and almost dragged over the gunwale into the water. Our seafaring men still avoid dropping anchor, if they possibly can, after the sun has set, in what they term _the fresh_--that is, in those upper parts of the Frith where the waters of the river predominate over those of the sea.

"The scene of what is deemed one of the best-authenticated stories of the water-wraith, lies a few miles higher up the river. It is a deep, broad ford, through which hors.e.m.e.n, coming from the south, pa.s.s to Brahan Castle. A thick wood hangs over it on the one side; on the other, it is skirted by a straggling line of alders and a bleak muir. On a winter night, about twenty-five years ago, a servant of the late Lord Seaforth had been drinking with some companions till a late hour, at a small house at the upper part of the muir; and when the party broke up, he was accompanied by two of them to the ford. The moon was at full, and the river, though pretty deep in flood, seemed no way formidable to the servant; he was a young, vigorous man, and mounted on a powerful horse; and he had forded it, when half-a-yard higher on the bank, twenty times before. As he entered the ford, a thick cloud obscured the moon; but his companions could see him guiding the animal; he rode in a slanting direction across the stream, until he had reached nearly the middle, when a dark, tall figure seemed to start out of the water, and lay hold of him. There was a loud cry of distress and terror, and a frightful snorting and plunging of the horse; a moment pa.s.sed, and the terrified animal was seen straining towards the opposite bank, and the ill-fated rider struggling in the stream. In a moment more he had disappeared."

THE STORY OF FAIRBURN'S GHOST.

"I suld weel ken the Conan," said one of the women, who had not yet joined in the conversation; "I was born no a stane's cast frae the side o't. My mother lived in her last days beside the auld Tower o' Fairburn, that stan's sae like a ghaist aboon the river, an' looks down on a' its turns an' windings frae Contin to the sea; my father, too, for a twelvemonth or sae afore his death, had a boat on ane o' its ferries, for the crossing, on week days, o' pa.s.sengers, an' o' the kirk-going folks on Sunday. He had a little bit farm beside the Conan; an' just got the boat by way o' eiking out his means--for we had aye aneugh to do at rent-time, an' had, maybe, less than plenty through a' the rest o' the year, besides. Weel, for the first ten months or sae, the boat did brawly. The Castle o' Brahan is no half-a-mile frae the ferry, an' there were aye a hantle o' gran' folk comin and gangin frae the Mackenzie, an'

my faither had the crossin o' them a'. An', besides, at Marti'mas, the kirk-going people used to send him firlots o' bere an' pecks o' oatmeal; an' he soon began to find that the bit boat was to do mair towards paying the rent o' the farm than the farm itsel.

"The Tower o' Fairburn is aboot a mile and a-half aboon the ferry. It stan's by itsel on the tap o' a heathery hill, an' there are twa higher hills behind it. Beyond, there spreads a black, dreary desert, where ane micht wander a lang simmer's day withoot seeing the face o' a human creature, or the kindly smoke o' a lum. I daresay nane o' you hae heard hoo the Mackenzies o' Fairburn an' the Chisholms o' Strathgla.s.s pairted that bit o' kintra atween them. Nane o' them could tell where the lands o' the ane ended or the ither began, an' they were that way for generations, till they at last thocht them o' a plan o' division. Each o' them gat an auld wife o' seventy-five, an' they set them aff ae Monday, at the same time, the ane frae Erchless Castle, an' the ither frae the Tower--warning them, aforehan', that the braidness o' their maisters' lands depended on their speed; for where the twa would meet amang the hills, there would be the boundary. An' you may be sure that neither o' them lingered by the way that morning. They kent there was mony an ee on them, an' that their names would be spoken o' in the kintra-side lang after themsels were dead an' gane; but it sae happened that Fairburn's carline, wha had been his nurse, was ane o' the slampest women in a' the north o' Scotland, young or auld; an', though the ither did weel, she did sae meikle better, that she had got owre twenty lang Highland miles or the ither had got owre fifteen. They say it was a droll sicht to see them at the meeting: they were baith tired almost to fainting; but no sooner did they come in sicht o' ane anither, at the distance o' a mile or sae, than they began to rin. An' they ran, an'

