FLOWER O' THE HEATHER (continued 3)

"Here," she said, "drink some o' this."

I drank a long draught, and never have I tasted anything with savour so exquisite.

All too soon the cup was empty and the warmth of its contents sent a glow through my wasted body. I was about to ask where I was and how I had come there, when I remembered that I had another duty to perform. So, in a voice that shook from weakness and emotion, I said:

"I know not who you are, but you have saved my life, and I would thank you."

"Wheesht," she said. "You are far ower weak to talk yet. When you have had a guid nicht's sleep and a wee drap mair nourishment, it will be time enough. Haud yer wheesht the noo like a guid bairn and gang to sleep," and she drew the coverlet up round my neck and tucked it about me. Some old memory buried in the margin of my consciousness stirred within me. Just so had my mother tucked me to sleep many a time and oft, when I was a little lad, and the memory brought the tears to my eyes. I said nothing, for the will of the woman was stronger than mine at the moment, and I must needs obey it. I watched her place the bowl of flowers upon the stool: then, after smoothing my pillow, she went to the trap-door, passed through it and disappeared.

For a time I lay looking up at the straw roof. My eyes followed the black rafters that supported it, and I tried to count the knots in the beams: but the light which trickled through the window had begun to fade, and as I tried to count I fell asleep.

When I woke again it was dark, but a faint beam from the moon made a pool of silver on the coverlet that lay over me. I heard a voice in the room beneath me. I listened eagerly, but could not distinguish any words, and as I listened it dawned upon me that the voice was that of someone reading aloud. Then there was a pause: and in the silence that followed I heard a grating sound as though a chair were pushed a little, over a sandstone floor, and again the voice spoke. Then I knew that, in the kitchen beneath me the people under whose roof I rested were worshipping their God. I, a trooper and deserter, had been succoured by some of the moorland folk, and had found refuge in a Covenanter's cottage!

I lay and thought long of all that I owed to these hunted hill-folk. Twice had I, one of their persecutors, been succoured from death through their charity.

Some time soon after dawn I was wakened by sounds in the room beneath me. I heard a creak as though a hinge were moved, and the clank of a chain, and I knew that the good wife had swung her porridge-pot over the fire and was preparing breakfast for her family. The delicious aroma of slow-cooked porridge began to assail my nostrils and I was conscious that I was hungry.

I wondered if by any chance I should be forgotten; then I banished the uncharitable thought. By and by I heard the sound of footsteps in the kitchen and then a confused murmur of voices. I knew that the family had gathered to break their fast, and I waited with all the patience I could command. The minutes passed slowly and every moment my hunger grew more and more intolerable: but at last the time of waiting was over. I heard footsteps ascending the ladder to my garret. The trap-door was thrown open, the top of a head appeared, a hand reached up and placed a bowl on the floor, and the head disappeared once more. Then again I heard footsteps ascending the ladder, and this time the woman came into the room bearing a second bowl. She picked up the one she had laid upon the floor and came to my bedside.

"Ye've sleepit weel?" she said, inquiry in her voice. "Ye're lookin' somethin' like a man this mornin'. See, I ha'e brocht you your breakfast."

She laid her burden down, and clearing the bowl of flowers from the stool, placed a hand adroitly behind my pillow and propped me up. For a moment the room spun round me. Then she placed the bowl of porridge in my lap and poured a stream of milk over it, saying: "Can ye feed yersel', or maun I feed ye like a bairn?" She gave me a horn spoon, and with a shaky hand I fed myself. She sat watching me, but did not speak again till I had finished my meal.

"That's better," she said. "You'll soon be yersel' again. It's the prood woman I am. I never yet knew a man sae ill as you ha'e been pu' through. Man, but for the grace o' God and our Mary, the craws on the moor would ha'e picked yer banes white long ere noo."

Startled, I looked at her. She had said "Mary." Could it be that this Mary was the Mary of my dreams? I ventured to speak.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. But I do not know where I am nor how I came here. I remember nothing since I lay upon the moor, waiting for death."

"Weel," she said, "to make a long story short, ye're in the laft o' Andrew Paterson's fairm-hoose at Daldowie. Mary fand ye lyin' on the moor, in a kin' o' stupor. She got an awfu' fricht, puir lassie. First she thocht ye micht be ane o' the hill-fowk, and then she thocht ye had a kent face, and lookin' again, she minded that she had seen ye wi' the meenister at the field-meeting, the Sabbath afore. She saw ye were gey near deid, but she jaloused ye werena' quite, because ye kept muttering tae yoursel'. So she raced hame like a hare and wadna' rest till she had ta'en her faither oot to fin' ye. They carried ye here on the tail-board o' a cairt, and that's three weeks sin'; and here ye lie and here ye'll bide till ye're a weel man aince mair."

As the full meaning of her words dawned upon me, I was uplifted with joy. Mary had found me! She had known me! She had cared enough for me to think that I was worth saving! Her big heart had pitied my necessity, and to her I owed my life! A sudden access of strength ran through my being. The blood coursed in my veins; I felt it pulse in my temples. It must have brought a glow to my cheeks, for the woman said:

"Ye're better--a lot better the day. The parritch has put a bit o' colour in your cheeks."

I found my tongue. "Will you," I said, "please thank your husband and your daughter"--I had fain said Mary with my lips: I said it in my heart--"for what they have done for me. Later, I hope to thank them myself."

"Oh, aye," she said, "ye'll be seein' them later on when ye're better. But I'll tell them. Meantime, maybe the nicht, when his work's dune, the guid-man'll be comin' up to see ye himsel'. He's got a wheen questions he wants to ask ye. For instance, we're sairly troubled because you were wearin' the meenister's claes when Mary found ye, and in ane o' your pockets ye had the meenister's Bible. And though ane or twa o' the hill-fowk hae been up to look for the guid man in his hiding-place, naebody has seen him and we're mair than a wee troubled. We ken ye were a trooper, and though the meenister vouched for ye himsel' at the meeting, Andra says that ye canna make a blackfaced tup into a white ane by clippin' its 'oo', and we hope ye haena dune the guid man a mischief. To tell ye the truth, when we got ye here and found the meenister's claes on ye, my guid-man was for puttin' ye oot on the moor again and leavin' ye to dee. But Mary pleaded for ye, and I minded my aan lad, so we hid ye here and nursed ye."

She said no more, and before I could explain she had descended the ladder and shut the trap-door.

The day passed rapidly; I slept and woke and slept and woke again. The good woman came to me more than once with food, but she did not talk to me again nor would she let me talk to her.

"The morn is the Sabbath day. I ha'e nae doot Andra' will come up to see ye sometime, and ye can tell him your story then." That was her good night to me, and when she had descended I heard again, as on the previous evening, the sound of these devout folk at their evening prayer.

Then all was silent and I slept.

CHAPTER XVI

ANDREW PATERSON, HILL-MAN

The shrill crowing of a cock woke me, just as the first rays of the sun were stealing through the skylight. I lay adrowse, half sleeping, half awake, listening for the first sound of the house coming to life. The cock sounded his bugle again. Somewhere a hen cackled, and then all was still.

My eyes wandered round the garret. A mouse had stolen out of some cranny and was examining the room. He seemed unaware of my presence, for he sat solemnly in the middle of the floor with his tail curved like a sickle and proceeded to preen himself, till some unwitting movement of mine startled him and he scampered to his hole.

Slowly the minutes passed, then I heard movements in the kitchen beneath me. I knew that the day might be a difficult one for me, for sometime during its course I had to explain to the master of the house how I came to be disguised in the garb of the minister. My tale was a plain enough one, and I thought it would not be hard to clear myself of any suspicion of having had a hand in his death; but I could not be sure. Kind though my succourers had been, I knew that they were likely to be distrustful of one who had once been a trooper. The minister had been their friend, and it was but natural that they should feel his death keenly and be all too ready to suspect me of complicity in bringing it about. I determined to tell the tale simply, and I trusted that my words would carry conviction. If not, what then? I knew the fanatic spirit with which the hill-folk were sometimes charged. Would the master of the house, in his wrath, lay hands upon me and wring the life from my body? The evil, uncharitable thought was crushed down. They had shown me such love in the hours of my weakness that they were hardly likely to sacrifice me to their suspicions now.

As I pondered, the trap-door was raised, and, bearing my breakfast, the master of the house entered the garret. "Hoo are ye the day?" he asked.

"Better, I thank you, much better;--I owe my life to you and yours;--I shall never be able to repay you."

He set the food upon the stool before he answered. "Ye're gey gleg wi' your tongue. Naebody was talkin' aboot payin'. Haud your wheesht, and sup your parritch. I jalouse ye need them. Later on I'll be comin' up for a crack. There's a wheen things that are no' clear in my min'. The thing lies here: hoo did ye come by the minister's claes and his Bible?" and he looked at me with a steely glance, that, had I not been guiltless, would have covered me with confusion.

"I am ready," I said, "to tell you the whole story as soon as you are ready to listen."

