d of Father's
or my Uncle's who is going south, we are to join their convoy. The
Laird of Monksburn sends one of his men with us; and both he and Sam
will be well armed. I am sure I hope there will be no occasion for the
arms.

Angus is in a mental fever, and dashes about, here, there, and
everywhere, without apparent reason, and also without much
consideration. I mean consideration in both senses--reflection, and
forbearance. Flora is grave and anxious--I think, a little frightened,
both for herself and Angus. Mr Keith takes the affair very seriously;
that I can see, though he does not say much. Annas seems (now that the
first excitement is over) as calm as a summer eve. We are to start, if
possible, on Friday, and sleep at Hawick the first night.

"Hech, Sirs!" was Helen's comment, when she heard it. "My puir bairns,
may the Lord be wi' ye! It's ill setting forth of a Friday."

"Clashes and clavers!" cries Sam, turning on her. "Helen Raeburn, ye're
just daft! Is the Lord no sae strang o' Friday as ither days? What
will fules say neist?"

"Atweel, ye may lauch, Sam, an' ye will," answered Helen: "but I tell
ye, I ne'er brake my collar-bone of a journey but ance, and that was
when I'd set forth of a Friday."

"And I ne'er brake mine ava, and I've set forth monie a time of a
Friday," returned Sam. "Will ye talk sense, woman dear, gin women maun
talk?"

I do feel so sorry to leave Abbotscliff. I wish I were not going to
London. And I do not quite like to ask myself why. I should not mind
going at all, if it were only a change of place. Abbotscliff is very
lovely, but there is a great deal in London that I should like to see.
If I were to lead the same sort of life as here, and with the same sort
of people, I should be quite satisfied to go. But I know it will be
very different. Everything will be changed. Not only the people, but
the ways of the people. Instead of breezy weather there will be hot
crowded rooms, and instead of the Tweed rippling over the pebbles there
will be noisy music and empty chatter. And it is not so much that I am
afraid it will be what I shall not like. It will at first, I dare say:
but I am afraid that in time I shall get to like it, and it will drive
all the better things out of my head, and I shall just become one of
those empty chatterers. I am sure there is danger of it. And I do not
know how to help it. It is pleasant to please people, and to make them
laugh,