Whether upon that morning the cows had given an extraordinary quantity of milk, or whether Nelly had forgotten to empty the milking-pail of water before she began to milk them, is not known; but, on coming in from the byre, she could not, by any means, get the cogs to hold the milk. Her mistress was called; and, after some consultation, Nelly recollected that "Margaret Crawford"—who was the herd laddie's mother—"had plenty o' milk-dishes; and she would maybe lend them a cog or twa."
"The drap milk that the cogs winna haud may stand i' the water-pitcher afore supper-time," she continued; "and Sandy may rin owre to Gairyburn, after he comes in, and stay a' nicht wi' his mither, and get the cog, and be back next morning in time to tak oot the kye."
This plan seemed at least feasible; and the farther prosecution of it was left to Nelly.
"What's the matter wi' the milk the nicht?" inquired Sandy, as Nelly was hastening him with his supper.
"I ken o' naething that can be the matter," was her reply—"but what's the matter wi't, say ye?"
"I dinna ken either," said the boy; "but it's turned terrible blue-like, isn't it? I can compare it to naething but the syndins o' my mither's sye-dish."
"Hoot! never mind the milk," rejoined Nelly; "but sup ye up yer supper as fast as ye're able, and rin owre to yer mither, and tell her the mistress sent ye to see if she could gie ye a len o' ane o' her milk-cogs, for a fortnicht or sae, till the first flush gang aff Hawky. Ye can stay a' nicht at Gairyburn," she added; "and ye'll be back in braw time next morning to gang out."
The boy seemed glad of an opportunity to spend a night in his paternal home. His supper was soon despatched, and away he went.
The shortsightedness of mortals has been a theme for the moralists of all ages to descant upon; and Nelly, had her history been sooner known, might have afforded them as good a subject as any which they have hitherto discussed. Attached as she evidently was to Jock, had her foresight extended so far as to show her what was to follow, she would certainly have strained every nerve to prevent him from being left alone on that momentous night. Alone, however, he was left; and—as he lay dreaming of Lizzy Gimmerton, and the happiness he should experience from finding himself again reinstated in her favour—exactly at the solitary hour of midnight a most terrible apparition entered his apartment. How it entered was never known; for the outer door was securely locked; and the good people of the house being, one and all, fast asleep, saw it not; but, as doors, windows, walls, and roofs, afford no obstruction to an immaterial essence, its entrance need not be matter of surprise. It was, in all respects save one, a most legitimate ghost. A winding-sheet was wrapped round what appeared to be its body; its head was tied up in a white handkerchief; and its face and hands, where they were visible, were as white as the drapery in which it was attired; but, then, in its right hand it carried a candle—a thing which ghosts are not accustomed to do. But, as there are exigencies among mortals which sometimes oblige them to deviate from the common rules of conduct, the same things may, perhaps, occur among ghosts. In the present instance, indeed, something of the kind seemed to be indispensable; for, without such aid, more than half its terrors would have been invisible. The candle, moreover, was evidently the candle of a ghost; for it showed only a small point of white flame in the middle, while around the edges it burned as blue as brimstone itself. In short, the light which it gave must have been a thousand times more appalling than that of those flames which Milton emphatically calls "darkness visible."
Jock, however, still continued to sleep, till it uttered a hollow groan, which awakened him; and then, rubbing his eyes, to make certain that he was not still dreaming, he stared at it in inexpressible terror. It returned his stare with a steady look of defiance and a horrible grin, which seemed to make the blood curdle at the remotest extremity of his body. It, however, appeared willing to abide by the law of ghosts, and to wait in silence till it should be spoken to. But Jock had already lost the power of speech. His erected hair had nearly thrown off his nightcap; his tongue seemed to have fallen back into his throat; not even a scream of terror could he utter, far less an articulate sound; and it might have waited till morning, or till the end of time, before an accent of his had set it at liberty to deliver its message. But here it showed itself possessed of something like "business habits," or at least of ten times more sense than the majority of those ghosts who, "at the crowing of the cock," have been obliged to run off without having effected anything except perhaps frightening some rustic nearly out of his wits. When it saw no prospect of being spoken to, it spoke; and in this its example should be imitated by all future ghosts.