Silence followed the close of Kirsty’s tale. Wee Davie had taken no harm, for he was fast asleep with his head on her bosom. Allister was staring into the fire, fancying he saw the whorls of the wimble heating in it. Turkey was cutting at his stick with a blunt pocket-knife, and a silent whistle on his puckered lips. I was sorry the story was over, and was growing stupid under the reaction from its excitement. I was, however, meditating a strict search for the wimble carved on the knight’s tomb. All at once came the sound of a latch lifted in vain, followed by a thundering at the outer door, which Kirsty had prudently locked. Allister, Turkey, and I started to our feet, Allister with a cry of dismay, Turkey grasping his stick.

“It’s the kelpie!” cried Allister.

But the harsh voice of the old witch followed, something deadened by the intervening door.

“Kirsty! Kirsty!” it cried; “open the door directly.”

“No, no, Kirsty!” I objected. “She’ll shake wee Davie to bits, and haul Allister through the snow. She’s afraid to touch me.”

Turkey thrust the poker in the fire; but Kirsty snatched it out, threw it down, and boxed his ears, which rough proceeding he took with the pleasantest laugh in the world. Kirsty could do what she pleased, for she was no tyrant. She turned to us.

“Hush!” she said, hurriedly, with a twinkle in her eyes that showed the spirit of fun was predominant—“Hush!—Don’t speak, wee Davie,” she continued, as she rose and carried him from the kitchen into the passage between it and the outer door. He was scarcely awake.

Now, in that passage, which was wide, and indeed more like a hall in proportion to the cottage, had stood on its end from time immemorial a huge barrel, which Kirsty, with some housewifely intent or other, had lately cleaned out. Setting Davie down, she and Turkey lifted first me and popped me into it, and then Allister, for we caught the design at once. Finally she took up wee Davie, and telling him to lie as still as a mouse, dropped him into our arms. I happened to find the open bung-hole near my eye, and peeped out. The knocking continued.

“Wait a bit, Mrs. Mitchell,” screamed Kirsty; “wait till I get my potatoes off the fire.”

As she spoke, she took the great bow-pot in one hand and carried it to the door, to pour away the water. When she unlocked and opened the door, I saw through the bung-hole a lovely sight; for the moon was shining, and the snow was falling thick. In the midst of it stood Mrs. Mitchell, one mass of whiteness. She would have rushed in, but Kirsty’s advance with the pot made her give way, and from behind Kirsty Turkey slipped out and round the corner without being seen. There he stood watching, but busy at the same time kneading snowballs.

“And what may you please to want to-night, Mrs. Mitchell?” said Kirsty, with great civility.

“What should I want but my poor children? They ought to have been in bed an hour ago. Really, Kirsty, you ought to have more sense at your years than to encourage any such goings on.”

“At my years!” returned Kirsty, and was about to give a sharp retort, but checked herself, saying, “Aren’t they in bed then, Mrs. Mitchell?”

“You know well enough they are not.”

“Poor things! I would recommend you to put them to bed at once.”

“So I will. Where are they?”

“Find them yourself, Mrs. Mitchell. You had better ask a civil tongue to help you. I’m not going to do it.”

They were standing just inside the door. Mrs. Mitchell advanced. I trembled. It seemed impossible she should not see me as well as I saw her. I had a vague impression that by looking at her I should draw her eyes upon me; but I could not withdraw mine from the bung-hole. I was fascinated; and the nearer she came, the less could I keep from watching her. When she turned into the kitchen, it was a great relief; but it did not last long, for she came out again in a moment, searching like a hound. She was taller than Kirsty, and by standing on her tiptoes could have looked right down into the barrel. She was approaching it with that intent—those eyes were about to overshadow us with their baleful light. Already her apron hid all other vision from my one eye, when a whizz, a dull blow, and a shriek from Mrs. Mitchell came to my ears together. The next moment, the field of my vision was open, and I saw Mrs. Mitchell holding her head with both hands, and the face of Turkey grinning round the corner of the open door. Evidently he wanted to entice her to follow him; but she had been too much astonished by the snowball in the back of her neck even to look in the direction whence the blow had come. So Turkey stepped out, and was just poising himself in the delivery of a second missile, when she turned sharp round.

The snowball missed her, and came with a great bang against the barrel. Wee Davie gave a cry of alarm, but there was no danger now, for Mrs. Mitchell was off after Turkey. In a moment, Kirsty lowered the barrel on its side, and we all crept out. I had wee Davie on my back instantly, while Kirsty caught up Allister, and we were off for the manse. As soon as we were out of the yard, however, we met Turkey, breathless. He had given Mrs. Mitchell the slip, and left her searching the barn for him. He took Allister from Kirsty, and we sped away, for it was all downhill now. When Mrs. Mitchell got back to the farmhouse, Kirsty was busy as if nothing had happened, and when, after a fruitless search, she returned to the manse, we were all snug in bed, with the door locked. After what had passed about the school, Mrs. Mitchell did not dare make any disturbance.

From that night she always went by the name of the Kelpie.