The state of the country was daily becoming more terrible. No one felt safe at any time.

The daring exploits of Steenie and Robert drew upon them blessings from their friends but curses from their enemies. They were obliged again to exercise the greatest care to hide themselves from the armed bands that Claverhouse sent in every direction to hunt to the death all that had escaped from Bothwell Bridge. We risked our lives in giving them comforts, for the persecutors, enraged that any had escaped, took measures to punish most severely those who should succor friend or stranger. Some of our own acquaintances suffered death by lingering torture for no other offence. Can my readers imagine the feelings of a mother, a wife, or a sister, who, knowing her loved ones were suffering, scarcely dared give them food, or even speak to them?

As a rule, those who were true to the good cause were dear to each other. But some, I am grieved to say, had a "zeal that was not according to knowledge." They had suffered so much that they were nearly demented. They would not listen to reason, even when counselled by their best friends; and they did rash deeds that made things worse for us all.

And now I have a sad tale to tell. I would it were the only one of its kind!

Few were more zealous in every good work than Rev. Hugh McAdam. He counted not his life dear to him, but cheerfully risked it in works of love and mercy. He sought out the wanderers, carried them food and clothing, prayed with them, and exhorted them to steadfastness in the holy cause. When we thought it safe, we gathered on a lone moor and he broke the bread of life to our famishing souls.

He and his sweet daughter Janet were loved by all our suffering people; yet it was the sorrowful lot of many of us to see him shot down at a conventicle, in the presence of his daughter, and while the words of Christian counsel were yet on his lips. Though death lurked in every corner, and similar scenes were not new to many of us, few deaths caused so universal sorrow in our neighborhood.

Orders to disperse were unnecessary. The men seized their arms and prepared to defend the retreating assembly; but the dragoons, few in number, galloped quickly away having done the foul deed. The little band, that had met with so much hope and confidence, returned sad and dispirited to their homes. The body of the beloved minister was borne with us from the field, and Bessie McDougal took the orphaned daughter home with her.

When I reached home I found that some one had already told mother the dreadful news. She met me at the door. "Alas! alas!" she exclaimed, "what is to become of the sheep when so many of the shepherds are taen awa?"

"There is still the great Shepherd of Israel," answered I. "When the right time comes, he will gird himself with might and deliver his flock."

"Oh, ay, my bairn, I maunna forget that; but trouble has been my portion so long that both heart and flesh quake and quail under every new sorrow. But I am glad you can aye have sae muckle faith."

Dear mother! She little knew with what sickness of heart I turned to my duties. Again and again the face of the dead as I had seen it in the morning came before me. His silvered locks were matted with gore, despoiling of its comeliness the face on which age had sat with so winsome a grace.

But if we were so unsettled by the sad event, how must the new inmate of Bessie McDougal's home have felt? The good woman had no lack of tenderness and sympathy, and when Janet's tears still flowed she did not try to check them.

"Greet on, hinny, greet on," she said. "Let your tears spend themsels. I ken weel the heart is less heavy when the e'en o'erflow. Auld Bessie has had troubles o' her ain; but there has aye been comfort gien to her in them a'; and the same Comforter will bring comfort to yoursel in his ain gude time. He wunna be vexed wi' ye that ye mourn. He kens a' our frames, and he kens that we are but dust and weakness."

In this way did this mother in Israel bring Christ before the afflicted daughter, until her heart was drawn closer to Him who is so gentle and so considerate of human frailties.

After we had buried the slain servant of the Lord in our own kirkyard, Bessie McDougal, whose home was ever a shelter to those in distress, begged the orphaned Janet to bide with her. Her great motherly heart warmed towards the daughter of her old and Christian counsellor. Indeed, many would have opened their doors to the bonnie lass who was so sorely smitten, but when Bessie questioned, "Will ye bide wi' me, puir stricken lamb?" Janet gladly answered, "I will."

Somewhere on these pages it will be my pleasant duty to tell how Janet repaid with filial affection the kindness of her friend.

In these times I often went to see sister Margaret and cheer her loneliness as much as I could. She had removed her family from their house in the village to a small cottage nearer to mother and me. While the excitement about our murdered minister was still fresh I went to spend the evening with her. Jamie took the minister's death much to heart.

"I have often thought to be a minister myself," said he, "but now I scarcely ken whether I am willing. I could fight on the battlefield, but it is a fearsome thing to be hunted and shot down like a wild beast."

"Yes, Jamie," replied his mother, "it is a fearsome thing; but God grant that before you are prepared to stand up before his people the scourge will be removed from Scotland."

"And yet we believe that martyrs have a brighter crown in the heavenly inheritance, and a more abundant entrance into the joy and service of the King."

"Yes, we believe that, Jamie. But there is opportunity in every life for winning an abundant entrance. Ay, ay, there are many ways to glorify God and prove his sustaining grace."

Margaret bore up bravely in her bereavement. She had little time to yield to sorrow. To support her fatherless bairns required the utmost efforts of Jamie and herself.

When it was time for me to leave them for the night, she told Jamie to take the good Book and read the tenth Psalm.

Jamie read, while Margaret's full heart often prompted her to interrupt him with some earnest comment, as she felt the force of the truth and applied it to present circumstances.

"The Lord will hear in his own good time," she remarked as Jamie concluded. "Meanwhile we will take all our griefs and cares to him, and so far as we can we will leave them all with him."

Then she knelt and poured out her heart in prayer. Since her husband's death she and Jamie had kept burning the sacred fire on the family altar.