"Weel," he answered, "I'm comin' back sune," and he went to the trap-door and descended, closing it behind him.

I made a hearty meal and was pleased to discover my strength was coming back to me. When I had finished I must have dropped into a sleep, from which I was wakened by hearing footsteps in the room once more. The man had returned, and under his arm he was carrying a bundle of heather, while in his hand there was a mass of wool. He knelt beside my bed and, turning up the blankets, said:

"Afore we begin to talk I think I'd better see aboot this leg o' yours."

He undid the bandages, and looking down I saw that beneath them the ankle had been carefully padded with wool and heather. I knew now the purpose of the things he had brought with him, for he stripped off the pad with which the ankle was surrounded and began to make a fresh one. Apparently he had some knowledge of the healing art. He ran his fingers gently over the joint and then bade me try to move the foot. I found that movement was difficult, but that though it was painful it did not provoke such suffering as that which I remembered having experienced upon the moor.

"It's daein' fine," he said. "It was a bad break, but by and by ye'll be able to walk again, though I fear ye'll aye be a lamiter. But Jacob himsel'--a better man than you--hirpled for the maist pairt o' his life."

As he talked he was binding my foot again, and when he had finished, it felt most comfortable.

"And noo," he said, "let me hear what ye ha'e to say for yersel'. The facts are black against ye. We fand you on the moor in the meenister's claes: ye had the guid man's Bible in your pocket: when last he was seen you were in his company: and nocht has been heard o' him frae that day to this. What say ye?" and he looked at me piercingly.

Without more ado I told him how the brave old saint had given his life that mine might be saved, and how I had buried his body in the silence of the hills, taking his clothes to disguise myself and bringing away his Bible as a precious possession.

As I talked I watched the changing emotions chase each other across his face. At first his eyes were watchful with suspicion, but as I continued he seemed thrilled with a tensity of expectation, and when I told him how the end had come with the rattle of muskets I saw his strong, gnarled hands clench, and, through his tightened lips, he muttered, "The black deevils," and then the tears stole down his weather-beaten cheeks.

When I had finished there was a silence which at last he broke:

"A man o' God, a saint if ever there was ane. We'll miss him sairly here I'm thinkin', but they will be glad to ha'e him on the other side." Then he rose from the stool and gripping my right hand, crushed it in his own. "I believe you, my lad, I believe you, and if Alexander Main counted you worthy to die for, Andrew Paterson o' Daldowie may count you worthy o' a share of his kail and saut. I maun gang and tell the wife; her and Mary are anxious to ken the truth": and he made for the trap-door and began to go down. But just before his head disappeared he turned and called: "Maybe I'll come back the day to see ye again, but if I dinna', the wife'll be up to look after ye, and if I'm spared I'll be up masel' the morn. This is nae day to talk aboot the dambrod. I'll speir ye aboot it some ither time."

CHAPTER XVII

AN ADOPTED SON

It is needless to trace day by day the events of the next fortnight. Each morning found me with increasing strength. The good wife of the house was continually solicitous for my welfare, and had I been son of hers she could not have bestowed more care upon me. She took a pride in every sign of returning strength. Daily she brought me shreds of family gossip; news of the crops; news of the cattle; told me, with housewifely pride, how many chickens had come from her last sitting of eggs.

More than once, in our talk, I tried to turn the conversation to Mary; but never with much success. Shyness kept me from advances too direct. Sometimes she would tell me of the hill-men; and once she told me, with pride flashing in her eyes, of her son.

"He died," she said, "at Drumclog. It was a short, sharp fecht, and the dragoons reeled and fled before the Bonnets o' Blue. My laddie was sair wounded, and died in the arms o' guid Maister Main. His last words were: 'Tell my mither no' to greet. It's been a graun' fecht, and oor side's winnin'.'" There were no tears in her eyes as she told me the tale, but when she had finished she laid a hand upon my head and gently stroked my hair. "He was sic' anither as you, when he fell," and she turned and left me. Of an evening the farmer would sometimes come up, bringing with him a dambrod, and many a well-fought game we had together. He played skilfully and usually won, which gave him considerable satisfaction.

"Ye canna' beat Daldowie on the dambrod," he would say, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Scotland owes little enough to Mary Stuart, the Jezebel, but she or some o' her following brocht this game wi' them, and that is something they'll be able to say for themselves on the Judgment Day. They'll mak' a puir enough show that day, or I'm mistaken, but the dambrod will coont on their side."

When we had played for a week, and Saturday night came, he brought up a slate with a record of the score.

"It's like this, ye see," he said. "We've played a score and half o' games. I ha'e won a score and seven, and you won three--which ye shouldna' ha'e done ava' if I had opened richt and no foozled some o' the moves wi' my king. So ye're weel bate, and it's as weel for you that I dinna' believe in playin' for money, or it is a ruined lad ye'd be the nicht."

There was a gleam of satisfaction in his grey eyes, and I could see that to have beaten me so soundly had given him great pleasure.

"We'll no play the nicht; it's gettin' ower near the Sabbath," he continued, "but I'll bate ye even better next week."

I should have been lacking in gratitude if I had not begun to develop a warm affection for my friends. Simple folks, their joys were simple ones, but they were both filled with the zest of life; and in spite of the daily peril in which they lived, sunshine, rather than clouds, seemed to overhang their dwelling.

There came a day when, after examining my ankle with care, the old man said: "I think we micht try to get ye on your legs," and he raised me in his arms and set me on my feet. The garret spun round me, and the floor rose like the billows of the sea and would have swept me down had it not been for his strong arm.

"Steady lad, steady," he said. "Ye'll fin' your feet in a wee. Just shut your een for a minute and then open them again. I'll haud ye fast; dinna' be feart!"

I did as he bade me and found that the floor had become steady again; then, supported by his arm, I essayed to walk. To my joy I discovered that, though the effort cost me pain, I was able to walk from one end of the room to the other. The old man was delighted.

"Jean," he cried, "come awa' up to the laft. Bryden can walk," and I saw the trap-door rise to admit her.

She stood with her hands on her hips: "It bates a'," she said. "The nicht ye cam' I never thocht to see you on your legs again, but ha'e a care, Andra, the lad's weak yet; help him back intil his bed and I'll fetch him a bowl o' sheep's-heid broth for his supper."

And when I was comfortably settled once more, she was as good as her word.

Next day she brought me a strong ash stick, and with its help and the aid of her arm I was able to walk round the loft in some comfort.

Day by day my strength grew and I began to look forward to the hour when I should be able to join my friends in the kitchen below, when I hoped to see Mary face to face. It may have been nothing more than a coincidence--though, as I listened eagerly, I flattered myself it might be for joy that I was so far recovered--that on the night I first began to walk again, I heard Mary singing a song.

As the hour drew nearer when I should meet her, I began to be covered with confusion. How would she receive me?

At last the great day came. In the late afternoon Andrew brought me a suit of clothes.

"The wife sent ye them," he said. "She thocht they were nearer your size than the meenister's," and he laid them on the stool beside my bed and turned his back upon me: then brushing a sleeve across his eyes, he said: "I'm thinkin' it cost Jean a lot to tak' them oot o' the drawer; ye see they were Dauvit's."

Had I needed any proof of the love they bore me, I had it now. I was to enter the circle round their hearth clad in the garments of their dead son. I had learned enough of the quiet reserve of these hill-folks to know that any words of mine would have been unseemly, so I held my peace, and with the help of the good man put the garments on. Then leaning on my stick and aided by his strong arm I walked to the trap-door. Slowly I made my way down the ladder, guided at every step by Andrew who had preceded me, and by and by my feet touched the flagged floor of the kitchen. The old woman hurried to my side, and between them they guided me to a large rush-bottomed chair set in the ingle-nook beside the fire.

"Nae sae bad, nae sae bad," said the good wife. She looked at me when I was seated and with a sudden "Eh, my!" she turned and shoo'd with her apron a hen that had wandered into the kitchen.

Eagerly I looked round, but there was no sign of Mary. The peat smoke which circled in acrid coils round the room stung my eyes and blurred my vision, but I was able to take note of the things around me. The kitchen was sparsely furnished and scrupulously clean. Against one wall stood a dresser with a row of china bowls, and above them a number of pewter plates. A "wag-at-the-wa'" ticked in a corner near. A settle stood on the other side of the peat fire from that on which I was seated, and a table, with well-scoured top, occupied the middle of the floor.

The good man having satisfied himself that I was all right, went out, and his wife, taking a bowl from the dresser, filled it with water. I watched her as she proceeded with her baking. As she busied herself she talked briskly.

"Ye ken," she said, "you ha'e been under this roof weel ower a month, and yet ye've never tellt us a word aboot yersel', mair than we fand oot. Hae ye got a mither o' your ain, and hoo did you, an Englishman, fin' yer way to this pairt o' the country? Weel I ken that, ever since Scotland gi'ed ye a king, Scotsmen ha'e been fond o' crossin' the border, but I never heard tell o' an Englishman afore that left his ain country to come North, unless," she added, with a twinkle in her eye, "he cam' as a prisoner."