better ran, till they met at a little burnie; an' there wad they hae focht, though they had neer seen ane anither atween the een afore, had they had strength aneugh left them; but they had neither pith for fechtin, nor breath for scolding, an' sae they just sat down an' girned at ane anither across the stripe. The Tower o' Fairburn is naething noo but a dismal ruin o' five broken storeys--the ane aboon the other--an'

the lands hae gane oot o' the auld family; but the story o' the twa auld wives is a weel-kent story still.

"The laird o' Fairburn, in my faither's time, was as fine an open-hearted gentleman as was in the hail country. He was just particular guid to the puir; but the family had ever been that--ay, in their roughest days, even whan the tower had neither door nor window in the lower storey, an' only a wheen shot-holes in the storey aboon. There wasna a puir thing in the kintra but had reason to bless the laird; an'

at ae time he had nae fewer than twelve puir orphans living aboot his hoose at ance. Nor was he in the least a proud, haughty man; he wad chat for hours thegither wi' ane o' his puirest tenants; an' ilka time he crossed the ferry, he wad tak my faither wi' him, for company just, maybe half-a-mile on his way out or hame. Weel, it was ae nicht aboot the end o' May--a bonny nicht, an hour or sae after sundown--an' my faither was mooring his boat, afore going to bed, to an auld oak-tree, when wha does he see but the laird o' Fairburn coming down the bank? Od, thocht he, what can be taking the laird frae hame sae late as this? I thocht he had been no weel. The laird cam steppin into the boat, but, instead o' speakin frankly, as he used to do, he jist waved his hand, as the proudest gentleman in the kintra micht, an' pointed to the ither side. My faither rowed him across; but, oh! the boat felt unco dead an'

heavy, an' the water stuck around the oars as gin it had been tar; an'

he had just aneugh ado, though there was but little tide in the river, to mak oot the ither side. The laird stepped oot, an' then stood, as he used to do, on the bank, to gie my faither time to fasten his boat an'

come alang wi' him; an', were it no for that, the puir man wadna hae thocht o' going wi' him that nicht; but, as it was, he just moored his boat an' went. At first he thocht the laird must hae got some bad news that made him sae dull, an' sae he spoke on, to amuse him, aboot the weather an' the markets; but he found he could get very little to say, an' he felt as arc an' eerie in pa.s.sing through the woods, as gin he had been pa.s.sing alane through a kirkyard. He noticed, too, that there was a fearsome flichtering an' shrieking amang the birds that lodged in the tree-taps aboon them; an' that, as they pa.s.sed the _Talisoe_, there was a colly on the tap o' a hillock that set up the awfullest yowling he had ever heard. He stood for awhile in sheer consternation, but the laird beckoned him on, just as he had done at the river side, an' sae he gaed a bittie farther alang the wild rocky glen that opens into the deer-park. But, oh! the fright that was amang the deer! They had been lying asleep on the knolls, by sixes an' sevens, an' up they a' started at ance, and gaed driving aff to the far end o' the park as if they couldna be far aneugh frae my faither or the laird. Weel, my faither stood again, an' the laird beckoned an' beckoned as afore; but, Gude tak us a' in keeping! whan my faither looked up in his face, he saw it was the face o' a corp--it was white an' stiff, an' the nose was thin an'

sharp, an' there was nae winking wi' the wide open een. Gude preserve us! my faither didna ken where he was stan'in--didna ken what he was doing; an', though he kept his feet, he was just in a kind o' swarf, like. The laird spoke twa-three words to him--something aboot the orphans, he thocht; but he was in such a state that he couldna tell what; an' whan he cam to himsel, the apparition was awa. It was a bonny clear nicht when they had crossed the Conan; but there had been a gatherin o' black cluds i' the lift as they gaed, an' there noo cam on, in the clap o' a han', ane o' the fearsomest storms o' thunder an'

