CHAPTER XXII. CHANGES.
There were hurried footsteps and coming and going one rainy night at the home of the Lindsays. It was not the evening of Alice's marriage, for Hallowmas was long past, and Alice was far away. There had been a quiet wedding, for all had thought merriment out of place in a house so soon to become a house of mourning. The grandmother was feeble still, and would be so until the mortal should put on immortality; but it was the grandfather about whom all were anxious on that gloomy night. He had been seized with sudden illness, and lay speechless and unconscious. Not one of the household had retired to rest. Davie and Jeannie were there. Robert had gone for the doctor, and all were anxiously waiting for his arrival.
"It is a lang way," said Davie, "and the roads are heavy wi' the rain. Ye maun hae patience."
But it was not easy to be patient. Again and again did one and another look out into the darkness and listen, but heard only the fast-falling rain.
"If only Sandy had been here to go," said Belle. "Robert is but a young lad to be out this dark night."
But Sandy was in Edinburgh.
"Robert will do as weel as onybody," said Davie. "I might hae gane mysel, if had kenned ye would be worried about the lad; but hae nae fears for Robert; he'll come hame safe and sound."
Archie Lindsay sat by his father's bedside. Margaret, his sister, was constantly passing from one sick-room to the other. Mrs. Lindsay suspected that something had happened to her husband. "What is wrang wi' your faither?" she asked.
Margaret vainly endeavored to quiet her apprehensions.
"Ye needna say your faither isna muckle seck, Maggie. What else would keep ye a' out o' your beds? I maun see him for mysel."
Finding that she could not be quieted, her two children carried her to her husband's bedside. She gazed on the face to which the light of reason would never more return.
"Wae is me! Wae is me!" she exclaimed. "He is gaen, and gaen as his faither did before him. Oh, that I, wha hae been sae long on the brink o' the grave, s'ould live to see him taen awa!"
Her children persuaded her to return to her own room, promising to inform her if any change should take place.
The doctor came, but his remedies were of no avail. Mr. Lindsay passed away at dawn.
Margaret, true to her promise, communicated the sad intelligence to her mother as soon as she awoke.
Mrs. Lindsay spoke not a word. She raised her eyes and stretched her hands upward; then the hands fell and the eyes closed; her heart had ceased to beat.
Margaret Lindsay had been a most dutiful daughter. As long as her parents lived she had devoted herself to their care and comfort. Now that they were gone, she became a member of her brother's family.
Little Annie shared her aunt's room, for the child had been very lonely since Alice went away. She sometimes relieved the hours of their tediousness by going to her uncle Davie's to play with the twins. Many an hour did she amuse both herself and them, much to the satisfaction of her aunt Jeannie, whose duties were neither few nor light.
Annie was fond of books and study, like her brother Sandy. Since he had been in Edinburgh he had written to his little sister, telling her how much he desired her to study, and how pleasant it was to read and gain knowledge. Very proud was she when she had written a letter to him in a neat, legible hand. "Alexander looks nicer than Sandy," she said, looking at the address, "but I like the sound of Sandy better."
While Alexander was in Edinburgh, studying under his uncle's direction, Robert Lindsay was fast attaining a man's stature. He had no taste for farm-work, but he liked to handle tools, and was never tired of machinery.
"He'll no make a farmer, that is plain to be seen," said his father, "and he might as well do what he likes best."
But his mother, loath to spare another child from home, managed to hold the matter in check for a short time. Finally he became so restless that his parents consented to let him go to Glasgow, where his sister Alice lived, that he might gratify his inclination in some of the many mills and machine-shops of that busy city.
The house seemed lonely when he was gone; and well it might, for in no very long time five had left the home circle. So dull was it that Isabel prevailed on Davie to let his son Jamie, who had for some time been employed on the farm, live with her altogether, so that the evenings might not seem quite so long. Annie did not at first like him in Robert's place, for he teased her slyly in many ways. If she laid down her knitting he would manage to tangle the yarn or draw out some of the needles. He misplaced her bookmarks, and pretended to rub out her sums. But that was only his way of noticing her, for, after all, he loved to please her, and he brought her all the queer or pretty things he found in the woods or fields. She reproved him one day when he brought her some bird's eggs.