It was an invitation to unbosom myself, of which I was ready enough to avail me, and I told her some of my story. "So ye're College bred," she said. "That accounts for your nice ceevility.

"They tell me," she continued, "that England's a terrible rich country, that the soil is far kindlier than it is up here and that farmer bodies haena' sic' a struggle as we ha'e in Scotland." She did not wait for my reply, but added: "I am thinkin' maybe that is why, as I ha'e heard, the English ha'e na' muckle backbane, and are readier to listen to sic' trash as the Divine Richt o' Kings."

I tried to explain to her that it was the strain of monarchs whom we had imported from Scotland who laid most stress upon this right, but, as I talked, a shadow filled the doorway, and, looking up, I saw Mary. With a struggle I raised myself to my feet.

"Sit doon, sit doon," said the good-wife, "it's only oor Mary."

"You forget," I answered, "it is to your daughter, who found me, that I owe my life. By rights I should kneel at her feet."

"Hear to him! If it hadna' been for Mary's mither and the wey she looked efter ye and fed ye wi' chicken soup and sheep's-heid broth, forby parritch and buttermilk and guid brose made by her ain hand, ye wadna' be sittin' there!"

"Wheesht, mither, wheesht," said Mary: and with a smile in her eyes that made me think of the stars of the morning in a rose tinged sky, she held out both her hands to me. I took them and bent to kiss them, but they were hastily withdrawn, and looking up I saw a flush upon her cheeks, but I did not read resentment in her eyes.

"Ha'e ye fetched in the kye, Mary?" asked her mother.

"Aye," she replied, "they're a' in their stalls."

Indeed, one could hear the rattle of chains and the moving of hoofs on the other side of the wall.

"Weel, ye'd better start the milkin'. I'll be oot in a wee to help ye," and without a word more Mary took her departure. My ears were all alert, and, in a moment, I heard her slapping the flank of a cow. Then her stool grated on the cobbles, and I caught the musical tinkle of the milk as it was drawn into the pail; and to my delight Mary began to sing.

I listened eagerly. She was singing a love song! The old woman heard her too, for she said: "Dae ye ken ocht aboot kye?" I hastened to tell her that I knew nothing. "Weel," she said, "it's a queer thing, but ye can aye get mair milk frae a coo if ye sing at the milkin'. If ye sing a nice bricht tune ye'll get twa or three mair gills than if ye dinna sing ava. Noo, that's Meg she's milkin', and Meg has got near as muckle sense as a human being. On Sabbath, ye ken, it would be a terrible sin to sing a sang to the coo when ye're milkin' her, so I've got to fa' back on the psalms. But ye've got to be carefu'. For instance, if ye sang the 'Auld Hundred' to Meg, ye wadna' get near sae muckle milk, because it's solemn-like, than ye wad if ye sang her a psalm that runs to the tune o' 'French.' Forby, I aince had a servant-lass that sang a paraphrase when she was milkin' Meg, and the puir cratur' was that upset that she was milked dry before the luggy was a quarter filled, and when I went masel' to strip her, she put her fit in the pail--a thing I've never kent her dae afore or since."

I laughed.

"Ay," she continued, "an' waur than that, the lass poured the luggy that she had drawn frae Meg among the other milk, and the whole lot turned. Sic' wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure that nae paraphrase has ever been sung in my byre since. The guid man was that upset--no' wi' the loss o' the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase had been sung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath day that on the Monday he gi'ed the wench notice."

"I should have thought," I said, "that Mary's voice would persuade the milk from the most reluctant cow."

"I dinna' ken aboot that," she answered: "She's no as guid a milker as her mother, and though my voice is timmer noo I'll guarantee to get mair milk at a milkin' than ever Mary'll fetch ben the hoose."

I would fain have continued the conversation, but the baking was over, and the good woman left to join her daughter. Mary still sang on and I sat in rapture, my heart aglow.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE WISDOM OF A WOMAN

I saw no more of Mary that day, for ere the milking was over Andrew returned from the fields and after studying me for a moment said: "I think it's time for your bed." Whereat he helped me carefully up the ladder, and left me to disrobe myself. That night, when the moon came out and filled my room with a glory that was not of this earth, I lay and dreamed of Mary, and through the silence of my dream I could hear once again the witching notes of her song.

Day after day I was gently assisted down the ladder, and each day I spent a longer time sitting by the peat fire. Most often my only companion in the kitchen was the good wife, and between us an intimate understanding began to spring up. I felt she liked to have me sitting there, and more than once she would look wistfully at me, and I knew from the sigh with which she turned again to her work that she was thinking of her dead boy.

Her face was attractive, though time had chiselled it deeply--and her eyes were shrewd and kindly. In repose her features were overcast by a mask of solemnity, but at each angle of her mouth a dimple lurked, and a ready smile, which started there or in her eyes, was perpetually chasing away all the sterner lines.

Mary came and went, busy at times on duties about the steading, sometimes on duties further afield, and more than once she set off laden with a well-filled basket and I knew that she was taking succour to some fugitive hill-man hidden on the moors. Always she treated me with kindness--with those innumerable and inexpressible little kindnesses that mean nothing to most people, but which to one in love are as drops of nectar on a parched tongue. Sometimes she would bring me flowers which she had gathered on the moor; and proud I was when on a day she fastened a sprig of heather in my coat.

Sometimes of a night the dambrod was brought out and the old man would beat me soundly once again.

But an evening came when he had no heart to play. He had been moody all day long, and when I suggested a game he said with a groan: "No' the nicht! no' the nicht! I ha'e mair serious things in mind."

I was at a loss to understand his reluctance, for hitherto he had always been eager for a game, but when I began to urge him to play, his wife interrupted me saying:

"Na, na, leave the man alane. If ye want to play, ye can play wi' Mary."

I needed no second invitation, nor did the suggestion seem unwelcome to Mary, who brought the board and the men and set them upon the table. Hers were the white men, mine the black: but after the first move or two the grace of her hand as it poised above the board cast such a spell over me that I began to play with little skill, and she was an easy victor. We played several games, all of which she won: and the only sound that disturbed our tourney was the tinkle of her laugh when she cornered me, or the click of her mother's needles as she knitted in the ingle-nook. But every now and then the old man groaned as though he were in great distress, and looking at him I saw that his head was buried in his hands.

When our tourney was over Mary gathered up the men and restored them to a drawer, and as she did so she turned to her mother and said:

"Oh, mother, you ha'e never given the minister's Bible and his flute back to the gentleman."

"Nae mair I ha'e," said her mother. "Fetch them here," and Mary brought them to her. She took the Bible and handed it to me. It opened at the blood-stained page. Mary had come behind my chair; I was conscious that she was leaning over me. I could feel her hair touch my face, and then when she saw the stain a hot tear fell and struck my hand. I lifted my face towards her, but she had turned away. Without a word I handed the open book to her mother.

"Eh, dear, the bluid o' a saint," she said, and she closed the book reverently and gave it back to me.

The silence was broken by the good man. "Ay, the bluid o' a saint," he groaned--"ane o' the elect."

And that night for the first time I was present at the "taking o' the Book." Evening after evening as I had lain in the garret, I had heard these good folk at their worship. To-night I was permitted to take part in the rite, and though I have worshipped in the beautiful churches of Oxford and the storied Cathedrals of my own native land, I was never more conscious of the presence of God than in that little farm kitchen on the Galloway moors.

One afternoon as I sat watching the good wife at her baking, I asked her how it was that her husband and she had succeeded in escaping the attentions of the troopers.

"Oh," she said, "we ha'ena' escaped. Lag often gi'es us a ca', but there's a kin' o' understandin' between him and me. It's this way, ye see; before she got married my mother was a sewing-maid to his mother, and when my faither deid and she was left ill-provided, and wi' me to think o', she went back to Mistress Grierson and tellt her her trouble. Weel, Mrs. Grierson liked my mother and she took her back, and she said: 'Mrs. Kilpatrick,' says she, 'if you will come back, you can bring wee Jean wi' ye. What a bairn picks will never be missed in a hoose like this, and the lassie can play wi' my Robert. Ye see he has neither brither nor sister o' his ain, and is like to be lonely, and your lassie, bein' six or seeven years aulder than him, will be able to keep him oot o' mischief.'

"And so it cam' aboot, and for maybe eight years I was as guid as a sister to him. But he was aye a thrawn wee deevil--kind-hearted at times, but wi' an awfu' temper. Ye see his mother spoiled him. Even as a laddie he was fond o' his ain way, and he was cruel then tae. I min' weel hoo he set his dog on my white kittlin, but I let him ken aboot it, because when the wee thing was safe in the kitchen again I took him by the hair o' the held and pu'd oot a guid handfu'. My mither skelped me weel, but it was naething to the skelpin' I gie'd him the first chance I got. His mother never correkit him; it was 'puir Rob this, and puir Rob that,' and if it hadna' been that every noo and then, when my mither's patience was fair worn oot, she laid him ower her knee, I'm thinkin' Lag would be a waur man the day than he gets the blame o' bein'. There's guid in him; I'm sure o't, for even the de'il himsel' is no' as black as he's painted: but his heid has been fair turned since the King sent for him to London and knighted him wi' his ain sword.