lightning that was ever seen in the country. There was a thick gurly aik smashed to shivers owre my faither's head, though nane o' the splinters steered him; an' whan he reached the river, it was roaring frae bank to brae like a little ocean; for a water-spout had broken amang the hills, an' the trees it had torn doun wi' it were darting alang the current like arrows. He crossed in nae little danger, an' took to his bed; an'

though he rase an' went aboot his wark for twa-three months after, he was never, never his ain man again. It was found that the laird had departed no five minutes afore his apparition had come to the ferry; an'

the very last words he had spoke--but his mind was carried at the time--was something aboot my faither."

THE STORY OF THE LAND FACTOR.

"There maun hae been something that weighed on his mind," remarked one of the women, "though your faither had nae power to get it frae him. I mind that, whan I was a la.s.sie, there happened something o' the same kind. My faither had been a tacksman on the estate o' Blackhall; an', as the land was sour an' wat, an' the seasons for awhile backward, he aye contrived--for he was a hard-working, carefu' man--to keep us a' in meat and claith, and to meet wi' the factor. But, wae's me! he was sune taen frae us. In the middle o' the seed-time, there cam a bad fever intil the country; an' the very first that died o't was my puir faither. My mither did her best to keep the farm, an' haud us a' thegither. She got a carefu', decent lad to manage for her, an' her ain ee was on everything; an' had it no been for the cruel, cruel factor, she micht hae dune gay weel. But never had the puir tenant a waur friend than Ra.n.a.ld Keilly. He was a toun writer, an' had made a sort o' livin, afore he got the factorship, just as toun writers do in ordinar. He used to be gettin the haud o' auld wives' posies when they died; an' there was aye some litigious, troublesome folk in the place, too, that kept him doing a little in the way o' troublin their neebors; an' sometimes, when some daft, gowkit man, o' mair means than sense, couldna mismanage his ain affairs aneugh, he got Keilly to mismanage them for him. An' sae he had picked up a bare livin in this way; but the factorship made him just a gentleman. But, oh, an ill use did he mak o' the power that it gied him owre puir, honest folk. Ye maun ken that, gin they were puir, he liked them a' the waur for being honest; but, I daresay, that was natural enough for the like o' him. He contrived to be baith writer an' factor, ye see; an' it wad just seem that his chief aim in the ae capacity was to find employment for himsel in the ither. If a puir tenant was but a day behind-hand wi' his rent, he had creatures o' his ain that used to gang half-an'-half wi' him in their fees; an' them he wad send aff to poind him an' then, if the expenses o' the poindin werena forthcoming as weel as what was owing to the master, he wad hae a roup o' the stocking twa-three days after; an' anither account, as a man o' business, for that. An' when things were going dog-cheap--as he took care that they should sometimes gang--he used to buy them in for himsel, an' pairt wi'

them again for maybe twice the money. The laird was a quiet, silly, good-natured man; an' though he was tauld weel o' the factor at times--ay, an' believed it, too--he just used to say, 'Oh, puir Keilly, what wad he do gin I were to pairt wi' him? He wad just starve.' An' oh, sirs, his pity for him was bitter cruelty to mony, mony a puir tenant, an' to my mither amang the lave.

"The year after my faither's death was cauld an' wat, an' oor stuff remained sae lang green, that we just thocht we wouldna get it cut ava.

