Angelina then began to sing the following stanza—
“O waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae.”
She sung and paused, in expectation of hearing the second part from her amiable Araminta—but no voice was heard.
“All is hushed,” said Angelina—“ever tranquil be her slumbers! Yet I must waken her—her surprise and joy at seeing me thus will be so great!—by moonlight too!”
She knocked at the cottage window—still no answer.
“All silent as night!” said she—
“‘When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene.’”
Angelina, as she repeated these lines, stood with her back to the cottage window: the window opened, and a Welsh servant girl put out her head; her night-cap, if cap it might be called which shape had none, was half off, her black hair streamed over her shoulders, and her face was the face of vulgar, superstitious amazement.
“Oh, ‘tis our old ghost of Nelly Gwynn, all in white, walking and saying her prayers backwards—I heard ‘em quite plain, as I hope to breathe,” said the terrified girl to herself; and, shutting the window with a trembling hand, she hastened to waken an old woman, who slept in the same room with her.—Angelina, whose patience was by this time exhausted, went to the door of the cottage, and shook it with all her force.—It rattled loud, and a shrill scream was heard from within.
“A scream!” cried Angelina; “Oh, my Araminta!—All is hushed again.”—Then raising her voice, she called as loudly as she could at the window—“My Araminta! my unknown friend! be not alarmed, ‘tis your Angelina.”