A CHAPTER ON ANNUALS. 503 



fearfully high they had flowed through the night. She cast an eager glance 

 towards the cliffs. Surely by this time it would be practicable to scramble 

 along their base, and to reach the path on the shore to the fishermen's huts ? 

 She felt as though it were impossible to remain another instant in that state 

 of terrible uncertainty. But then, her infant ! She durst not carry it out by 

 so hazardous a path, in the wet, cold, dark dawn ; and should she leave it 

 behind, it might wake and miss her ! She turned distractedly into the room, 

 and approached its bed. It was still in a sound and tranquil sleep ; and with 

 a desperate effort of resolution, she determined to make the attempt. She 

 approached the door, and fastened her plaid firmly around her, ere she stepped 

 forth upon her scarce distinguishable way. 



" At that moment, ere Margaret could cross the threshold, a strange sen- 

 sation came across her. A cold air rushed past her, like that occasioned by 

 the rapid approach and still more rapid passing of some undiscernible object. 

 A dimness came over her sight ; she could not be said to see but she felt as 

 if something cold and wet had glided swiftly by her, with a scarce perceptible 

 contact, into the house. A damp dew overspread her forehead ; her limbs 

 trembled and bent beneath her, as she instinctively turned round, and looked 

 into the room which she had quitted. The light was so faint, that within 

 the house it scarce vanquished the darkness ; but a bright gleam flashing up 

 from the fir?, showed every thing in the room distinctly for an instant's 

 space ; and by that gleam, Margaret beheld the figure of her husband stsmding 

 within the door, pale, as it seemed to her, and dim, and shadowy, with the 

 water dripping from his clothes and hair. The fire-flash sunk as instanta- 

 neously as it had shone, and all was again obscurity, as she dropped upon 

 the floor in a swoon. 



When the unhappy wife again opened her eyes, and recovered her percep- 

 tions of what was passing around her, she found herself laid in her own bed. 

 The bright glorious sunshine was beaming in at the cottage window, as 

 though to mock her desolation. Several women, from the neighbouring 

 fishing village, were in the room , one of whom held in her arms the infant 

 of Margaret, whom she was endeavouring to soothe and quiet : and at the 

 moment she raised her head, the door opened, and upon the self-same spot 

 where she had that morning beheld his likeness stand, she saw the lifeless 

 corpse of her drowned husband, borne in the arms of some of his comrades, 

 who had with difficulty rescued it from the devouring waves ; yet rescued it 



rtoo late to save. , 



" Some weeks afterwards, as the household of Andrew Weir were rising 

 from their evening devotions, a gentle knock was heard at the door of the 

 kitchen in which they were all assembled. The old farmer himself went to 

 open it. A female figure, pale, thin, and wasted, clad in deep mourning, 

 and holding an infant in her arms, stood trembling before him. He gazed 

 on her for a moment in silent uncertainty, then desired her to ' come in bye/ 



" ' Faither,' said she, clasping her attenuated hands together, ' do ye no 

 ken me ?' An electric shock of recognition seemed to run through the old 

 man's frame. He sank into a chair that stood by the door, and with averted 

 face waved his hand, as though to bid the intruder be gone. 



" ' Father !' she exclaimed, flinging herself on the ground before him, and 

 clasping his knees, ' the hand of the Lord has been upon me, for my fau't. 

 I cam' back to crave your pardon, or I dee. Oh ! dinna cast me aff ! I hae 

 been sair chasteesed ; sair, sair chasteesed.' 



" A murmur of sympathy and compassion arose from the assembled group 

 of old and attached domestics. The farmer remained silent yet a little space, 

 with his grey head bowed upon his hands, and his whole frame shaking with 

 strong convulsive shudderings. He raised his face at last ; and while, every 

 feature working with emotion, he stretched forth his hand to the weeping 

 culprit at his knee 



" ' Rise, Margaret, 1 he said, in a broken voice, ' rise, my bairn. The 

 Lord grant ye peace and pardon, as freely as your faither dees the nicht.' 



