, quotin' frae Scripture in a
solemn wy 'at abashed the masons, but he said 'at in his opeenion there
was a bairn buried on the farm, an' till it was found the cradle would
go on rockin'. After that the masons dug in a lot o' places lookin'
for the body, an' they found some queer things, too, but never nae sign
o' a murdered litlin'. Ay, I dinna ken what would hae happened if the
commotion had gaen on muckle langer. One thing I'm sure o' is 'at the
mistress would hae gaen daft, she took it a' sae terrible to heart.

"I lauch at it noo, but I tell ye I used to tak my heart to my bed in
my mooth. If ye hinna heard the story I dinna think ye 'll be able to
guess what the ghost cradle was."

I said I had been trying to think what the tray had to do with it.

"It had everything to do wi't," said Jess; "an' if the masons had kent
hoo that cradle was rockit, I think they would hae killed the mester.
It was Eppie 'at found oot, an' she telt naebody but me, though mony a
ane kens noo. I see ye canna mak it oot yet, so I'll tell ye what the
cradle was. The tray was keepit against the kitchen wall near the
mester, an' he played on't wi' his foot. He made it gang, bump bump,
an' the soond was just like a cradle rockin'. Ye could hardly believe
sic a thing would hae made that din, but it did, an' ye see we lay in
our beds hearkenin' for't. Ay, when Eppie telt me, I could scarce
believe 'at that guid devout-lookin' man could hae been sae wicked. Ye
see, when he found hoo terrified we a' were, he keepit it up. The wy
Eppie found out i' the tail o' the day was by wonderin' at 'im sleepin'
sae muckle in the daytime. He did that so as to be fresh for his sport
at nicht. What a fine releegious man we thocht 'im, too!

"Eppie couldna bear the very sicht o' the tray after that, an' she telt
me to break it up; but I keepit it, ye see. The lump i' the middle's
the mark, as ye may say, o' the auld man's foot."

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE

Were Jess still alive to tell the life-story of Sam'l Fletcher and his
wife, you could not hear it and sit still. The ghost cradle is but a
page from the black history of a woman who married, to be blotted out
from that hour. One case of the kind I myself have known, of a woman
so good mated to a man so selfish that I cannot think of her even now
with a steady mouth. Hers was the tragedy of living on, more mournful
than the tragedy that kills. In Thrums the weavers spoke