I may as well say that I do not believe Kirsty's tale had the remotest historical connection with Sir Worm Wymble, if that was anything like the name of the dead knight.

It was an old Highland legend, which she adorned with the flowers of her own Celtic fancy, and swathed around the form so familiar to us all.
"There is a pot in the Highlands," began Kirsty, "not far from our house, at the bottom of a little glen.

It is not very big, but fearfully deep; so deep that they do say there is no bottom to it." "An iron pot, Kirsty ?" asked Allister.
"No, goosey," answered Kirsty.

"A pot means a great hole full of water--black, black, and deep, deep." "Oh!" remarked Allister, and was silent.
"Well, in this pot there lived a kelpie." "What's a kelpie, Kirsty ?" again interposed Allister, who in general asked all the necessary questions and at least as many unnecessary.
"A kelpie is an awful creature that eats people." "But what is it like, Kirsty ?" "It's something like a horse, with a head like a cow." "How big is it?
As big as Hawkie ?" "Bigger than Hawkie; bigger than the biggest ox you ever saw." "Has it a great mouth ?" "Yes, a terrible mouth." "With teeth ?" "Not many, but dreadfully big ones." "Oh!" "Well, there was a shepherd many years ago, who lived not far from the pot.

He was a knowing man, and understood all about kelpies and brownies and fairies.