“Hoot! Mistress Catanach, ye ken. Dinna lat her hear ye.” “I had a feeshion, Malcolm--one moment, and no more; ta darkness closed arount it: I saw a ped, Malcolm, and----” “Wheesht, wheesht; daddy!” pleaded Malcolm importunately. “She hears ilka word ye’re sayin’. She’s awfu’ gleg, and she’s as poozhonous as an edder. Haud yer tongue, daddy; for guid-sake haud yer tongue.” The old man yielded, grasping Malcolm’s arm, and quickening his pace, though his breath came hard, as through the gathering folds of asthma. Mrs Catanach also quickened her pace, and came gliding along the grass by the side of the road, noiseless as the adder to which Malcolm had likened her, and going much faster than she seemed. Her great round body looked a persistent type of her calling, and her arms seemed to rest in front of her as upon a ledge. In one hand she carried a small Bible, round which was folded her pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a bunch of southern-wood and rosemary. She wore a black silk gown, a white shawl, and a great straw bonnet with yellow ribbons in huge bows, and looked the very pattern of Sunday respectability; but her black eyebrows gloomed ominous, and an evil smile shadowed about the corners of her mouth as she passed without turning her head or taking the least notice of them. Duncan shuddered, and breathed yet harder, but seemed to recover as she increased the distance between them. They walked the rest of the way in silence, however; and even after they reached home, Duncan made no allusion to his late discomposure. “What was ’t ye thocht ye saw, as we cam frae the kirk, daddy?” asked Malcolm when they were seated at their dinner of broiled mackerel and boiled potatoes. “In other times she’ll pe hafing such feeshions often, Malcolm, my son,” he returned, avoiding an answer. “Like other pards of her race she would pe seeing--in the speerit, where old Tuncan _can_ see. And she’ll pe telling you, Malcolm--peware of tat voman; for ta voman was thinking pad thoughts; and tat will pe what make her shutter and shake, my son, as she’ll pe coing py.” CHAPTER XII. THE CHURCHYARD.