An' when we did get it cut, the stacks, for the first whilie, were aye heatin wi' us; an' when Marti'mas came, the grain was still saft an'

milky, an' no fit for the market. The term came round, an' there was little to gie the factor in the shape o' money, though there was baith corn an' cattle; an' a' that we wanted was just a little time. An--but we had fa'en into the hands o' ane that never kent pity. My mither hadna the money gin, as it were, the day, an' on the morn, the messengers came to poind. The roup was no a week after; an', oh, it was a grievous sicht to see hoo the crop an' the cattle went for just naething. The farmers were a' puirly aff wi' the late har'st, an' had nae money to spare; an' sae the factor knocked in ilka thing to himsel, wi' hardly a bid against him. He was a rough-faced, little man, wi' a red, hooked nose--a guid deal gien to whisky, an' vera wild an' desperate when he had taen a gla.s.s or twa aboon ordinar; an', on the day o' the roup, he raged like a perfect madman. My mither spoke to him again an' again, wi'

the tear in her ee, an' implored him, for the sake o' the orphan an' the widow, no to harry hersel and her bairns; but he just cursed an' swore a' the mair, an' knocked down the stacks an' the kye a' the faster; an'

whan she spoke to him o' the Ane aboon a', he said that Providence gied lang credit, an' reckoned on a lang day, an' that he wad tak him intil his ain hands. Weel, the roup cam to an end, an' the sum o' the whole didna come to meikle mair nor the rent, an' clear the factor's lang, lang account for expenses; an' at nicht my mither was a ruined woman.

The factor staid up late an' lang, drinking wi' some creatures o' his ain, an' the last words he said, on going to his bed, was, that he hadna made a better day's wark for a twelvemonth. But, Gude tak us a' in keeping! in the morning he was a corp--a cauld, lifeless corp, wi' a face as black as my bannet.

"Weel, he was buried, an' there was a grand character o' him putten in the newspapers, an' we a' thocht we were to hear nae mair aboot him. My mither got a wee bittie o' a house on the farm o' a neebor, an' there we lived dowie aneugh; but she was aye an eident, working woman, an' she now span late an' early for some o' her auld freends, the farmers'

wives; an' her sair-won penny, wi' what we got frae kindly folk wha minded us in better times, kept us a' alive. Meanwhile, strange stories o' the dead factor began to gang aboot the kintra. First, his servants, it was said, were hearing aye curious noises in his counting office. The door was baith locked an' sealed, waiting till his freends would cast up, for there were some doots aboot them; but, locked an' sealed as it was, they could hear it opening an' shutting every nicht, an' hear a rustling among the papers, as gin there had been half-a-dozen writers scribbling among them at ance. An' then, Gude preserve us a'! they could hear Keilly himself, as if he were dictating to his clerk. An', last o'

a', they could see him in the gloamin, nicht an' mornin, ganging aboot his hoose, wringing his hands, an' aye, aye muttering to himsel aboot roups and poindings. The servant-girls left the place to himsel; an' the twa lads that wrought his farm, an' slept in a hay-loft, were sae disturbed, nicht after nicht, that they had jist to leave it to himsel too.

"My mither was ae nicht wi' some o' her spinnin at a neeborin farmer's--a worthy, G.o.d-fearing man, an' an elder o' the kirk. It was in the simmer time, an' the nicht was bricht and bonny; but, in her backcoming, she had to pa.s.s the empty hoose o' the dead factor, an' the elder said that he would tak a step hame wi' her, for fear she michtna be that easy in her mind. An' the honest man did sae. Naething happened them in the pa.s.sing, except that a dun cow, ance a great favourite o' my mither's, came up lowing to them, puir beast! as gin she wauld hae better liked to be gaun hame wi' my mither than stay where she was. But the elder didna get aff sae easy in the backcoming. He was pa.s.sing beside a thick hedge, when what does he see but a man inside the hedge, taking step for step wi' him as he gaed! The man wore a dun coat, an'

had a huntin-whip under his arm, an' walked, as the elder thought, very like what the dead factor used to do when he had gotten a gla.s.s or twa aboon ordinar. Weel, they cam to a slap in the hedge, an' out cam the man at the slap; an', Gude tak us a' in keeping! it was, sure aneugh, the dead factor himsel! There were his hook nose, an' his rough, red face--though it was, maybe, bluer noo than red; an' there were the boots an' the dun coat he had worn at my mither's roup, an' the very whip he had lashed a puir gangrel woman wi' no a week afore his death. He was muttering something to himsel; but the elder could only hear a wordie noo an' then. 'Poind and roup,' he would say, 'poind and roup;' an' then there would come out a blatter o' curses--'h.e.l.l! h.e.l.l! an' d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n!'

