When the Colonel, considerably damped by these preliminaries, came to close grips, Posty took a stand. “'Pledge' did ye say, Colonel; na, na, a' dauma hae onything tae dae wi' sic devices, they 're naething else than vows, an' vows are aboleeshed in this dispensation. The Catholics keep them up a'm informed, but a'm a Protestant, an' ma conscience wudna alloo me tae sign. “But a'm terribly pleased wi' yir stories, sir, an' they gar the time pass fine, an' ye maunna be offended. Gin ye cud meet me the morn at the boonds o' the pairish, a'm willin' tae argie the maitter o' vows up the Glen juist tae shairp-en oor minds. “As for the bit ribbon,” and Posty held it as if it carried infection, “gin ye hed belanged tae Drumtochty ye wud hae kent nae man cud wear sic a thing. Oor fouk hae an' awfu' sense o' humour; it 's sae deep they canna lauch, but they wud juist look at the man wi' a ribbon on, an' as sure's deith they wudna be weel for the rest o' the day. “Besides, Colonel, a 'm suspeckin' that there's juist ae preceedent for the ribbon in the Bible, that wes the Pharisees, when they made broad their phylacteries, and a' ne 'er likit thae gentry.” “Sall gin ilka man began tae pit his virtues on his coat, an' did it honest, it wud be a show at kirk and market. Milton wud hae naethin' but yir ribbon, an' Burnbrae, wha's the best man in the Glen, wudna hae room on his Sabbath coat for his decorations,” and Posty chuckled inwardly to the horror of the Colonel. Three days afterwards the great tragedy happened, and no one needed again to trouble himself about Posty. It was summer time, with thunder in the air, and heavy black clouds above Glen Urtach. June was the month in which Mrs. Macfadyen scoured her blankets, and as her burn was nearly dry, she transferred her apparatus to the bank of the Tochty, where a pool below the mill gave her a sure supply of water. Elspeth lit a fire beneath the birches on the bank, and boiled the water. She plunged the blankets into a huge tub, and kilting up her coats danced therein powerfully, with many a direction to Elsie, her seven-year-old, to “see ye dinna fa' in, or ye 'll be carried intae the Kelpie's Hole ablow, an' it 'll no be yir mither can bring you oot.” The sun was still shining brightly on the Glen, when the distant storm burst on Ben Hornish, whose steep sides drain into the Urtach, that ends in the Tochty. Down the Tochty came the first wave, three feet high, bringing on its foaming yeasty waters branches of trees, two young lambs, a stool from some cottage door, a shepherd's plaid, and all kinds of drift from eddies that had been swept clean. Elspeth heard the roar, and lifted her eyes to see Elsie, who had been playing too near the edge, swept away into the pool beneath, that in less than a minute was a seething cauldron of water that whirled round and round against the rocks before it rushed down the bed of the river.