“What light is yon?” said I, interrupting him, wishing him like to break off.
“Ou, it’s just the light on some of the coal-hills. The puir blackened creatures will be gaun down to their wark. It’s an unyearthly kind of trade, turning night intil day, and working like moudiewarts in the dark, when decent folks are in their beds sleeping.—And so, as I was saying, ye see, it happened ae Sunday night that a chap cam to the back door; and the mistress too heard it. She was sitting in the foreroom wi’ her specs on, reading some sermon book; but it was the maid that answered.
“In a while thereafter, she rang her bell, being a curious body, and aye anxious to ken a’ thing of her ain affairs, let alane her neighbours; so, after waiting a wee, she rang again,—and better rang; then lifting up her stick, for she was stiff with the rheumaticks and decay of nature, she hirpled into the kitchen,—but feint a hait saw she there, save the open Bible lying on the table, the cat streekit out before the fire, and the candle burning—the candle—na, I daur say I am wrang there, I believe it was a lamp, for she was a near ane. As for her maiden, there was no trace of her.”
“What do ye think came owre her then?” said I to him, liking to be at my wits’ end. “Naething uncanny, I daur say?”
“Ye’ll hear in a moment,” answered Tammie, “a’ that I ken o’ the matter. Ye see—as I asked ye before—
yon trees on the hill-head to the eastward; just below yon black cloud yonder?”
“Preceesely,” said I—“I see them well enough.”
“Weel, after a’ thochts of finding her were gi’en up, and it was fairly concluded, that it was the auld gudeman that had come and chappit her out, she was fund in a pond among yon trees, floating on her back, wi’ her Sunday’s claes on!!”
“Drowned?” said I to him.
“Drowned—and as stiff as a deal board,” answered Tammie. “But when she was drowned—or how she came to be drowned—or who it was drowned her—has never been found out to this blessed moment.”