The elder was a wee fear-stricken at first, as wha wadna? but then the ill words, an' the way they were said, made him angry--for he could never hear ill words withoot checking them--an' sae he turned round wi'

a stern brow, an' asked the appearance what it wanted, an' why it should hae come to disturb the peace o' the kintra, and to disturb him? It stood still at that, an' said, wi' an awsome grane, that it couldna be quiet in the grave till there were some justice done to Widow Stuart. It then tauld him that there were forty gowd guineas in a secret drawer in his desk, that hadna been found, an' tauld him where to get them, an'

that he wad need gang wi' the laird an' the minister to the drawer, an'

gie them a' to the widow. It couldna hae rest till then, it said, nor wad the kintra hae rest either. It willed that the lave o' the gear should be gien to the puir o' the parish; for nane o' the twa folk that laid claim to it had the shadow o' a richt. An' wi' that the appearance left him. It just went back through the slap in the hedge; an', as it stepped owre the ditch, vanished in a puff o' smoke.

"Weel, but to cut short a lang story, the laird and the minister were at first gay slow o' belief--no that they mis...o...b..ed the elder, but they thocht that he must hae been deceived by a sort o' waking dream. But they soon changed their minds, for, sure enough, they found the forty guineas in the secret drawer. An' the news they got frae the south about Keilly was just as the appearance had said--no ane mair nor anither had a richt to his gear, for he had been a foundlin, an' had nae freends.

An' sae my mither got the guineas, an' the parish got the rest, an'

there was nae mair heard o' the apparition. We didna get back oor auld farm; but the laird gae us a bittie that served oor turn as weel; an', or my mither was ca'ed awa frae us, we were a' settled in the warld, an'

doin for oorsels."

THE STORY OF THE MEALMONGER.

"It is wonderful," remarked the decent-looking, elderly man who had contributed the story of Donald Gair--"it is wonderful how long a recollection of that kind may live in the memory without one's knowing it is there. There is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's recollections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by some likeness of themselves, and then up they start, and answer to it, as 'face answereth to face in a gla.s.s.' There comes a story into my mind, much like the last, that has lain there all unknown to me for the last thirty years, nor have I heard any one mention it since; and yet, when I was a boy, no story could be better known. You have all heard of the dear years that followed the harvest of '40, and how fearfully they bore on the poor. The scarcity, doubtless, came mainly from the hand of Providence, and yet man had his share in it too. There were forestallers of the market, who gathered their miserable gains by heightening the already enormous price of victuals, thus adding starvation to hunger; and among the best known and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a residenter in the neighbouring parish. He was a hard-hearted, foul-spoken man; and often what he _said_ exasperated the people as much against him as what he _did_. When, on one occasion, he bought up all the victuals on a market, there was a wringing of hands among the women, and they cursed him to his face; but, when he added insult to injury, and told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an ounce to foul their teeth, they would that instant have taken his life, had not his horse carried him through. He was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted man, and used small measures and light weights. But he made money, and deemed himself in a fair way of gaining a character on the strength of that alone, when he was seized by a fever, and died after a few days'

