now, for some bank, or railway, or
something o’ the kind, where he had bought some
shares, failed with a great crash, and he was
called on to make up the loss; and he grew
careless about everything that happened, and
the horses and carts were seized for debt, and
a’ the cows except two were taken away, and
the place began to go to wrack and ruin;
and at last Jean’s birthday cam’ round again.
But we never spoke about it the whole day
long, though none of the three thought of
anything else. My father pretended to be
busy in the field; my mother span—never
letting the thread out o’ her hand; and as for
me, I wandered about the hills from early
morning, and only came back when the dark
night began. All through the lengthening
hours we sat and never spoke; but sometimes
my father put a fresh supply of peats
upon the fire, and stirred it up into a blaze,
as if it pleased him to see the great sparkles
flying up the chimney. At last my mother,
all of a sudden, ceased her spinning, and
said, ‘Hark! do you no’ hear somebody
outside?’  And we listened without getting up
from our seats. We heard a sound as if
somebody was slipping by on tip-toe on the way
to the Byre; and then we heard a low, wailing
sound, as if the person was trying to
restrain some great sorrow; and immediately
we heard the same footstep, as if it were lost
in snow, coming up to the house. My mither
stood up wi’ her hand stretched out, and
looked at the window. Outside the pane—
where the rose-tree has grown sae thick it
half hides the lower half—we heard a rustling,
as if somebody was putting aside the
leaves, and then, when a sudden flicker o’ the
flame threw its light upon the casement, we
saw the faint image o’ a bonny pale face—
very sad to look on—wi’ lang tresses o’ yellow
hair hanging straight down the cheeks, as if
it was dripping wet, and heard low, plaintive
sobs; but nothing that we could understand.
My mither ran forward, as if to embrace
the visitor, and cried, ‘Jean! Jean! O,
let me speak to you, my bairn!’ But the
flame suddenly died away in the grate, and
we saw nothing mair. But we all knew now
that Jean had been drowned in Loch Luart,
and that she minded the promise she had
made to come and see the auld house upon
her birthday.”

Here the boy paused in his narrative for a
moment, and I felt his breath coming and
going very quick, as if his strength was
getting rapidly exhausted.

“Rest a while, Willy,” I said, “and try, if
you can, to sleep.”

But nothing could restrain him from
finishing his tale.

“Na, na! I canna rest upon your arm,
sir. I ha’e wark to do, and it maun be done
this night—wae’s me! I didna think, last
year at this time, that ever I wad be here.”
He looked round with a shudder at the
coiling waves that rose high at the side of
the boat, and shut out the faint glimmer that
still lingered on the horizon line. “So Jean
was drowned, ye see,” he continued; “and
couldna put foot inside—for a’ they can do is
to look in and see what’s doing at the auld
fireside through the window. But even this
was a comfort to my mither; and as I saw
how glad it made her to have this assurance
that she wasna forgotten, I made her the
same promise that Jean had done on her
birthday: ill or weel, happy or miserable, in
the body or in the spirit—I wad find my
way to the farm-house, and gi’e her some
sign that I loved her as I had always done.
And now I ken what they’re doing as if I
was at hame. They’re sitting sad and lonely
in the silent kitchen. My father puts fresh
peats upon the grate, and watches their
flame as it leaps and crackles up the
fireplace; and my mither—Ah!”—here he
stretched forward as if to see some object
before him more distinctly—“ah! she’s
spinning, spinning as if to keep herself from
thinking—and tears are running down her
face; and I see the cheery fire, and the
heather bed in the corner, and the round
table in the middle, and the picture o’
Abraham and Isaac on the wall, and my
fishing-rod hung up aboon the mantelpiece,
and my herding-staff, and my old blue bonnet.
But how cold it is, sir,” he went on, turning
to me; “I felt a touch on my shoulder just
now that made me creep as if the hand were
ice; and I looked up and saw the same face
we had noticed last year; and I feel the
clammy fingers yet, and they go downward—
downward, chilling me a’ the way till my
blood seems frozen, and I canna speak. O,
for anither look at the fire and the warm
cosy room, and my father’s white head, and
my puir auld mither’s een!”

So saying, he tried to rise, and seemed
to be busy putting aside something that
interfered with his view. “The rose-tree!” he
said; “it’s thicker than ever, and I canna see
clear!” At last he appeared to get near the
object he sought; and, after altering his
position, as if to gain a perfect sight, he said: “I
see them a’ again. O, mither! turn your face
this way, for ye see I’ve kept my word; and
we’re both here. Jean’s beside me, and very
cold—and we darena come in.” He watched
for about a minute, still gazing intently, and
then, with a joyous scream, he exclaimed:
“She sees me,—she sees me! Did na ye
hear her cry? O mither, mither! tak’ me
to your arms, for I’m chilled wi’ the salt
water, and naething will make me warm
again.”

I tightened my hold of poor Willy as he
spoke, for he gradually lost his power, and
at last lay speechless with his head on my
shoulder. I concealed from the rest the sad
event that occurred in a few minutes, and kept
the body hidden till the darkest part of the
night, closely wrapped in my cloak.