the house. It was snowing. It came down in huge flakes, but although it was only half-past four o’clock, they did not show any whiteness, for there was no light to shine upon them. You might have thought there had been mud in the cloud they came from, which had turned them all a dark grey. How the little ones did enjoy it, spurring their horses with suppressed laughter, and urging us on lest the old witch should hear and overtake us! But it was hard work for one of the horses, and that was myself. Turkey scudded away with his load, and made nothing of it; but wee Davie pulled so hard with his little arms round my neck, especially when he was bobbing up and down to urge me on, half in delight, half in terror, that he nearly choked me; while if I went one foot off the scarcely beaten path, I sunk deep in the fresh snow.
“Doe on, doe on, Yanal!” cried Davie; and Yanal did his very best, but was only halfway to the farm, when Turkey came bounding back to take Davie from him. In a few moments we had shaken the snow off our shoes and off Davie’s back, and stood around Kirsty’s “booful baze”, as Davie called the fire. Kirsty seated herself on one side with Davie on her lap, and we three got our chairs as near her as we could, with Turkey, as the valiant man of the party, farthest from the centre of safety, namely Kirsty, who was at the same time to be the source of all the delightful horror. I may as well say that I do not believe Kirsty’s tale had the remotest historical connection with Sir Worm Wymble, if that was anything like the name of the dead knight. It was an old Highland legend, which she adorned with the flowers of her own Celtic fancy, and swathed around the form so familiar to us all.
“There is a pot in the Highlands,” began Kirsty, “not far from our house, at the bottom of a little glen. It is not very big, but fearfully deep; so deep that they do say there is no bottom to it.”
“An iron pot, Kirsty?” asked Allister.
“No, goosey,” answered Kirsty. “A pot means a great hole full of water—black, black, and deep, deep.”
“Oh!” remarked Allister, and was silent.
“Well, in this pot there lived a kelpie.”
“What’s a kelpie, Kirsty?” again interposed Allister, who in general asked all the necessary questions and at least as many unnecessary.
“A kelpie is an awful creature that eats people.”
“But what is it like, Kirsty?”
“It’s something like a horse, with a head like a cow.”
“How big is it? As big as Hawkie?”
“Bigger than Hawkie; bigger than the biggest ox you ever saw.”
“Has it a great mouth?”
“Yes, a terrible mouth.”
“With teeth?”
“Not many, but dreadfully big ones.”
“Oh!”
“Well, there was a shepherd many years ago, who lived not far from the pot. He was a knowing man, and understood all about kelpies and brownies and fairies. And he put a branch of the rowan-tree (mountain-ash), with the red berries in it, over the door of his cottage, so that the kelpie could never come in.
“Now, the shepherd had a very beautiful daughter—so beautiful that the kelpie wanted very much to eat her. I suppose he had lifted up his head out of the pot some day and seen her go past, but he could not come out of the pot except after the sun was down.”
“Why?” asked Allister.
“I don’t know. It was the nature of the beast. His eyes couldn’t bear the light, I suppose; but he could see in the dark quite well.—One night the girl woke suddenly, and saw his great head looking in at her window.”
“But how could she see him when it was dark?” said Allister.
“His eyes were flashing so that they lighted up all his head,” answered Kirsty.
“But he couldn’t get in!”
“No; he couldn’t get in. He was only looking in, and thinking how he should like to eat her. So in the morning she told her father. And her father was very frightened, and told her she must never be out one moment after the sun was down. And for a long time the girl was very careful. And she had need to be; for the creature never made any noise, but came up as quiet as a shadow. One afternoon, however, she had gone to meet her lover a little way down the glen; and they stopped talking so long, about one thing and another, that the sun was almost set before she bethought herself. She said good-night at once, and ran for home. Now she could not reach home without passing the pot, and just as she passed the pot, she saw the last sparkle of the sun as he went down.”
“I should think she ran!” remarked our mouthpiece, Allister.
“She did run,” said Kirsty, “and had just got past the awful black pot, which was terrible enough day or night without such a beast in it, when—”
“But there was the beast in it,” said Allister.
“When,” Kirsty went on without heeding him, “she heard a great whish of water behind her. That was the water tumbling off the beast’s back as he came up from the bottom. If she ran before, she flew now. And the worst of it was that she couldn’t hear him behind her, so as to tell whereabouts he was. He might be just opening his mouth to take her every moment. At last she reached the door, which her father, who had gone out to look for her, had set wide open that she might run in at once; but all the breath was out of her body, and she fell down flat just as she got inside.”
Here Allister jumped from his seat, clapping his hands and crying—
“Then the kelpie didn’t eat her!—Kirsty! Kirsty!”
“No. But as she fell, one foot was left outside the threshold, so that the rowan branch could not take care of it. And the beast laid hold of the foot with his great mouth, to drag her out of the cottage and eat her at his leisure.”
Here Allister’s face was a picture to behold! His hair was almost standing on end, his mouth was open, and his face as white as my paper.
“Make haste, Kirsty,” said Turkey, “or Allister will go in a fit.”
“But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew in her foot and was safe.”
Allister’s hair subsided. He drew a deep breath, and sat down again. But Turkey must have been a very wise or a very unimaginative Turkey, for here he broke in with—
“I don’t believe a word of it, Kirsty.”
“What!” said Kirsty—“don’t believe it!”
“No. She lost her shoe in the mud. It was some wild duck she heard in the pot, and there was no beast after her. She never saw it, you know.”
“She saw it look in at her window.”
“Yes, yes. That was in the middle of the night. I’ve seen as much myself when I waked up in the middle of the night. I took a rat for a tiger once.”
Kirsty was looking angry, and her needles were going even faster than when she approached the climax of the shoe.
“Hold your tongue, Turkey,” I said, “and let us hear the rest of the story.”
But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting, and did not resume.
“Is that all, Kirsty?” said Allister.
Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her force to overcome the anger she was busy stifling. For it would never do for one in her position to lose her temper because of the unbelieving criticism of a herd-boy. It was a curious instance of the electricity flashed out in the confluence of unlike things—the Celtic faith and the Saxon works. For anger is just the electric flash of the mind, and requires to have its conductor of common sense ready at hand. After a few moments she began again as if she had never stopped and no remarks had been made, only her voice trembled a little at first.
“Her father came home soon after, in great distress, and there he found her lying just within the door. He saw at once how it was, and his anger was kindled