"I bided in his mother's hoose till I was maybe seventeen years auld, and then my mither got mairrit again and left Dunscore to come and live near Dairy. Weel, I had never seen Lag frae that day till maybe a year sin', when the troopers began to ride through and through this country-side. Ae day I was oot-bye at the kirn when I heard the soond o' horses comin' up the loanin', and turnin', I saw Lag ridin' at the heid o' a company o' armed men. There was a scowl on his face, and when I saw him and minded the ill wark that I heard he had done in ither pairts, I was gey feart. He shouted an order to his troop and they a' drew rein. Then he cam' forrit tae me. 'Woman,' he said, 'Where's yer man?'

"'Fegs," says I, 'Rab Grier, that's no' a very ceevil way to address an auld frien'. Woman indeed! I am Mistress Paterson that was Jean Kilpatrick, that has played wi' ye mony a day in yer mither's hoose at Dunscore.' 'Guid sakes,' he cried, vaultin' oot o' his saddle, 'Jean Kilpatrick! This beats a'.' And he pu'd aff his ridin' gloves and held oot his hand to me. Then he shouted for ane o' his troopers to come and tak' his horse, and in he walks to the kitchen. Weel, we cracked and cracked, and I minded him o' mony o' the ploys we had when we were weans thegither.

"Syne, Mary cam' in wi' a face as white as a sheet. She had seen the troopers, and was awfu' feart: but I saw her comin' and I said: 'Mary lass, tak' a bowl and fetch my auld frien' Sir Robert Grier a drink o' buttermilk.' And that gie'd the lassie courage, for she took the bowl and went oot-bye to the kirn, and in a minute she cam' back wi' the buttermilk; so I set cakes and butter afore him and fed him weel, and as he ate he said: 'Ay, Jean, ye're as guid a baker as your mither. D'ye mind how you and me used to watch her at the bakin' in the old kitchen at Dunscore, and how she used to gie us the wee bits she cut off when she was trimming the cake, and let us put them on the girdle ourselves?' And as he talked he got quite saft-like and the scowl went aff his face a' thegither.

"Then he began to tak' notice o' Mary. 'So this is your dochter,' he said. He looked her up and doon: 'I see she favours her mither, but I'm thinkin' she's better lookin' than you were, Jean. Come here, my pretty doo!' he says, and as Mary went towards him I could see she was a' o' a tremble. He rose frae his chair an' put his arm roon' her shoulder and made as though to kiss her. Wed, I could see Mary shrinkin' frae his touch, and the next minute she had gie'd him a lood skelp on the side o' his face wi' her haun, and wi' her chin in the air, walked oot o' the door. I looked at Lag. There was anger on his broo, but he pu'd himsel' thegither and dropped back in his chair, sayin': 'Jean, ye've brocht her up badly. That's puir hospitality to a guest.' 'Weel, Rob,' says I, 'the lassie's no' to blame. It maun rin in her blood, for mony a guid skelpin' my mither has gi'en ye,--I ha'e skelped ye masel', and noo ye've been skelped by the third generation.' Whereat he let a roar o' laughter oot o' his heid that shook the hams hangin' frae the baulks. And that set his memory going, and he said, 'D'ye mind the day I set my dog on your kitten, and you pu'd a handfu' o' hair oot o' my heid?' and he took his hat off, saying, 'I am thinkin' that is the first place on my pow that is going bald.' 'Ay,' says I, 'weel I mind it, and the lickin' I got.' 'Yes,' says he, laughin', 'but ye paid me back double.' And he roared wi' laughter again.

"We were crackin' as crouse as twa auld cronies, when he said: 'And noo, Jean, a word in yer lug. I had nae thocht when I cam' up here I was gaun to meet an auld frien'. I cam' to ask you and your man, will ye tak' the Test. But I am no' gaun to ask the question o' ye. For the sake o' the auld days, this hoose and they that live in it are safe, so far as Robert Grierson o' Lag is concerned. But that is between you and me. Dinna be lettin' your man or your dochter, the wee besom, consort wi' the hill-men. The times are stern, and the King maun be obeyed. But ye can trust me that I will not do your hoose a mischief. Whaur's your guid man?' 'He's oot on the hills wi' the sheep,' says I, 'but he will be back before lang,' and I went to the door to look, and there he was comin' doon the brae face. He had seen the troopers and I'm tellin' ye he was gey scared. I waved to him to hurry, and he, thinkin' that I was in danger, cam' rinning. 'Come awa ben the hoose,' says I. 'There's an auld frien' o' mine come to see us,' and I brocht him in, and presented him to Lag.

"Lag was gey ceevil to him, and said naething aboot oaths or tests, but talked aboot sheep and kye, and syne said: 'And noo I'll ha'e to be awa'. I will tak' anither sup o' your buttermilk, Jean,' and then he shook me by the haun' and would ha'e shaken Andra's tae, but Andra wadna tak' a haun' that was stained wi' innocent blood. It was an affront to Lag, but a man like that aye respects anither man wi' courage, and he walked oot o' the door. He sprang into the saddle and the troop formed up and clattered doon the loanin', and the last I saw o' Lag he had turned his heid and was wavin' his haun as he gaed roond the corner at the brae-fit."

"And what of Mary," I said. "What was she doing in the meantime?"

Her mother laughed. "We looked high and low for her and at last we found her in a hidie-hole in the haystack, greetin' like a wean. She had made up her mind, puir lassie, that Lag would shoot baith her faither and me, because she had boxed his lugs."

"And have you had no trouble since?" I asked, for I knew that the promise given by Lag would be binding on none but himself, and should a troop Captain like Winram or Claver'se come to Daldowie, disaster might fall on the household.

"Oh, ay," she said, "we've seen Lag mair than aince since then. He was here twa or three weeks sin' when you were lyin' up in the laft, and he asked aboot you. He speired whether we had seen ocht o' a young man in a trooper's uniform wanderin' aboot the moors. Ye were up in the laft sleepin' as cosy as a mowdie, but I telt him I'd seen nae young man in ony trooper's uniform. I wasna fule enough to tell him that I'd seen a trooper in the meenister's claes. 'Weel,' he said, 'should ye see sic an ane, dinna forget there's a price upon his heid. He is a deserter, and Rab Grier mak's short work o' deserters.'

"So, ye see, so far as Lag's concerned, Daldowie's safe enough. But Andra, puir stubborn buddy, is no' sure o' the richts o't. He is a queer man, Andra, and like lots mair o' the hill-men he wad sooner wear the martyr's crown than his ain guid bannet. But I'm no' made that way. I find the world no' a bad place ava, and I'm content to wait in it till it pleases the Almichty to send for me: and I'm no' forcin' His haun by rinnin' masel' into danger when a bowl o' buttermilk and a farle o' oatcake serves wi' a jocose word to mak' a frien' o' ane that micht be a bitter enemy. That was a wise word o' Solomon's--maybe he learned it frae ane o' his wives--'Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.' Even Andra daur'na say that Jean Paterson, his wife, is a fule."

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAKING OF A DAISY CHAIN

A day came when at last I was considered strong enough to venture out-of-doors, and on that day, to my joy, I had Mary for a companion. Lending me the support of her arm, she guided me to a grassy hillock beside a little stream that ran down the face of the brae. Many a time I had dreamed of this moment when I should be alone with her--but now that it was come I found myself bereft of words. Apparently, she did not notice my silence but talked merrily as she sat down beside me. Yet, though my tongue was holden so that I could not speak, the scales had fallen from my vision and Mary looked more beautiful than ever. I looked into her eyes and for the first time saw the secret of their loveliness. They were brown as a moorland stream--but a moorland stream may be a thing of gloom, and in her eyes there was nothing but glory. I saw the secret. The rich, deep brown was flecked with little points of lighter hue, as though some golden shaft of sunlight had been caught and held prisoner there, and when she smiled the sleeping sunshine woke and danced like a lambent flame.

Daisies were springing all round us, and as she talked she began to weave a chain. The play of her nimble fingers as she threaded the star-like flowers captivated me. I offered my clumsy aid, and she laughed merrily at my efforts; but every now and then our hands touched, and I was well content.

When the Chain was completed I doubled it, and said: "Now, Mary, the crown is ready for the Queen."

She bent her head towards me playfully and I placed the daisies on her glistening hair, nor could I resist the temptation of taking that dear head of hers between my hands, making as my excuse the need to set the garland fair.

"Ay," she said, "I am thinkin' it is no' the first time that you ha'e done this. Tell me aboot the English lassies. Are they bonnie?"

"I know very little about them," I replied, and she, with twinkling eyes, returned:

"Ye dinna expect me to believe that, dae ye?"

With mock solemnity I laid my hand upon my heart and swore I spoke the truth, but she only laughed.

