"Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the Deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu' wa' ye spak' o', that he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!" "Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs Dickson?" screamed another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late out with his cronies. He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his head." "You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the Deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been some witchcraft played off upon him and the Treasurer last night; for, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour." By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the Deacon had encountered the evening before, and the Deaconess to tell her better half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time, the story was in everyone's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties, we have heard it said--"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's wall." The Treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's entertainment as the Deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the Deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence the sound came, urged by `humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed-- "Mrs Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous hour? What's the cause of your grief?" "Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried her face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her withered fingers. "I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come home, my good woman, and I shall accompany you."