west that we might see how my mother and Kate McGhie were
bestowed all this time, at the little house of Tonskeen in the howe of
the hills.

Maisie was wondrous quiet. She had hardly uttered a word ever since we
watched her father out of sight, sitting erect like a warrior upon his
horse. It was indeed not a time for complaints. Women had to take
sorrows as they came, as I was reminded of in an old letter which Jean
of the Shirmers, my kind entertainer of the Garpel, had once written to
Jean Hamilton upon Sandy's first taking. How I came by it I forget, if,
indeed, I ever clearly knew. But at all events here it is: "You are not
the first" (so the letter ran) "that hath had dear and tender husbands
prisoners for Christ. Yea, blessed be God, not the first of the many
hundreds that have lost them as to the world in Scotland in our day.
Suppose that should happen which you cannot tell. Suppose that it should
come even to that, we pray you, Jean Hamilton, tell us in whose hands
the keys of the prison are. We rather desire to believe in your free
resignation of all that was yours, especially of all that you love
greatly. Will you dare to seek it back from Him now, as if He could not
guide and keep and manage, what you have committed to Him? Far be from
you this, or the like of this. Bless God that you have had a husband, if
it were only to propine Him with."

Was there ever such consolation sent in any nation to the wife of a man
condemned to torture and to death? Yet this and no other is the nature
of our Scots Barnabas when he goes a-comforting. Like the three that
came to Job of old, they ever tell you that you must take all the ill
that comes to you thankfully, and at the back of it expect yet more and
worse.

This is indeed more than enough about Jean Hamilton's letter. But it
appeared to me so like our nation and our Cameronian folk, that I put it
away in my case of despatches.

I did not trouble Maisie as we went with questions, knowing full well
that when she felt the need of speech, she would come and tell me of her
own accord. Till then, I was content to be silent, though I yearned to
know the truth of the taking of the cave and all her adventure.

It was about the gloaming of the third day of our retreat, and we had
come to the little house of the Nether Crae, where we were to bide.
Maisie Lennox was within doors, and, as usual, we men folk hid behind
the mow. The Nether Crae is a pleasant spot, but it looks d