"Tell me," she said, "are they bonnie? I've heard tell they are."

"Well, Mary," I answered, "there may be bonnie lassies in England, but I've seen far bonnier ones in Scotland."

She plucked a daisy and held its yellow heart against her chin. "Oh ay," she said, "I've heard that the Wigtown lassies are gey weel-faured. Nae doot, when ye were a sodger there, ye had a sweetheart."

"No," I said, "I had no sweetheart in Wigtown, although I saw a very bonnie lass there."

"I knew it, I knew it," she cried. "And maybe ye helped her to make a daisy chain?"

"No, Mary," I said, "I never had a chance. I saw her only for an hour."

"But ye loved her?" and she looked at me quickly.

"No," I answered, "I had no right to love her. If I had loved her I should have tried to save her. She's dead now, but I do not think I can ever forget her."

"Oh," she said, "then you canna forget her. You're never likely to love anither lassie? But ye speak in riddles. Wha was she? Tell me."

It was a hard thing to do, but there was nothing for it. So I told her the story of Margaret Wilson. She listened breathlessly with mounting colour. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat with awe and pity gathering in her face.

When I had finished she turned from me in silence and looked into the distance. Then she sprang to her feet and faced me, with glowing eyes.

"And you were there! You!" she cried. "You helped the murderers! O God! I wish I had left you on the moor to die!"

This was my condemnation: this my punishment; that this sweet girl should turn from me in horror, hating me. I bent my head in shame.

She stood above me, and when I dared to lift my eyes I saw that her hands, which she had clasped, were trembling.

"Mary," I murmured, and at my voice she started as though my lips polluted her name, "Mary--you cannot know the agony I have suffered for what I did, nor how remorse has bitten into my heart torturing me night and day. It was for that I became a deserter."

"You deserted, and put yoursel' in danger o' death because you were sorry," she said slowly, as though weighing each word.

"Yes," I answered, "that is why I deserted," and I looked into her eyes, from which the anger had faded.

"I'm sorry I was so hasty. I didna mean to be cruel. Forget what I said. I meant it at the meenute, but I dinna mean it noo," and she held out both her hands impulsively. I clasped them, and drew her down beside me again, and she did not resist. For a moment or two she sat in silence pulling at the blades of grass around her. Then she laid a hand upon my arm, and said quietly:

"Tell me aboot her again. Was she really very bonnie?"

"Yes," I replied, "very bonnie."

"The bonniest lassie you ever saw?"

"Yes, the bonniest lassie I had ever seen till then."

"Oh," she exclaimed, "then you've seen a bonnier? And where did ye see her?"

A woman versed in the wiles of her sex would not have thrown the glove down so artlessly. Unwittingly she had challenged me to declare my love--and I was sorely tempted to do so: but I hesitated. A riper moment would come, so I answered simply:

"Yes, I have seen a bonnier lassie among the hills."

"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at me questioningly, "and what was she daein' there?"

I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little Mistress Curiosity, do not ask too much."

She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it with the other as though to rid it of some defilement. I fear the taunting name had given her umbrage.

"I think you are a licht-o'-love," she said.

"Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn. "What right have you to say such a thing?"

"Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha'e me think. Ye lo'ed Margaret Wilson: ye tell me ye've seen a bonnier lass amang the hills, and when I found you on the moors you were repeatin' a lassie's name ower an' ower again--and her name wasna Margaret."

"I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I exclaimed dubiously.

"Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye wadna be here the day. It was that made me tak' peety on you. I was sorry for the lassie, whaever she micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o' my ain I should like him to be croonin' ower my name, as you were daein' hers. So I ran hame an' fetched faither, an' we cairried ye to Daldowie."

"And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked, looking at her eagerly.

"Oh I ye kept sayin'--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a kind o' lament."

My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins. "It was your name, Mary--yours--and none other. There is no other Mary in my life."

She looked at me in amazement--her eyes alight. "Surely ye dinna expect me to believe that? You'd only seen me aince--and hardly spoken to me. It couldna be me ye meant."

I made both her hands captive. "Mary, it was. I swear it."

She drew her hands sharply away: "Then you had nae richt tae tak' sic' a liberty. Ye hardly kent me,"--and she sprang up. "I maun fetch the kye," she cried as she hastened off.

I watched her drive them in; then she came for me and led me carefully back to the house. It seemed to me that there was some message tingling from her heart to mine through the arm with which she supported me--but she spoke no word.

As we drew near the door, her mother came out to meet us and catching sight of the forgotten chaplet, exclaimed: "Mary, whatever are ye daein' wi' a string o' daisies in your hair? Ye look like a play-actress."

Laughingly Mary removed the wreath. "It was only a bairn's ploy," she said; then to my great cheer, she slipped the flowers into her bosom.

"Come awa' in," said Jean: and she assisted me to my place by the fire.

An adventurous hen with a brood of chickens--little fluffy balls of gold and snow--had followed us, and with noisy duckings from the mother, the little creatures pecked and picked from the floor. Jean clapped her hands at them: "Shoo! ye wee Covenanters!" she cried.

I laughed, as I said, "Why do you call them Covenanters?"

"Weel," she replied, "I often think that chickens and the hill-men ha'e muckle in common. Ye see maist Covenanters tak' life awfu' seriously. They ha'e few pleasures frae the minute they come into the world. A kitten will lie in the sun playin' wi' a bit o' 'oo', and a wee bit puppy will chase its tail for half an hour on end: but wha ever saw a chicken playin'? They dinna ken the way. It's scrape, scrape, pick, pick, frae the day they crack the shell till the day their necks are wrung. And your Covenanter's muckle the same. He's so borne doon wi' the wecht o' life that he has nae time for its joys. They're guid men, I'm no' denyin', but I sometimes think they've got queer notions of God. They fear God, and some o' them are feart o' Him. There's a difference--a big difference. I aye like to think o' the Almichty as a kind-hearted Father: but to hear some even o' the best o' the hill-men talk o' Him, ye micht weel think He was a roarin' fury chasin' weans oot frae amang the young corn wi' a big stick. But there are others. Now godly Samuel Rutherford and your frien' Alexander Main were brimfu' o' the joy o' life. They kent the secret; and it warmed their hearts and made them what they were. I like to think o' the love of God spread ower the whole earth like a May mist on the moors--something that is warm, that has the dew in it and that comes wi' refreshment to puir and lowly things.

"I was brocht up on the Catechism--strong meat and halesome--but it seems to me that noo and then we lose our sense o' the richts o' things. Now there's Andra; he believes that the Catechism hauds a' the wisdom o' man aboot God; and it is a wise book; but to my way o' thinkin', God is far bigger than the Catechism, and some o' us haena learned that yet. Ye canna shut God in a man-made book that ye can buy for tippence."

I laughed as I said: "Mistress Paterson, you interest me greatly, but I fear that some of the things you say to me would shock the good men of the flock."

She laughed heartily as she replied: "Fine I ken that. Ye maunna' say a word o' this to Andra, for if he heard tell o' what I ha'e been sayin', he would be prayin' for me like a lost sheep every nicht when he tak's the Book, and it would be a sair affront for the guid-wife o' the hoose to be prayed for alood by her ain man, afore strangers."

I laughed. "You may trust me," I said, and she continued:

"I ha'e my ain ways o' thinkin'. I've aye had them and in my younger days I ha'e nae doot I was a sair trial to Andra. He had juist to get used to it, however, and noo he lets me alane and maybe I am a better woman for that. At ony rate, I am quite prepared to dee for the Cause if the Lord wills, but I'm no' gaun to look for my death as Andra is sometimes ready to dae in ane o' his uplifted moods, by daein' onything silly. Ye've seen him sit by the fireside sometimes, wi' his heid in his haun's, groanin'. He is a guid man, as naebody kens better than I dae: but every noo and then he gets terrible upset aboot himself. Maist days he is quite sure that he is ane o' the elect. But every noo and then, if he tak's haggis to his supper, he's in a black mood next day and is quite sure that he is ane o' the castaways. Mony a time I ha'e heard him wrestlin' wi' the spirit, wi' mony groans, and when I ha'e gane to him he has been moanin'--'I'm no' sure. Am I ane o' the elect or am I no'?' I ken weel it's no his conscience but only the haggis that's tormentin' him. So I juist gi'e him a dish o' herb tea, and next day he is that uplifted that he thinks he's fit to be ta'en like Elijah in a chariot straicht to heaven."

Her face melted in a smile, and for the first time I saw that the winsomeness of Mary's smile was a gift from her mother: then she continued:

"You're very ceevil. You aye ca' me Mistress Paterson, and I suppose that's only richt, but it's a wee bit stiff. It makes me think o' the meenister at a catechisin'. My name's Janet, but naebody ever ca's me that but Andra--and only when he's no' weel pleased wi' me. I'm Jean to them I like, and to them that like me, an' ye can ca' me Jean if it pleases ye."

CHAPTER XX

LOVE THE ALL-COMPELLING

As the days passed I began to be able to go further and further afield. I needed no support save the good ash stick which Andrew had given to me, but for love's sweet sake I dissembled if Mary was at hand to help me.

