“Ma bairn! ma bairn! God hae mercy upon her!” and Elspeth's cry ran through the bonnie birk wood and rose through the smiling sky to a God that seemed to give no heed. “Whar is she?” was all Posty asked, tearing off his coat and waistcoat, for he had heard the cry as he was going to the mill, and took the lade at a leap to lose no time. “Yonder, Posty, but ye...” He was already in the depths, while the mother hung over the edge of the merciless flood. It seemed an hour--it was not actually a minute--before he appeared, with the blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, and hung for a few seconds on a rock for air. “Come oot, Posty, ye hae a wife and bairns, an' ye 'll be drooned for Elspeth was a brave-hearted, unselfish woman. “A'll hae Elsie first,” and down he went again, where the torrent raged against the rocks. This time he came up at once, with Elsie, a poor little bundle, in his arms. “Tak' her quick,” he gasped, clinging with one hand to a jagged point. And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race, and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to be insensible. Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed to death against the stones. They carried him to the Lodge--the Colonel insisted on being a bearer--and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty. “It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is afraid of breaking down. “The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.” “A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”--Archie had the tenderest heart in the Glen and was much loved--“but there wes nae man a' like't better.” “Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye spoke o' ye as his freend.” “Sae a' wes--wha wudna be--he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.” “An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him say an ill word aboot ony body?” “Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the black-edged letters aye burned his fingers--he hated tae deliver them. He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.” “He deed like a man,” concluded Jamie; “there 's juist anither consolation--the lassie 's comin' roond fine.”