CHAPTER X 
VISIONS AND RUMOURS OF WAR 
There is a weird melancholy about these grey Autumn 
days when the Lapwings are wailing over the black furrows 
and it falls dark so soon. The wind whistles drearily 
down the paths, all littered with dry leaves and broken 
branches. I hate coming home — like Kilmeny — late, late 
in the gloaming, as I sometimes have to do over the lonely 
muirland, with those weary Whaups wailing around me, now 
in front, now behind, and everything looking so different 
and eerie to what it looks in daylight ; even the train 
appearing a most uncanny and “ laidly worm ” as it 
wriggles by in the bottom. There is a rumour a ghost has 
been seen on one of the unfrequented highways hereabouts — 
a grim man in armour, who appeared to a country “ vet.” 
hastening home late one mirk evening, and nearly frightened 
him out of his senses. We have never heard of this ghost 
before. It is suggested, perhaps, he has come because of the 
war. Yet why a war in South Africa should raise a ghost 
on the Scottish Border let wiser folk explain ; I give it up, 
while allowing that our Borderland has many a queer tale, 
and is an “ unked ” spot when all’s said and done. There is 
a Hungarian superstition that no ghost dare venture nigh a 
house where there are Lilies in the garden. 
Show me a garden where Lilies grow, 
I’ll show you a house where no ghost may go, 
says the song, so I feel quite safe, since I have the 
