rats have against deserted granaries.
But, if honest John Simson's house was deserted because Jenny had made too
free with the bottle, Wat Webster's was full, from a reason precisely the
very opposite; for the fair Marion--who had

"Brankit fast and made her bonny"--

was, in the midst of a company, distributing the cakes and bannocks with
maidenly grace; and many a swain that night was glad, while

"He quhissilit and he pypit baith,
To mak her blyth that meeting--
My hony heart, how says the sang,
There sall be mirth at oor greeting."

And among the rest might now be seen John Simson and his helpmate, and also
Meg Johnston, who had been--either in reality, or, at least, with semblance
sufficient to form their apology for calling where there was plenty of
drink--smoked out of their own houses, amidst the cheers of the fire-imps.
About this time, twelve o'clock was chimed from a rough-voiced bell of the
Franciscan Monastery; and, some time after, in came Christy Lowrie, puffing
and blowing, as if she too had experienced the effects of the thick breath
of the fire-imps; and it might have been a fair presumption that her
throat, like that of some of her predecessors, had been dried from
pre-perceived gusts of Wat Webster's whisky rather than the smoke of the
fire-angels, had it not been made quickly apparent, from other symptoms,
that a horripilant terror had seized her heart and limbs, and inspired her
tongue with the dry rattle of fearful intelligence. Never stopping till she
got forward into the very heart of the company, seated round a blazing
ingle, she sank upon a chair, and held up her hands to heaven, as if
calling down from that quarter some supernatural agency to help in her
difficulty. Every one turned and looked at her with wonder, mixed with
sympathetic fear.

"What, in God's name, is this, Christy? Is he come?" cried Wat Webster.

"Oh! he's come again--he's come again!" she replied, in the midst of an
effort to catch a spittle to wet her parched throat. "He's been at Will
Pearson's, and Widow Lindsay's, and Rob Paterson's--he's gaun his auld
rounds--and dootless he'll be here too. O Marion! Marion! gie me a spark to
weet my throat."

The door was again opened, and in came Widow Lindsay in great haste and
terror,

"I've seen him again!" cried she fearfully, and threw herself down in a
corner of the lang settle.

"Are ye sure it's him, dame?" inquired Meg Johnston, who seemed