the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts
as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and
the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien
to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag,
in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter
for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes
Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno--a sister's son o' the auld
Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed
frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same
sports; and dabbled in the same river--the bloody, bloody Nith!--from
infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"---- Here Janet sorted
her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to
her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn--no _this_ nicht,
like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit
whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war
a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to
brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said
it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're
gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his
bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long
stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak
it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear
through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest.
On he went--for we a' witnessed what he did--on he went, steady, firm, an'
unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had
been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper
stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the
roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the
side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet;
but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an'
we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the
salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn,
an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the
whirl--she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, a