MRS. WEIR
'Keep me, what's this?' she gasped. 'Kirstie, what's this? I'm frichened.'
They were her last words.
It was the lowering nightfall when my lord returned. He had the sunset in his back, all clouds and glory; and before him, by the wayside, spied Kirstie Elliott waiting. She was dissolved in tears, and addressed him in the high, false note of barbarous mourning, such as still lingers modified among Scots heather.
'The Lord peety ye, Hermiston! the Lord prepare ye!' she keened out. 'Weary upon me, that I should have to tell it!'
He reined in his horse and looked upon her with the hanging face.
'Has the French landit?' cried he.
'Man, man,' she said, 'is that a' ye can think of? The Lord prepare ye: the Lord comfort and support ye!'
'Is onybody deid?' says his lordship. 'It's no Erchie?'
'Bethankit, no!' exclaimed the woman
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