The bride, poor thing, shed a tear; but the miller threw his arm round her neck, stole a kiss, and she blushed and smiled.
It was evident, however, that every one of the company regarded this as a real omen. The mill-loft was prepared for the joyous dance; but scarce had the fantastic toes (some of them were not light ones) begun to move through the mazy rounds, when the loft-floor broke down beneath the bounding feet of the happy-hearted miller; for, unfortunately, he considered not that his goodly body was heavier than his spirits. It was omen upon omen—the work of breaking had begun—the “luck” of the young couple was departed.
Three days after the wedding, one of the miller’s carts was got in readiness to carry home the bride’s mother. On crossing the unlucky burn, to which we have already alluded, the horse stumbled, fell, and broke its knee, and had to be taken back, and another put in its place.
“Mair breakings!” exclaimed the now almost heart-broken old woman. “Oh, dear sake! how will a’ this end for my puir bairn!”
I remained with my new-found relatives about a week; and while there the miller sent his boy for payment of an account of thirty pounds, he having to make up money to pay a corn-factor at the Haddington market on the following day. In the evening the boy returned.
“Weel, callant,” inquired the miller, “hae ye gotten the siller?”
“No,” replied the youth.
“Mercy me!” exclaimed my cousin, hastily, “hae ye no gotten the siller? Wha did ye see, or what did they say?”
“I saw the wife,” returned the boy; “an’ she said—‘Siller! laddie, what’s brought ye here for siller?—I daresay your maister’s daft! Do ye no ken we’re broken! I’m sure a’body kens that we broke yesterday!’”
“The mischief break them!” exclaimed the miller, rising and walking hurriedly across the room—“this is breaking in earnest.”