“Sir Hairy was like to gang distraught. He came here and sat upon that stane, day after day for a whole year; and it was him caused bring the stane bowl, and pit the carved wark ower the spring; and at the end of the year he died. That’s a’ the story, bairns; but, Missie, you that’s fond of ballants, there’s ane the leddy made, and that her woman heard her rhyming ower the day she ga’ed away. I have been trying to mind it a’ this time. It used to have a tune in the country-side. I could ance sing it grand mysel--and if you’ll be awfu’ quiet, I’ll try-- The night wind rose amang the hills, But the glen was lown and gray, When she drew her veil about her head And went upon her way. And she has gathered the green willow To lay on the threshold stane, And the yew and the rue in the chalmer of state, That the house might be kent for desolate When she was lost and gane. Oh! father, kindly fare ye well, Good may your last days be, And God send your son were hame in peace, Since ye’ll nae joy in me. And though ye have made a desert, Harry, And griefs I mayna tell, Where ance dwelt mony a pleasant thing, Yet Harry, fare ye well! But wae unto the man, Harry, Within this house shall dwell, And bears the name that breaks my heart, Though I say fare ye well! The night wind cries among the trees, I ken what words they be, And I maun hence to bruik your pain, But wae to him that bears the name Which is the dead of me.” It was nearly dark now, and the cracked and quivering voice of age rung strangely through the night. Violet felt the leaves rustle about her, and shrank from the elfin touch of the long willow shoots which thrust themselves into her hand, and cast furtive, timid glances round, trembling lest she should see the stately white lady, with her drooped head and her bridal veil, sitting under the trees. Katie was bolder, and understood the ballad; but Lettie’s attention, constantly drawn to some imaginary stir among the brushwood, or wandering reflection on the water, and arrested by the singular ghostly effect of the old man’s shrill voice and ashy face, failed to make anything of the verse which ended his story. The water trickled away unseen under the leaves--the saugh tree turned out its fleecy lining to the night wind, which began to tremble among its branches--mystic flutterings shook the long grass and limber brambles--and Lettie sat on the stone seat where Lady Violet sat before her, and trembled to her very heart. Little Katie Calder, poking about into the dark mysterious underwood, felt only a little pleasant thrill of apprehension, and was not afraid--for Katie could very well trust an imagination which never had played pranks with her; but an awe of the dark road home possessed Lettie. She was afraid to remain in this weird corner, and afraid to go away.