She was trimly clad in a green riding-coat, and over the lace collar of it her hair fell in dark, clustering curls.

Her face was grave, like a determined child's; but the winds of the morning had whipped it to a rosy colour, so that into that clan of tatterdemalions she rode like Proserpine descending among the gloomy Shades.

In her hand she carried a light riding-whip.
A scream from the women brought Muckle John out of his rhapsodies.

He stared blankly at the slim girl who confronted him with hand on hip.
"What seekest thou here, thou shameless woman ?" he roared.
"I am come," said she, "for my tirewoman, Janet Somerville, who left me three days back without a reason.

Word was brought me that she had joined a mad company called the Sweet-Singers, that lay at the Cauldstaneslap.