The persecution of our kirk lasted through the reigns of Charles II. and James II., a period of twenty-eight years. But the Lord gave us deliverance at last. James was driven from the throne in November, 1688, and liberty of conscience was proclaimed by his successor, King William.

It now remains for me to trace our way back to quiet industrial pursuits. This was no easy matter for us; for, setting aside the fact that sorrow had taken nearly all the heart out of us, it will be remembered that, while many of our neighbors had lost a son, a brother, or a father, we had lost nearly every male member of our family. And as for my nephew Jamie, his hands were full at home. How should we win our bread? It was a serious question; and for this cause we were glad to learn that Janet and her bairn were to be the sole heirs of Bessie McDougal. She had laid by a heavy purse of gold, the reward of long years of labor performed by herself and her husband. They had never a child but Robert, so they could well lay by; and by canny management she had contrived to save something from taxation and the troopers. Nor was she likely to use her savings in her old age, for no sooner was peace restored to the country than she again filled up her poultry-yard and bought cows, so that her butter, eggs, and fowls were sent to market as in the years before the troubles began.

But with us it was very different. My father had accumulated very little, having had five bairns to clothe, feed, and educate. During the troubles we had labored constantly and practised every species of economy, but our purse was now empty. I could spin and weave, and that I did both early and late. But I do not think I could have kept even with the world if Ellen had not realized how matters stood with us and gone to her own kinsfolk. This was no small relief to us, for it not only made one less to provide for, but also made it possible for us to rent a room to a worthy woman who, like ourselves, had lost all her supporters in the evil times.

It was also Bessie's pleasure to send us many things, among which I well remember a fine brood of chickens. I was glad of these for mother's sake. She attended to them very gladly. She loved to watch the bonnie wee things and see them grow. The care of them kept her from always thinking of the past, so that they were a benefit to us in more ways than one.

But mother's usual place was by the ingle. There she sat and knitted most of the day, and sometimes far into the night. There stood the stand upon which was her Bible, which she read frequently. Our life was free from disturbance; we gradually became accustomed to our lot, and even began to feel some small degree of comfort. There was, as it were, a faint misty light breaking over us. We began to notice the changes in nature. Morning and evening were not now as one to us. We greeted the coming of day with something of the old feeling; we were solemnized at nightfall, but no longer terrified. The Sabbath was now indeed a day of rest. We were no longer wandering over moor and glen, through summer's heat and winter's cold, to win our way to some remote place in order to hear the preached Word, or, when there was no preacher, to exhort and comfort one another; but we were gathered again in our own kirk, where we had all worshipped in our youth. On those peaceful Sabbaths I could forget the present and think gladly of our holy dead who had entered upon the never-ending Sabbath above.

Little by little much of the old glad life crept into the homes of our neighbors; but for myself I have known comparatively little of what the world calls happiness. I had scarcely passed childhood when my life was beclouded by the evil that pursued us until I reached middle age, at which time I was already longingly looking forward to death as a relief from life's sorrows and anxieties. Yet for my mother's sake, and for the dear ones that called me "Aunt Effie," I have aye prayed for strength to endure.

There is one sorrow that I have not told in earthly ears. I never speak of Robert. I visit his grave alone. Sometimes I find the birds singing joyously above it; and though their glad song jars a little on my ear, I ever bid them sing on, for their music makes his resting-place more cheerful. I planted seeds and roots of flowering-plants on the grave so as to make the place bonnier, and also that I might pluck the blossoms that grew above him and wear them near my heart; for though this regard for him came to me late in life, it was none the less real and tender.

At Steenie's grave it was different. Mother, Janet, and I often sat around it. Janet needed not to hide her sorrow. She could mourn her dead in the presence of his mother and sister without reserve.

I scarcely knew how I passed my time some days. My fingers drew out the threads and my foot turned the wheel, but my mind was often far away, recalling the words and deeds of our happy dead. I remembered the look and tone of each. I was again a child standing beside my sister, who patiently combed and plaited my hair; I was at father's knee with my book; I was being borne in the arms of Jamie or Richie; I was playing with Steenie at the burn, or I was thinking of what happened long afterwards—thoughts that I cannot write. From these memories I would be roused by my mother's gentle call, "Effie, the fire is low and it is nearly time for the evening meal."

Five years we two bided alone. Often, too often, we recounted our sorrows; but we aye took them to the Fountain-head of love and strength, and oftentimes we received "the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for heaviness." At the end of this time came a change.

Our dear old friend Bessie McDougal sickened. We often went to her, but we always found her wishes anticipated by the affectionate thoughtfulness and skilful hands of Janet. Indeed, she almost refused to share the care of the sick with any one. Not even after her own cheek grew pale with nightly watchings would she willingly give place to me. Bessie would sometimes tell her to rest herself; but as soon as Janet left the room the sick woman would weary for her.

At length the end drew near. Mother was summoned in haste to her death-bed. The dying woman commended Janet to our care with as much concern and tenderness as if she were delivering an only daughter to a stranger. She forgot in her earnestness that Janet and her child already belonged to us.

"She has been like a daughter to me," she said. "She was the light of my puir hame; she comforted me in my last sad bereavement, although her ain great sorrow was heavy upon her. Her wee slender hands have ministered to my comfort in mony ways; she has been eyes and feet to me; her faith has strengthened my faith; she is in very truth the handmaid of the Lord. My deein' pillow wouldna be easy if I thought she wouldna hae freends when I am awa."

"Bessie dear, good neighbor Bessie," said my mother, "do you no remember that Janet is as dear to us as to you? Do you forget that she was wife to my ain Steenie, and that I have loved her long and well?"

"Oh, ay; it is enough; and do thou forgie what my anxious heart garred me say. Noo I dee content. I shall soon be wi' David. I hae ne'er forgotten his message to me, that we s'ould meet, though we s'ould gang hame by different rauds. He meant we s'ould leave this warld in different ways. He didna mean that we s'ouldna a' walk in the straight and narrow way by faith in the Son of God: na, na, David didna mean that, for there is nae ither way. If we seek to climb up some ither way, we shallna enter in. Thank God, we are a' in the richt way but the bairn; and surely the God o' his faithers willna forsake the little ane left to his care."

When she felt that her last moments had come, she turned her eyes on Janet, saying feebly and brokenly, "Fare ye weel, my puir twice-smitten lamb. Dinna sorrow for me. Ye hae been a comfort to me; let that thought now comfort yoursel. Let the wee lad gie me a kiss."

Gradually her eyelids closed, and her lifeless form lay before us as if she had fallen into a peaceful slumber.

Janet and the bairn grieved for the good woman as it was meet they should, for she had been a good friend to them. I felt sad too; for since I had stood with her over the dead body of one who was dear to us both I had felt that she was more than a neighbor to me.

Janet no longer rented the place so long held by the McDougals. She came to us; and more of joy came with her and wee Steenie than I had ever thought would be our portion. The lad was growing up very like his father. I doubt not but mother and I would have spoiled him if Janet had not been as wise as she was good.