illness. Solomon tells us that, when the wicked perish, there is shouting--there was little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died; but his relatives buried him decently, and, in the course of the next fortnight, the meal fell two-pence the peck. You know the burying-ground of St Bennet's--the chapel has long since been ruinous, and a row of wasted elms, with white skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure, and look over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies out of the way of any thoroughfare, and months may sometimes pa.s.s, when burials are unfrequent, in which no one goes near it. It was in St Bennet's that M'Kechan was buried; and the people about the farmhouse that lies nearest it were surprised, for the first month after his death, to see the figure of a man, evening and morning, just a few minutes before the sun had risen, and a few after it had set, walking round the yard, under the elms, three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the last turn, beside an old tomb near the gate. It was, of course, always clear daylight when they saw the figure; and the month pa.s.sed ere they could bring themselves to suppose it was other than a thing of flesh and blood like themselves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at length bred suspicion; and the farmer himself, a plain, decent man, of more true courage than men of twice the pretence, determined, one evening, on watching it. He took his place outside the wall, a little before sunset, and no sooner had the red light died away on the elm tops, than up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite side of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round--muttering incessantly as it came, 'Oh, for mercy sake! for mercy sake!' it said, 'a handful of meal--I am starving! I am starving! a handful of meal!'

And then, changing its tone into one still more doleful, 'Oh,' it exclaimed, 'alas, for the little lippie and the little peck! alas, for the little lippie and the little peck!' As it pa.s.sed, the farmer started up from his seat; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the corn factor, in his ordinary dress, and, except that he was thinner and paler than usual, like a man suffering from hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary appearance. The figure pa.s.sed, with a slow, gliding sort of motion; and, turning the farther corner of the burying-ground, came onward in its second round; but the farmer, though he had felt rather curious than afraid as it went by, found his heart fail him as it approached the second time, and, without waiting its coming up, set off homeward through the corn. The apparition continued to take its rounds, evening and morning, for about two months after, and then disappeared for ever.

Mealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a little less afraid, ere they could cheat with their accustomed coolness. Believe me, such beliefs, whatever may be thought of them in the present day, have not been without their use in the past."

As the old man concluded his story, one of the women rose to a table in the little room, and replenished our gla.s.ses. We all drank in silence.

"It is within an hour of midnight," said one of the men, looking at his watch; "we had better recruit the fire and draw in our chairs; the air aye feels chill at a lykewake or a burial. At this time to-morrow we will be lifting the corpse."

There was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer the fire, and for several minutes there was a pause in the conversation, but there were more stories to be told, and before the morning, many a spirit was evoked from the grave, the vasty deep, and the Highland stream, whose histories we may yet give in a future number.

THE PENNY-WEDDING.

If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding they will agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack's; but, from all we have heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.

It is very well known to those who know anything at all of penny-weddings, that, when a farmer's servant is about to be married--such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most frequent occasion of these festivities--all the neighbouring farmers, with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the wedding guests--some sending one thing and some another, till materials are acc.u.mulated for a feast, which, both for quant.i.ty and quality, would extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the parties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little domicile.

Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago.

The parties--we name them, although it is of no consequence to our story--were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison, and both very deserving and well-doing persons.

On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the services of Blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings and rosin.

"An' a wee bit box o' elbow grease, Willie," said Andrew, slily; "for ye'll hae gude aught hours o't, at the very least."

"I'll be sure to bring that too, Andrew," replied Willie, laughing; "but it's no aught hours that'll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen without stoppin except to rosit."

"And to weet your whistle," slipped in Andrew.

"Pho, that wasna worth c.o.o.ntin. It was just a mouthfu' and at it again,"

said Willie. "I just tak, Andrew," he went on, "precisely the time o' a demisemiquaver to a tumbler o' cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and twa minims or four crotchets to a tumbler o' het drink, such as toddy; for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only get through wi' at the rate o' 'Roslin Castle,' or the 'Dead March in Saul,' especially when it's brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never be dune to a fiddler."

Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement, by Willie, of the time consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events this we know, that Willie was a very indifferent if not positively a very bad fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive, and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the employment he obtained, as to their love or charity.

The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his best, popped his best fiddle--which was, after all, but a very sober article, having no more tone than a salt-box--into a green bag, slipped the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which had been carefully swept and levelled for the "light fantastic _toes_"