A day came when I gave serious thought to my future. I was unwilling to tear myself away from Daldowie, for the spell of love bound me, but I felt that I could not continue to trespass indefinitely upon the hospitality of my friends.

And there was another matter of grave moment. Apparently, from what Jean had told me, Lag was in the habit of visiting Daldowie from time to time. So far, he had learned nothing of my presence there; but a day might come when I should be discovered, and that would expose my friends to deadly peril. I dared not think of that possibility, and yet it was real enough. I turned these things over in my mind, but always hesitated on the brink of decision, because I could not live without Mary.

We were thrown much together. Sometimes I would accompany her when she went about her duties on the farm; and many a pleasant hour we spent together on the green hill-side. Almost daily I discovered some new and beautiful trait in her character. To know her was to love her. No words can paint her. Vivid, alluring, she was like a mountain stream--at one time rippling over the shallows of life alive with sunny laughter, or again, falling into quiet reflective pools, lit by some inner light--remote, mysterious. Her haunting variety perplexed me while it charmed me.

Sometimes I was tempted to throw ardent arms about her and pour my love into her ears in a torrent of fervid words. That is the way of the bold lover, but I feared that to declare my love in such cavalier fashion might defeat its end. None but a woman with some rude fibres in her being can care to be treated in such fashion--and I imagined that Mary's soul was delicate and fragile as a butterfly's wing, and would be bruised by such mishandling.

My love for her grew daily, but I hesitated to declare it till I should know whether it was returned. And Mary gave me no clue. If on a day she had lifted me to the heights of bliss by some special winsomeness, she would dash my hope to the earth again by avoiding me for a time so that I was thrown back on my thoughts for companionship. And they gave me little solace. Over and over again I remembered the warning of the dear old saint of the hills: "She's no' for you. The dove maunna mate wi' the corbie."

At nights I lay awake distraught. Was her kindness to me, her winning sweetness, no more than the simple out-pouring of a woman's heart for a man she pitied? I had no need of pity: I hated it: my heart hungered for love. I had yet to learn that there is always pity in a woman's love.

At last I brought my fevered mind to a resolute decision. I would speak. For the sake of those who had succoured me I must leave Daldowie, but before I went I must try to find out the secret in Mary's heart.

The hour came unsought, and took me almost unaware.

We had wandered further afield than was our wont, and on a mellow autumn afternoon we sat by the side of a burn. We had been chatting gaily, when, suddenly, silence fell between us like a sword.

I looked at Mary. Her eyes were fixed on distance, and my gaze fell from the sweet purity of her face to the rich redness of the bunch of rowan berries set in the white of her bodice.

"Mary," I began, "I have something to say to you." She turned and looked at me quickly, but did not speak.

I drew an anxious breath and continued: "I am going away."

Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke rapidly: "You're gaun away. Whatever for?"

"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, your father, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me in sore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger to you all, and for your sakes I must go."

Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast moved tremulously.

"Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o' danger: that needna' drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?"

Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there's some English lassie waiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me she whispered, "It maun e'en be as ye will."

"Mary," I said, "you wrong me. If you could read my heart you would know what I suffer. I hate to go. I am leaving friendship and love behind me----"

I paused, but she did not speak. "Before God," I said, "I shall never forget Daldowie, and--you."

Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them gently in mine.

"Our lives have touched each other so delicately, that I shall never forget you. Dearest, I love you."

She uttered a little startled cry and drew her hands away. "Love you with all the fire of my heart," I said, "and if I succeed in escaping across the border I shall dream always of the day when I may come back and ask you to be my wife. Mary--tell me--have you a little corner in your heart for me?--You have had the whole of mine since first you spoke to me."

Her face was a damask rose: her lips curved in a smile, and a dimple danced alluringly on her left cheek: her eyes were lit as though a lamp were hidden in their depths, but all she said was,--"I daur say I can promise ye that."

I drew her towards me and took her, gently resisting, into my arms. "O Mary mine," I whispered. Her hand stole up and gently stroked my hair, and as she nestled to me I could feel a wild bird fluttering in her breast. "I love you, Mary," and bending over her dear face I kissed her where the dimple still lingered.

"Sweetheart," she murmured, as her arms closed about my neck, and her lips touched mine.

The old earth ceased to be: heaven was about us, and above us a high lark sang:--my love was in my arms.

A little tremor, as when a leaf is stirred, stole over her. I held her close, and bent to look at her. Twin tears glistened on her eyelids. "Flower o' the Heather," I whispered, "little sweetheart--what ails you?"

She took a long breath--broken like a sigh.

"I am feared," she said.

"Afraid? dearest, of what?"

Her lips were raised to my ear.

"Afraid o' love," she whispered: "for when you kissed me a wee bird flew into my heart and whispered that nae woman ever loved without sorrow."

"Dearest," I said. But she stopped me, and continued:--"But I wouldna lose the love for a' the sorrow that may lie in its heart--for it's the sorrow that makes the love worth while."

"My own Mary," I whispered, "in my arms no sorrow shall ever touch you. I will protect you!"

"My love, my love," she murmured brokenly, "ye canna thwart God."

So still she lay that I could hear the beating of my heart. I looked at her sweet face half hidden against my coat. There was upon it a beauty that I had never seen before. Reverence that was half awe swept over me, and I bowed my head, for I had seen into the holy place of a woman's soul.

Suddenly she let her arms fall from my neck, and freeing herself gently from my embrace she seated herself by my side.

"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I ha'e spoilt your happy moments wi' my tears. But they're no tears o' sorrow: they're juist the joy bubbling up frae a heart ower fu'. I can let ye go noo--since I ken ye love me. Love can aye surrender, selfishness aye clings."

"Are you sending me away, Mary?"

"Oh no! No! No! It's because I love you I wad ha'e you go. You're in danger here, and I ken--oh, I ken ye'll come back."

"And now," I answered proudly, "I do not wish to go. I cannot go."

"But you're in danger here. If they find you they'll kill you."

"Beloved," I whispered, "to leave you now would be worse than death."

She buried her head on my shoulder, and sat silent. The door had swung back and shown us the kingdom of love with its laughing meadows and enchanted streams. But amid all that beauty each of us had caught a glimpse of the shadow that lay across our lives.

Suddenly she lifted her face and gazed at me with troubled, wistful eyes. "I ken ye ought to go: but an ye winna it's no for me to send you. My heart cries for you, and," she added slowly, "I've got a notion. About this time o' year my faither aye hires a man. Ye could ha'e the place for the askin'. Ye're strong enough noo to help him, and naebody would ever jalouse that the hired man at Daldowie was Trooper Bryden o' Lag's Horse."

Her ready wit had found the way out.

"Dear little witch," I cried, and kissed her fragrant hair--"You have brought light into the darkness. I shall offer myself to your father, and by faithful service show my gratitude: but more than that I shall ask him for you."

Her eyes shone. "Speir at him for the place," she said, "and let the second question bide till ye've spoken to mither. Faither loves me--I ken weel: but he's dour and sometimes contrairy, and winna understand. But mither's heart is young yet. She'll help us."

"O winsome little wiseacre," I whispered, and held my open arms out to her.

She sprang up. "I maun leave you," she said. "I want to be alane--to tell the flowers and the birds my secret, but maist o' a' to tell it ower and ower again to masel'. I'll see ye by and by--and maybe ere then ye'll ha'e talked to mither."

She turned and walked lightly away, crooning a song. I watched her longingly as she went, palpitating with life and love, an angel of beauty, the sun on her hair.

For long I sat in a delightful reverie, then I rose and made my way slowly to the house.

Mary loved me!--the moor winds sang for me. They knew our secret.

I found Jean at her spinning-wheel, alone in the kitchen. The moment seemed opportune, so, without any preface, I opened my heart to her.

"You must have seen," I said, "that Mary and I are very warm friends. Indeed we are more than friends, for we love each other, and I would make her my wife; but she will not promise without your consent and her father's. Dare we hope for it?"

She stopped her spinning and took a long breath. "So that's the way o't," she said. "I thocht as muckle, and I'm no' ill-pleased, for I like ye weel. But I dinna ken aboot her faither. He's a queer man, Andra. If ye speir at him he'll want to ken if ye are ane o' the elect, and by your answer ye'll stand or fa'.

