as dared to set his foot upon our
coast, and that you and I will return to your mother, who, no doubt, will
be distracted upon your account beyond measure. But, oh, when she meets you
again, I think that I see her now springing up from the chair, where she is
sitting rocking and mourning, and flinging her arms round your neck,
crying--'Robie!--Robie, my son! where have ye been?--how could ye leave
your mother?' Then she will sob upon your breast, and wet your cheek with
her tears; and I will lift her arms from your neck, and say--'Look ye,
Agnes, woman, your husband is restored to ye safe and sound, as well as
your son?' And then I will tell her all about your bravery, and your
following us over the moors, and the cowardice of Jonathan Barlowman, and
of your coming up to him, where he groaned behind us on the road--of your
becoming his substitute, and of your getting his greatcoat, his knapsack,
and his gun--and of your marching an hour by your father's side without him
finding out who you were. I will tell her all about my discovering you, and
about your answers, and the cheering of the volunteers; and the officers
coming up and taking your hand, and congratulating me upon having such a
son. O Robie, man! I will tell her everything! It will be such a meeting as
there has not been in the memory of man. Therefore, as the French are
neither landed nor like to land, I will speak to the superior officer, and
you and I Will set off for Dunse immediately."

We went into a public-house, to have a bottle of ale and baps; and I think
I never in my life partook of anything more refreshing or more delicious.
Even Robie, notwithstanding the horse-shoe of angry disappointment on his
brow, made a hearty repast; but that was natural to a growing laddie, and
especially after such a tramp as we had had in the death and darkness of
night, over moor and heather.

"Eat well, Robie, lad," said I; "it's a long road over again between here
and Dunse, and there is but little to be got on it. Take another glass of
ale; ye never tasted anything from Clockmill to match that. It is as
delicious as honey, and as refreshing as fountain water."

That really was the case; though whether the peculiar excellence of the ale
arose from anything extraordinarily grateful in its flavour, or from my
long march, my thirst, and sharp appetite--added to the joy I felt in the
unexpected prospect of returning home in peace and happiness with my son,
instead of sl