"Wha can that be, in Gude's name?" whispered Nance. "Rise, Archy, man, and speer at them what they're seekin at this untimous hour."
"Wha's that?" said Archy, in a loud tone o' voice, though it trembled a wee when he thocht o' bogles, and rievers, and a' sic-like deevilry.
A saft and gentle voice answered—
"Can you give me a guide over the hills as far as Langholm? I'm a lone unprotected woman, and have lost my way."
"Is there onybody wi' ye forbye yersel?" said the cautious Archy.
"No one. Pray let me in to rest for a short time. I am no beggar; you shall be well rewarded for your kindness."
"Reward!" replied Archy, drawin the sneck—"there's nane needed; it should never be said that Archy Brown, puir though he be, wad keep his door steekin again' them that haena beil."
The door was by this time open, and Nance had lighted the candle. The stranger walked in. Great was the surprise o' baith at the unexpected sight; they were maist as frightened as if they'd seen a bogle. The stranger was a tall, handsome woman, a' dressed oot like a leddy, wi' pinners on her head, and a' sorto' whirlygeerums—I dinna ken their names, but, howsomever, they a' gaed to prove that she was a leddy, and no ane like themsels; and when she spak, her voice was saft and gentle, and her words as grand as if they were oot o' a printed book. Then she had grand buckles in her shoon, and rings on her wee white hand, and a'thing grander aboot her than they'd ever seen afore. Weel, she sat doun by the ingle cheek, and askit again could they furnish her wi' a guide to Langholm; and they persuadit her to bide where she was a' nicht, and Archy wad gang wi' her himsel the neist morning. It was lang ere they could gar her stop; but there were nae roads herewa in thae days; and she was feared to gang farrer by hersel, and Archy dounricht refused to leave the hoose. She tell't them she had come fra the south country and that she was travellin to Embro to see a freend; and aye as she spak she sighed and sobbit; and when she laid aff her rich manteel, they saw that a' wasna richt; and they lookit at her hand, but there was nae weddin-ring upon't; and then Nance lookit in her face, and saw dule and sorrow there, but naething waur—for her beauty was like that o' a sorrowin angel; and she had sic a look o' innocence, that Nance dreaded she had been beguiled by the warmth and innocence o' her heart—that she was aiblins a puir thing mair sinned again' than sinnin; and Nance's ain heart warmed till her, and she fleeched on, and made muckle o' her. Sair did the puir thing greet; but she never loot on wha she was, or where she cam frae, or wha 'twas she was seekin; but said that she was a wanderer and an ootcast, and nae leevin soul cared for her, and the sooner she was dead the better for hersel. Puir Nance was sair put aboot to comfort her; but at last she persuadit her to sup some milk and bread, and gang to her bed. Archy and Nance sleepit on the flure—at least Nance sleepit, for Archy couldna; the deil was busy wi' him; the siller buckles and the braw rings were aye glintin in his een whenever he steekit them, and hinner't him frae sleepin. He closed his een and tried to snore, and to fancy that he was sleepin; but aye the langer he tried, the waur and the wickeder were the thochts that cam intil his head; till at last he got up on his elbow, and sat glowrin at the bed where the stranger leddy lay soun sleepin; and aye the langer he lookit, the mair he thocht what a happy man he wad be if he had a' her braw rings, and the gowd that was in her purse, and her siller buckles and a'. Weel, neist morning, the leddy waukens up, and cries to Nance that 'twas time for her to tak the road; but Nance wadna hear tell o't till she had gien her her breakfast.
"It's no muckle we hae," said Nance; "but, sic as it is, ye're welcome to a share o't. Just sup yer milk and bread, while Archy snogs himsel up to gang wi' ye."
As soon as they'd finished their breakfast, the leddy took oot a bonny silken purse, that looked as if it wad burst, and gied Nance a piece o' gowd.