"Weel dae I mind his ongoin's when he speired me. A Scotsman's aye practical even in his love-making: but Andra was waur than practical, he was theological. But he couldna help it--that's aye been his weakness. As a maitter o' fact maist Scotsmen are as fu' o' sentiment as an egg is fu' o' meat. But ye've to crack their shell afore ye fin' that oot. An' they'll watch ye dinna. For they're feared that if ye fin' they're saft i' the hert ye micht think they were saft i' the heid as weel. Weel, as I was sayin', he had been courtin' me for maybe a twalmonth. No that he ever talked love--but he would drap into my step-faither's hoose o' a nicht maybe twice a week, and crack aboot horses and craps, and sheep, and kye, tae the auld man, and gi'e me a 'Guid E'en' in the bye-goin'. But aince I catched him keekin' at me through his fingers when we were on our knees at the worship--and though I was keekin' at him mysel' I never let on. But I thocht tae mysel' he was beginnin' to tak' notice o' ane o' the blessings o' the Lord--and so it turned oot, for maybe a month later he brocht me a bonnie blue ribbon frae Dairy; and he cam' to me in the stack-yaird and offered it tae me, kind o' sheepish-like. It was a bonnie ribbon, and I was awfu' pleased; and first I tied it roon my neck, and then I fastened it among my hair. And he looked on, gey pleased-like himsel': and then a kind o' cloud cam' ower his face and he said, 'Eh, Jean, ye maunna set your affections on the gauds o' this earth.' I was that angry that I nearly gi'ed him back the ribbon; but it was ower bonnie.

"Weel, a week or twa went by, and ae nicht in the gloamin' I met him on the road--accidental like. He was gey quate for a time, then he laid a haun' on my airm and said, very solemn: 'Jean, I love ye: are ye ane o' the elect?' My heart gi'ed a big loup, for I guessed what was comin', and juist to gain time I answered, 'I'm no' sure, Andra,' says I, 'but I hope sae.' 'Oh, but ye maun be sure; ye maun be sure. Hope is no' enough,'--and he turned on his heel and went down the road again. Weel, I went back tae the hoose a wee bit sorry, for I liked him weel; and it seemed tae me I had frichtened him awa. But that nicht in my bed I thocht things ower, and said tae mysel'--'Jean, my lass, it's a serious step gettin' married, but it's a lot mair serious remainin' single, and guid young men are scarce, and you are a tocherless lass. What are ye gaun tae dae?' So I worked oot a plan in my heid. After maybe a week, Andra cam' back for a crack wi' my step-faither, and seein' him comin' up the road I went oot tae meet him. He was a wee blate at the first, but I helped him oot wi't. 'Andra,' says I, 'dae ye mind what ye said the last nicht ye were here?' 'I do, Jean,' says he. 'Weel,' says I, 'I've been thinkin' very hard since then. Ye believe, I hope, in fore-ordination?' 'Certainly,' says he, 'Predestination is a cardinal doctrine.' 'I ken,' I said, 'and it was fore-ordained that you should tell me that you lo'e me. You were fore-ordained tae lo'e me: I was fore-ordained tae lo'e you--and I like ye weel: and if ye let my puir human uncertainty as tae my election stand in the way, ye are fleein' in the face o' Providence wha fore-ordained that we should love each other.' He was a bit ta'en aback, I could see; for he stood quate for a while. Then he turned and said, "I daurna dae that: I daurna. Jean, will ye tak' me?' 'It was fore-ordained that ye should ask me that question,' I answered, 'and it was fore-ordained that I should say "Ay." I'll be a guid wife tae ye, Andra.' And I ha'e been, though even yet he's no' sure if I'm ane o' the elect or no.

"Whiles he thinks I am. I mind the morning after Dauvit was born--I was ane o' the elect then. He sat by the bedside, takin' keeks every noo and then at the wee lamb sleepin' in the fold o' my airm, and repeatin' lang screeds oot o' the Song o' Solomon, wi' the love-licht in his e'e, till the howdie turned him oot, sayin' it was no' seemly for an elder o' the kirk tae be using sic holy words tae a mere woman. A mere woman forsooth! and me a mither! She was a barren stock hersel', ye see.

"But I'm haverin' awa--and no' answerin' your question. Let things bide a wee as they are. Andra thinks a lot o' ye; but he has got tae ken ye better afore he'll judge ye tae be a fit husband for Mary. I'll tell ye when the time is ripe tae speir at him. Meantime the lassie winna rin awa frae ye; and if ye'll tak' the advice o' an auld woman, there's twice as muckle joy in the courtin' days as there is in the level years o' wedded life; sae mak' the maist o' them, and the Lord bless ye baith."

My little sweetheart had been right. Her mother understood.

Later I sought her, and found her alone in the gloaming--the lover's hour.

"And what does mither say?" she asked.

Briefly I told her. She laughed happily:--

"I kent it wad be a' richt."

As she stood before me--her face upturned, her eyes eager, I slipped an arm about her, and would have drawn her to me, but she drew back.

"Dinna spoil it," she said--"maybe the morn"--and she smiled. "I want to keep the wonder o' your first kiss till then: it's a kind o' sacrament."

She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and her words tumbled over each other.

"Love is magical. Since you kissed me I have wakened frae sleep: every meenute has had rose-tipped wings: the silence sings for me, and the moor wind plays a melody on the harp o' my hert. Can ye no' hear it?"

I would have answered as a lover should, but she continued: "No, no! Ye canna hear it. I'm sure there maun hae been a woman wi' the shepherds on the plains o' Palestine the nicht they heard the angels sing. Nae man ever heard the angels sing till a woman telled him they were singing. Men are deaf craturs."

"Mary," I cried, "I am not deaf. I hear the angels singing whenever you speak"--and I seized her hands.

"Dinna talk havers," she answered, and raced off; but at the corner of the house she turned and, poised on tip-toe, shadowy among the shadows, she blew me a kiss with either hand.

CHAPTER XXI

THE HIRED MAN

There was nothing for me to do but lay to heart the advice of my friend Jean. Mary's suggestion that I should offer my services to her father took root in my mind, and next day I broached the matter to him. I began by assuring him of my sense of indebtedness to him and his good wife for all that they had done for me. Money I told him could not repay him; whereat he shrugged his shoulders and made a noise in his throat as though the very mention of such a thing hurt him.

Then I told him that one of two alternatives lay before me--either to leave Daldowie and endeavour to make my way across the border, or to stay on at the farm and try to repay by service the heavy debt under which I lay. He heard all I had to say in silence, but when I had finished he spoke:

"There's a lot o' places no' as guid as Daldowie. I couldna hear o' ye leavin' us yet. Ye see, Jean--that's the wife--has ta'en an awfu' fancy tae ye; and as for masel', I like a man aboot the hoose. A man like me gets tired wi' naething but womenfolk cackling roon' him. I think wi' a bit o' experience ye'd mak' no' a bad fairmer. When winter comes wi' the snaw there's a lot o' heavy work to be done feedin' the nowt, forby lookin' after the sheep. Last winter I lost half a score in a snaw-drift, and that is mair than a man like me can afford in sic tryin' times. I was ettlin' to hire a man in the back end o' the year; but if you like to stop you can tak' his place. I think I could learn ye a lot: and in the lang winter nichts me and you'll be able to ha'e some guid sets to on the dambrod. But a word in your lug. If ye're stoppin' on here ye'd better drap that English tongue o' yours, and learn to talk like a civilised body. It'll be safer. I've noticed that when a Scotsman loses his ain tongue, an' talks like an Englishman, he loses a bit o' his Scots backbane. Maybe in your case the thing will work the ither wey"--and he struck me heartily on the shoulder.

So the bargain was made, and I entered into the service of Andrew Paterson of Daldowie and of Jean his wife. I was already the devoted bond-slave of Mary.

Andrew announced our pact that evening as we sat round the fire. "Jean," he said, "I've hired a man."

Her knitting needles clicked a little faster: "And where did ye get him?" she asked. "I ha'e seen naebody aboot the steadin' the day, and the hirin' fair is no' till October."

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a smile on Mary's face.

"Wha dae ye think?" said Andra. "Bryden here has speired for the job, and as he seems to ha'e the makin' o' a fairmer in him, I agreed to gi'e him a try."

Jean laid her knitting in her lap. "Andra, are ye sure ye're daein' richt?"

Involuntarily I started. Was Jean about to turn against me? But there was wisdom in her question, for she knew her husband better than I did. There was irritation in his voice:

"Of course I'm daein' richt, woman. It's like ye to question the wisdom o' your man. He never does onything richt." He swung himself round on the settle and crossed his knees angrily.

"But," returned Jean, "do ye no' see the risk ye're runnin'? Lag's ridin' through the countryside, and what dae ye think he'll say if he finds that a deserter is serving-man at Daldowie?"

"I ha'e thocht o' a' that, Jean," he replied. "He'll juist hae to keep oot o' sicht when your godless frien' Lag is aboot."

His wife seemed about to raise further objections, but he silenced her: "Haud yer tongue, Jean, and gang on wi' yer knittin'. My min's made up, and I am no' gaun to be turned frae my ain course by a naggin' woman. Let's hear nae mair o't." And then raising his voice he ended: "I'll be maister in ma ain hoose, I tell ye."

This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd wit of Jean, served but to establish her husband in his purpose. The good wife picked up her knitting again, and for a time there was no sound but the click of her needles. Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned to Mary who, in the semi-darkness, had stretched out her hand and touched mine gently and said: "Mary, licht the cruise and bring the Book."

