In the chill gray of an autumnal morning Janet McAdam awoke in her new home a few days after her father's burial. With the first dawning of consciousness came always the leaden weight of grief. But she had been prepared for changes the most dreadful; and with the remembrance of her loss came the comforting thought that her father had entered into his rest, though rough had been his exit from this world of trouble. In this thought she found some consolation. "No storm can reach him now in the calm haven he has entered," she murmured. She rose and dressed herself with her usual care; then, kneeling down, she asked for strength equal to her day.

In an adjoining room Bessie McDougal was already busy with her morning duties. With a huge pair of tongs she drew from the bed of ashes in the fireplace the brands she had buried the night before. These she placed close to the back-log, and, laying on some bits of wood, she soon had a blaze that crackled and roared in a right comfortable, homelike way. She was hanging the kettle over the fire when Janet entered the room.

"How hae ye sleepit, my bairn?" she asked.

"I have slept quite well, thank you. Can I help you now?"

"Nae, dearie, nae. The kettle will nae mair than boil before I am in frae the byre. Tak ye the Ward of God, and seek out a portion suited to your need."

Bessie went out to do the work that Robert would have done if he could have remained at home. She unfastened the door of the byre, went in, looked around to see that all was right, and gently patted the cow. "Puir beastie, I maunna forget ye amid a' the troubles," she said, thinking aloud. She fed her with a liberal hand, then scattered grain for the fowls. These were all she had to care for now, for the soldiers had taken from her whatever they liked. Having finished her work there, she returned to the house.

The kettle was already boiling. She prepared the morning meal, spread the table, and the two sat down. Short and simple was the prayer of thankfulness for daily bread which the good woman offered. For a while they ate in silence, for trouble aye makes us think more and speak less. Bessie's voice at length broke the stillness. Pointing to the head of the table, she said,

"It was there David aye sat, and there," pointing to the window-sill, "he laid his bonnet. And it was on that side Robert sat. Alas! the ane will come nae mair, and the ither maun steal his chance if he comes. These are times to try the strongest faith;" and she wiped her tearful eyes. Then observing that the other was taking very little food, she spoke more cheerfully:

"Janet, my bairn, ye maun do better than this at your meals, and graw stoot."

She had scarcely finished speaking when Robert, her son, entered, followed by Steenie.

Great was the astonishment of Bessie. She embraced her son and warmly pressed the hand of his companion. She piled high the hearth-fire and heaped the table with plenty. But she could not bring herself to ask what had brought them there. She feared it might be to say good-by before facing known danger.

The hungry men made inroads on the cakes and cheese; and well they might.

"Oh, my bairn," sad the glad, sad mother, "when will ye daily sit at this table and pass your evenings at your ain hearthstane?"

"When I am let, mother."

"I must take a look at the beasts," said Robert, when the meal was finished.

His mother, unwilling to lose one precious moment of her son's stay, went with him to the byre. Robert's anger was kindled to find that the sheep had all been driven away, and only one cow out of three was left.

But he had other thoughts in his mind, and he spoke of me, of Effie Patterson.

"It is no a time to marry, or to be gien in marriage," said his mother, "and I would leifer ye would bring nae mair care on yoursel while these times last."

"What you say is o'er true, mother; but one canna always keep down his heart. It is one of the hardest features of this troubled time that a man has no power to shield and protect his own household. But for all that, I would fain call Effie mine. If I am slain by the enemy, you must tell her that naught but the fear of adding to the dangers which now beset her path has kept me from declaring my love for her and asking her hand in marriage. And, mother, Steenie's heart is bound up in the lass Janet. He cannot hide his sympathy for her in this her time of bereavement. It is that that has brought us here the morn. He would fain tell her he sorrows for her sake. You did well to take her in; it is like you, mother; only you must not care more for her than you care for Effie."

"Oh, my bairn, I canna promise. The dear lass wi' me has nae kin left to her; and if she twines hersel about my auld heart, I canna thrust her aside for anither. It was but the morn that my silly fancy was imagining the times again settled, and yoursel hame and weel; but never mind what I was about to say. Effie is a gude, gentle soul, and helpfu' witha'; and should it be that we hae peace granted to us, ye will see that I can love Effie weel, although I love anither lass as mickle."

This is word for word what Bessie told me more than two years afterwards; but two years afterwards was not then. No, no; and how much of sorrow was yet to be crowded into those two years is my painful task to relate.

There were no more real battles after that of Bothwell Bridge, but only skirmishes, where a few on both sides met by accident or otherwise.

I will now leave off telling what happened throughout the country, and relate what more particularly concerned myself and my friends.

Steenie, as you may know from what I have said, was like the apple of my eye. I liked not to think the time might come when another would have a deeper hold on his affections; and I persuaded myself that this would never be. But, like it or not, it was all the same thing in the end. When Janet McAdam's father was shot, Steenie's heart went over to his orphan daughter with one great bound, and his sister was never to be the same to him as before. I always thought that his love for Janet was born of pity, for when the trouble came to her she stretched her hands imploringly towards heaven in helpless, hopeless agony; and that meek and mute appeal to the great and good God reached also a brave and loving human heart. But there was cause for admiration as well as pity, for hers was truly a sweet face to look upon. Her eyes closed slowly, and the long, dark, silken lashes fell on her pale cheek, while the sensitive quivering of the mouth showed her great effort to bear up bravely. Many times was it whispered then and there, "See the dear sweet lassie! See the dear smitten lamb!"

