She fixed her humid eyes on him in pleasing astonishment; she had never before witnessed such earnest and disinterested benevolence; the proposal was made in such a way that she could not refuse it, else she saw that she would give a kind and feeling heart pain. “I have a great mind to make trial of your expedient, good Barnaby,” said she; “all parts of the country are now alike to me; I must go somewhere; and as it is but a hard day’s journey, I will go and see the parents of so good a lad.”
“Now that’s spoken like yoursel, an’ I’m glad to hear ye say’t—But what’s to come o’ ye the night?”
“I have some victuals with me, and I can lie in the fields this pleasant night; it is a good one to begin with, for who knows what’s before one?”
“I canna think o’ that ava. If ye war to lay that bonny red cheek on the cauld dew, an’ the wind blawin’ i’ little George’s face, there wad some sleep nane the night; but there is a little snug sheep-house in our Hope, a wee bit frae this; let us gang there, an’ I will take little George in my bosom, an’ hap you wi’ my plaid.—O, but I forgot—that will never do,” continued he, in a melancholy tone, and looking at his ragged doublet and riven clothes. Away, however, to the sheep-cot they went, where they found plenty of old hay, and Jane instantly proposed that he should go home and leave them alone, get leave of his master, and join them next morning.
“But I dinna ken about it,” said Barnaby, hanging his head and looking serious; “that linn’s an unco uncanny place for bogles; an’ by this time o’ night they’ll be keeking ower the black haggs o’ the Cairny Moss to see what’s gaun on. If ony o’ them war to come on ye here, they might terrify you out o’ your wits, or carry ye baith aff, lith and limb—Is the callant baptized?”
Jane answered in the affirmative, smiling; and farther assured him, that he needed to be under no apprehensions on account of spirits, for she was perfectly at ease on that score, having a good assurance that no spirit had power over her.
“Ay, ye are maybe a gospel minister’s bairn, or an auld Cameronian; that is, I mean come o’ the saints and martyrs—they had unco power—I hae heard o’ some o’ them that fought the deil, hand to fist, for an hour and forty minutes, and dang him at the last—yethered him and yerked him till he couldna mou’ another curse. But these times are gane! yet it’s no sae lang sin’ auld Macmillan (ye hae heard o’ auld Macmillan?) was coming through that linn i’ the derk wi’ twa o’ his elders an’ they spak o’ the bogle, but Macmillan jeered at it; an’ when they came to the tap o’ yon steep brae they stoppit to take their breath; and there they heard a loud nichering voice come out o’ the howe o’ the linn, an’ it cried,
“Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,
Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again.”
“Say ye sae, fause loun,” quo’ the auld hardy veteran; “than be at your speed, for I’ll gang through that wood my lane in spite o’ your teeth, an’ a’ hell at your back.” An’ what does the carl do, but leaves his twa elders yonder, standin glowrin i’ the howe night, an’ trodges his way back through the linn to the very farrest side o’t—said the hunder-an’-ninth psalm against him, an’ came back wi’ never a turned hair on his head. But yet for a’ that, Jeany, dinna lippen ower muckle to bygane things; there have been fairy raids i’ the Hope, an’ mony ane ill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here!”
Jane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it to-morrow as they journeyed. He was passive—left them his plaid—went home and got leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted nothing of what had passed in the Hope. He was again back at the sheep-house by the time the sun arose; and, early as it was, he found Jane walking without, while little George was sleeping soundly on the hay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she had got a sound and short sleep, but awakening at dawn she had stepped out to taste the fresh mountain air, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the child he was somewhat fretful—a thing not customary with him; but he was soon pacified, and they proceeded without delay on their journey.