In this fashion I became a willing servant at Daldowie. The days passed pleasantly. Andrew took a pride in his farm. "A Paterson," he would say, "has farmed here since Flodden. Man, that was an awfu' thrashin' you English gi'ed us yonder; but we've paid ye back tenfold. We sent the Stuarts tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily. The original little parcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made to an Andrew Paterson after that fateful combat, and each succeeding generation of his descendants had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation a few more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now Daldowie was a heritage of which any man might be proud. The love of his land was a passion in Andrew's blood.

My desire to make myself of use impressed him, and he taught me much agricultural lore. I found, as I had long suspected, that under his dour exterior there was much native shrewdness, and not a little pawky humour. But of that gift he had not such a rich endowment as his wife. In his silent way, he cherished a great affection for her, and though he had never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any terms of endearment, I knew that in his heart of hearts he regarded her as a queen among women. Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the hill-men. Of the justice of their cause he was absolutely convinced, and now and then his devotion to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism. He could find no good word to say for the powers that were arraigned against the men of the Covenant, and once, in a burst of anger, he said:

"I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin' wi' Lag is a disgrace to my hoose, and nae guid can come o't. She thinks that wi' him for a frien' she's protectin' them she likes best, but I'm thinkin' the Almichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book: 'Him that honoureth Me will I honour,' and ye canna honour the Lord by feedin' ane o' His worst enemies on guid farles o' oatcake--wi' butter forby. Hooever, ye ken her weel enough to understaun' how thrawn she is, and ony word frae me would only mak' her thrawner. Ye're no' mairrit yoursel', and I doot ye ken nocht o' the ways o' women, but that's ane o' them."

I had enough mother-wit to hold my tongue.

Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.

Winter descended upon the land and the moor was shrouded in snow; but ere the snow fell, the sheep had been gathered into the lower fold and none were lost. Each short, dark day was followed by the delight of a long and cosy evening by the fireside, what time the baffled wind howled over the well-thatched roof. Andrew and I would engage in doughty combats on the dambrod, while Mary and her mother plied their needles busily: and sometimes, to my great delight, when Andrew was not in the mood for such worldly amusement, Mary would take his place at the game. He is a poor lover who cannot, amid the moves of the black and white men, make silent but most eloquent love, and many a tender message leaped across the checkered board from my eyes to Mary's, and from Mary's to mine. Once on an evening when we had been playing together while her father slept in the ingle-nook, and Jean busied herself with her knitting, Mary brushed the men aside and resting her elbows on the table poised her chin on her finger-tips. My eyes followed the perfect line of her white arms from her dimpled elbows, half-hidden in a froth of lace, to her slender hands that supported the exquisite oval of her face.

"Let's talk," she said.

"Yes, talk," I answered. "I shall love to listen, and as you talk I'll drink your beauty in."

She wrinkled her nose into the semblance of a frown, and then laughed.

"For a book-learned man ye're awfu' blate."

"Ah, sweetheart," I answered, "no man can learn the language of love from books. That comes from life."

"No," she said, laughingly; "no' frae life, but frae love. I'm far far wiser than you"--and she held her hands apart as though to indicate the breadth of her wisdom--"and I learned it a' frae love. For when you knocked at the door o' my he'rt an' it flew open to let you in, a' the wisdom that love cairries in its bosom entered tae. So I'm wiser than you--far wiser." She leaned towards me. "But I'm yer ain wee Mary still--am I no? Let me hear ye say it. Love is like that. It makes us awfu' wise, but it leaves us awfu' foolish. Kiss me again."

Book-learning teaches no man how to answer such a challenge--but love does, and I need not set it down.

Sometimes Mary would read aloud old ballads of love and high adventure--while Andrew and I sat listening, and Jean, as she knitted, listened too. As she read, she had a winsome trick of smoothing back into its place a little lock of hair that would persist in straying over her left ear. That vagrant curl fascinated me. Evening by evening I watched to see it break loose for the joy of seeing her pretty hand restore it to order. I called it the Covenanting curl, and when she asked me why, I stole a kiss, and said, "Because it is a rebel," whereat she slapped me playfully on the cheek, and whispered, "If ye are a trooper ye should make it a prisoner," which I was fain to do, but she resisted me.

Jean took a kindly though silent interest in our love-making, but if Andrew knew, or guessed what was afoot, he made no sign. His fits of depression grew more frequent; but whether they were due to uncertainty as to his own spiritual state or to sorrow and anger at the continued harrying of the hill-folk I was not able to tell, and Jean did not enlighten me, though in all likelihood she knew.

So the happy winter passed, and spring came again rich in promise.

CHAPTER XXII

"THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"

April was upon us--half laughter, half tears--when rumour came to us that the persecutions of the hill-men were becoming daily more and more bitter; but of the troopers we ourselves saw nothing. From what we heard we gathered that their main activities were in a part of the country further west, and we learned that Lag and his dragoons were quartered once again in Wigtown. One morning, when Mary went to the byre to milk the cows, we heard her cry in alarm, and in a moment she came rushing into the house, saying, "Oh, mither, there's a man asleep in Meg's stall."

Her father and I hurried out, and entered the cow-shed abreast. Stretched on a heap of straw beside the astonished Meg lay a young man clad in black. There was such a look of weariness upon his face that it seemed a shame to waken him; but Andrew, whispering to me, "It is ane o' the hill-men," took him by the shoulder and shook him not unkindly. The youth sat bolt upright--fear in his startled eyes. He stared at Andrew and then at me, and in a high-pitched voice exclaimed:

"The Lord is on my side. I will not fear what men can do unto me."

"I thocht sae," said Andrew, "ye're ane o' oorsels: but what are ye daein' in my byre?"

To this the only reply was another quotation from the scriptures: "The Lord hath chastened me sore, but He hath not given me over unto death."

"Puir laddie," said Andrew, "come awa ben the hoose and ha'e your parritch."

Again the youth spoke: "This is the Lord's doing: it is marvellous in our eyes."

Andrew took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen. He was placed in a chair by the fire and sat looking wistfully and half-frightenedly around him. His face was thin and white save that on one cheek a scarlet spot flamed like a rose, while over his high, pale forehead swept a lock of dark hair. As he held his hands out to catch the warmth of the glowing peat, I saw that they were almost transparent; but what caught my gaze and held it rivetted was the state of his thumbs. Both of them were black and bruised as though they had been subjected to great pressure, and I knew that the boy had recently been put to the torture of the thumbscrews.

Mary and her mother vied with each other in attentions to him. A bowl of warm milk was offered to him, and with trembling hands he raised it to his lips. As he did so I saw the perspiration break upon his forehead. While she busied herself with the preparation of the morning meal, Andrew questioned him, but his answers were so cloaked in the language of the scriptures that it was hard to decipher his meaning.

When he had finished his porridge, which he ate eagerly as though well-nigh famished, Jean took him in hand.

"Now, young man," she said, "tell us yer story. Wha are ye, and whence cam' ye?"

A fit of violent coughing interfered with his speech, but the seizure passed, a bright light gleamed in his sunken eyes, and he said: "In the way wherein I walked they have privily laid a snare for me. I looked on my right hand and beheld, but there was no man that would know me. Refuge failed me. No man cared for my soul. They have spread a net by the wayside; they have set gins for me. Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I withal escape."

Jean sighed, and turned to Andrew with a look of bewilderment. "The bairn's daft," she said, "beside himsel' wi' hunger and pain. He's had the thumbkins on; look at his puir haun's."

The youth continued in a high-pitched monotone: "Surely Thou wilt slay the wicked, O God. Depart from me, therefore, ye bloody men. Deliver me, O Lord, from mine enemies. I flee unto Thee to hide me."

"Clean doited, puir laddie, clean doited," said Jean. "I'm thinkin', Andra, ye'd better convoy him up to the laft and let him sleep in Bryden's bed. Maybe when he has had a rest, he'll come to his senses."

Andrew put his arm gently through that of the youth and raised him to his feet. "Come your ways to bed, my lad; when ye've had a sleep ye'll be better," and he led him toward the ladder.

As he ascended he still rambled on: "They have gaped upon me with their mouth. They have smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully. Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little," and with Andrew urging him on, he disappeared into the upper room.

In a few moments Andrew descended the ladder and returned to the kitchen. "I've got him safely bedded," he said.

"Ay, puir laddie," answered Jean, as she busied herself clearing away the dishes. "I wonder wha he can be? Maist likely he has escaped frae the dragoons. If they set the hounds on his track, they'll be here afore the day is weel begun."

The thought hardly needed expression. It was present in the minds of each of us; and gathering round the fire we took counsel together. That the lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to help him was the difficulty. Should the dragoons come to the house we knew that their search would be a thorough one, for though Lag's compact with Jean still held so far as the safety of herself, her daughter, and her husband was concerned, we knew that it would be of no avail in the case of this fugitive. And, further, there was the question of my own presence there, hitherto undiscovered.

The kindly wisdom of a woman's mind was expressed by Jean: "At ony rate there is naething to be done in the meantime but wait and let the lad rest. Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no' be quite so doited, and be mair able to tell us something aboot himsel'."