But whatever was the first cause of Steenie's love, it was deep and lasting. I did not know his feelings in regard to her till he told me himself. It was wrong, it was selfish, but I liked Janet less from that very moment. I regarded her as an intruder. I turned away with a stony look on my face and a weight at my heart. I did not look at Steenie, but I felt that his eyes were following me. I knew there was entreaty in them, but I would not listen to the voice within me, "You are wrong, Effie." He told me he had already made known to her his love; so there was nothing for me to do but submit to unkind fate, as I in my blindness thought. I had pictured Steenie always living with mother and me, with peace and plenty restored to us. I thought that together we would soothe the declining years of our aged parent; together we would read and walk, as in past days.

Steenie told me that I also was beloved. I gave him no reply. I did not then know that I could feel love beyond that which I cherished for my brother, and I thought he said this that I might grieve less for his companionship. I was offended, and for the first time in my life I parted from my brother with coldness.

Six months passed, during which we seldom met. At the end of that time Steenie was married. The ceremony was performed quietly, and even secretly, at Bessie McDougal's house.

I was still displeased, although I made a faint show of affection for my new sister; but it was so unreal that neither my mother nor Steenie were deceived by it. Janet, in her sweet trustfulness, accepted it. Mother told me I was unreasonable; but I said it was Steenie who was unreasonable—to marry when death stared him in the face; but certain it is that was not the cause of my opposition to the marriage.

Steenie was still obliged to remain in concealment most of the time. Robert McDougal and a few other brave men were with him. Sometimes they came down upon a stray party of the enemy to liberate one of their captive brethren; but oftener they were stationed at a little distance to warn and guard the people as they convened to worship God.

It was on a bonnie June morning in 1683 that we were thus convened and he was thus on duty. A spy communicated with the persecutors, and a troop of horse came in hot haste towards us. In less time than I can write it a bullet pierced Steenie, and he fell to the ground. The soldiers passed on to the open glade in which the meeting was held; but the people were scattered in every direction.

Regardless of danger, we, his friends, hurried to the spot. I was among the last to reach him. As I approached I heard him ask, "Where is Effie?" "I am come," I said, as I knelt beside him and kissed his brow, then pale and strange in his struggle with death. He looked affectionately at me, and seemed to wish for something. I put my arm around Janet, who was weeping over him, and drawing her closer to me I kissed her again and again. Then he smiled a faint, glad smile, and beckoned me to come nearer. I bent my ear to catch his words, which were becoming more indistinct. He spoke of Robert. "Do not turn away from my old and true friend," he whispered. Fainter and fainter were the words which came from the fast whitening lips, till every sound died away. A slight motion of the lips, and a scarcely perceptible heaving of the chest, and Steenie's soul took flight to that bonnie land where we well believe there is no more sorrow.

The agony of poor Janet was very great. Twice within one year had the dearest object of her earthly affections been ruthlessly slain. I looked at her, though I scarcely dared to do so. I saw that strong arms were supporting her; they were those of Robert McDougal. His face was very pale, but his voice was steady as he said, "One less with us, one more in heaven."

It is hard to give up our friends, even from a peaceful death-bed, when we can realise that God's hand alone rules; but to feel that our loved ones fall a prey to the anger of their oppressors—the innocent by the hand of the guilty—is a sore trial to the most trusting Christians. There are moments when the human nature within them cries out for redress, if not for vengeance. I felt as if my own heart would burst between sorrow for Janet and my anguish for the loss of Steenie.

We were bearing our dead from the fatal spot when, strange to say, I first thought of my mother, who was in our little home miles away. Poor mother, whose hair was whitened with age and her many afflictions, whose step was slow and feeble, whose grief had already been too deep for tears, how could I tell her! How could she bear this added sorrow! "God help her," I groaned.

"O Margaret," I said, for she was walking beside me, "how can we tell her these heavy tidings? You must tell her, for indeed I cannot."

"May God give me wisdom to break it to her gently," said Margaret.

Slowly and carefully she broke the sad news to our mother, who said not a word. Her face assumed a fixed, ghastly look. I feared the news would kill her. Soon her lips moved as if in prayer. Then I felt relieved; for was she not laying her burden at the feet of One who can sustain us in all our troubles?

We took the body of Steenie to Bessie McDougal's because it was Janet's home, and because we thought mother might be less affected by his death if she did not see him at first. She did not object to this arrangement; and she waited till evening before she asked to go and see him. Then, with more composure than I had anticipated, she made preparations to go to her son.

"I maun see my bairn now," she said. "I trow these auld limbs will not refuse to take me to him."

"Who shall go with you, mother?" I asked.

"Margaret," she replied; for Margaret had remained with us through the day.

I was not sorry that she was chosen, for she had great fortitude and presence of mind; and I felt that I could not endure any more heart-harrowing scenes that day.

But mother controlled herself in a wonderful manner, Margaret said. She spoke comforting words to Janet, telling her that our compassionate Lord would help her to bear her burdens and sorrows. When the question of burial came up for consideration, mother was quick to express her wish. "He maun sleep near his auld hame," she said. "None o' my dead lie where I can look on their graves."

So we made him a grave in a nook of our own plot of ground; for we could scarcely feel that even a grave was sacred in the eyes of our enemies. Close by the grave runs the little burn that aye sings its song of praise in summer-time. We could see the mound from our window, and for years every change about it was noted. "The grass is green on Steenie's grave now; and there are bonnie wee flowers amang it," mother would say; or in winter, "The snow lies fresh on Steenie's grave the morn." And after she was gone other eyes watched it. I can see it to-day from my window as I write; for I live here still, the only one left of our once happy family. But I am not alone here; and to tell who bides with me will lead me back to my story.