and sure friend, a native of his own part of the
Border, it had gone hard with Private Maxwell.

The story, as told to his captain, was this. Maxwell, then a half-grown
boy, lived with his mother in a lonely cottage in a quiet Dumfriesshire
glen. They came of decent folk, but were very poor, sometimes in the
winter being even hard put to it to find sufficient food. The father,
and all the family but this one boy, were dead; the former had perished
on the hill during a great snowstorm, and the sons, long after, had all
died, swept off by an outbreak of smallpox. Thus the widow and her one
remaining boy were left almost in destitution; but by the exercise of
severe economy and by hard work, they managed to cling to their little
cottage.

One morning--it was a day in the summer of 1746; the heather was
bursting into bloom, shadows of great fleecy clouds trailed sleepily
over the quiet hillsides, larks sang high in the heavens, blue-bells
swung their heads lazily in the gentle breeze, and all things spoke of
peace--there came the tramp of horses down the glen, past the rocks
where the rowan-trees grew, and so up to the cottage door.

"Hi, old lady!" shouted the sergeant in charge of a half-dozen dragoons,
"we must ha' some'at to eat and drink. We've been scouring them infernal
hills since break o' day, and it's time we picked a bit."

"Weel, sirs," said the poor widow, "it's but little I hae gotten, but
that little ye shall freely hae." And she brought them "lang kale" and
butter, and for drink offered them new milk, saying, as she handed it to
the man, that this was her whole stock.

"Whole stock!" growled one who did not relish such food, "whole stock! A
likely story! I daresay, if the truth was known, the old hag's feeding a
rebel she's got hidden away in some snug hole hereaway."

"'Deed, sirs, there's no rebels here. An' that's a' my son an' me has to
live on."

"How do you live in this outlandish spot all the year round, then,
mistress?"

"Indeed, sir," said the woman, "the cow and the kailyaird, and whiles a
pickle oat meal, wi' God's blessing, is a' my _mailen_. The Lord has
provided for the widow and the faitherless, and He'll aye provide."

"We'll soon see about that," said the ruffian. With his sabre, and
paying no heed to the helpless woman's lamentations or to the
half-hearted remonstrances of his comrades, he killed the poor widow's
cow; then going to the little patch of garden, he tore up and threw