Softened to compliance at last, my grandfather did take her down from the rafters, and carrying her to the coast, he waded into the sea with her, the three yards she had specified, and put her gently down amid the waves, near the very stone where he had originally caught her. The joy of this beautiful marine spirit in finding herself thus again bathing in the invigorating waters of her own native ocean, after having been so long hung up, as it were, on the rafters of a Highland cottage, to be smoked like an Aberdeen haddock, or a kipper salmon, may be easily imagined. But, although wicked people might perhaps impute her parting speech more to that natural love of scandal which is said to belong to her sex, than to any strong feeling for my grandfather, yet we must say, that her words and her counsel shewed that her gratitude was no less abundant than her joy. Turning to him who had treated her so compassionately, she passed her taper fingers gracefully through her long silken tresses, and thus addressed him with her siren tongue:—

“Travel not so oft nor so far from home again! Ill luck attends that home whence the master often wanders. Dost thou remember my loud laugh on that day when thy wife broke the girdle stone? It was because she made a fool of thee by blinding thine eyes that her lover might escape unseen. Be wiser in future, and never leave home; and when you go back now, look among the straw where the broken bits of the girdle stone were thrown, and you will find that which will be a treasure to you and to your children for ever.”

With these words she dived among the breakers and was seen by him no more. My grandfather returned home rather chopfallen; but on searching where the mermaid had indicated to him, he found that very stone, which has now, for three generations, been the agent in performing so many wonders.

THE DOMINIE DEPARTS.

Soon after quitting the dwelling of the Warlock, we were doomed to lose the company of one, with whom we were all much more unwilling to part.

Dominie Macpherson.—I can hardly bring myself to tell you, gentlemen, that I must now—sore against my will—take my humble leave of you. My road to my brother’s house lies north over the hill there. But ere I go, I am truly glad to have it in my power to put you under the guidance of my good friend, Serjeant Archy Stewart. I sent him a message last night to come and meet us here; and there is the very man coming over the knoll, with his Sabbath-day’s jacket and bonnet on.—How is all with you, Serjeant? My certy, I need not ask, for you look stout and hearty.

Serjeant Archy Stewart.—Thank ye, Mr. Macpherson, I cannot complain. I am a little the worse for the wear—but my old legs, such as they be, are fit enough for the hill yet. I am glad to see you well back in the country again.

Dominie.—Thank ye, Serjeant. Now, my good man, these are the three gentlemen you are to guide. Three better gentlemen you never fell in with in all your travels. You must do all you can for them; and, above all things, be sure to give them plenty of your cracks. They like to hear all manner of auld-warld stories; so, as you must put on a budget of their provisions on your back—which, by the bye, will be like Æsop’s burden, always growing less,—you may e’en lighten yourself as you go of as many of the auncient legends which you carry in your head as may help to ease your travel.

Serjeant.—Uh! I’ll not be slack at that, Mr. Macpherson, I promise ye, if it be the pleasure of the gentlemen.