"O Jamie!" she exclaimed, "how could you do sic a thing? You hae robbed a bird's nest."
"Nae, I didna," he replied. "The auld bird is dead. A sportsman maun hae shot her. I kenned long ago where the nest was, and the mother-bird hasna been there these mony days. Nae, I wouldna rob a bird's nest even for you, Annie."
The twins often came to see Annie as soon as they were old enough, and they were always welcome at Aunt Belle's. They bid fair to have the good sense of their parents, with more beauty. Davie was never too busy to stop and speak to his little daughters as they passed him at his work.
Archie had grown to be a big boy, and was a great help to his mother. But he had a great aversion to in-door work, and he longed for the day when Maggie and Nannie should take his place, and he work in the fields like other lads.
Time soon granted the boy's wish. Davie Murdoch had no more bairns to trot upon his knee; and Jeannie was heard to remark, "It taks mair cloth to mak gowns for baith lassies than to mak ane for mysel."
CHAPTER XXIII. ROBIN IN AMERICA.
While these changes were taking place in the other families, Annie McPherson's children were not standing still. Thomas MacDuff had long sought the hand of Jennie, but she had kept him alternating between hope and fear. "He is nae better than ither folk," said she, "if he is a minister's son. If I wanted a sweetheart I could find mony a laddie as good as himsel any day in the week."
"She is a chip of the old block," said Donald to his wife.
But finally she concluded that he was better than other laddies, and consented to become his wife. The light-hearted, fun-loving McPhersons had a merry wedding. Jokes and laughter were not wanting on that day, and these were not frowned upon even by the good minister, the bridegroom's father. "The Bible tells us there is a time to be merry," said he, "and what time is more fitting than a wedding-day?"
Thomas MacDuff taught a village school in a neighboring town, and thither he took his wife.
Robin still remained at home, but every passing year had added strength to his desire to go to America. He read of its boundless extent, its fertile soil, its sources of wealth, and the facility with which a home and competence could be acquired, and nothing would satisfy him but to go there. Scotland was well enough for those who wished to live and die in the same cottage, he said; but he wanted a better chance.
His parents looked with disapprobation on his plans and wishes, but he could not be turned from his purpose.
"I will make a man that you will not be ashamed of," said he. "Some day you will think I hae as muckle sense as ither folk."
Dame McKay having been laid in her last resting-place, her son was free to carry into effect his long-cherished desire to emigrate to America. He and Robin would go together. He had saved enough money to pay his passage. Robin also had some money; and when his father became convinced that nothing could keep him at home, he generously supplied him with as much more as he needed to pay his passage and defray his expenses until he should earn a support in the new country, or bring him back to Scotland if his anticipations should not be realized.
As the time for departure drew near, serious faces and sad hearts were in the home of the McPhersons. Robin tried to dissipate their sadness.
"Ye needna wear sic lang faces," said he. "America is nae longer thought to be the end o' the earth. Wha kens but I may graw rich there, and come back and mak a' the lairds lift their bonnets to me?"
"Oh, my puir bairn," said his mother, "mair likely ye willna ken what a hame is in that farawa land. Ye will be gaen aboot frae place to place, and naebody will think o' your comfort."
"Hoot, mither! As for a hame, I will get ane for mysel, and a Yankee wife will think of my comfort."
But when the tender-hearted Robin came to say adieu to father, mother, brother, and sister, it was all he could do to control his feelings. And there were his aged grandparents whom he could not expect to see again; he must say to them a last good-by. He thought it would be easier to speak his farewells hurriedly and hasten away. But they detained him to give their last words of counsel. Douce Donald looked very grave. Taking the young man's hand, he said,
"Robin, I hae been young, and I am noo auld. I hae learned mony things by experience, sae hear a ward frae your grandfaither. Dinna sow any wild oats; ye wunna want to reap them. Dinna meddle wi' the wine-cup; it will bring ye doun below the beasties that perish. Never gang at sic a gait as I hae dune in my younger days, for ye may never rin against ony honest Wullie wha will help ye back to the right way. God bless thee, Robin! May he keep thy foot frae falling and thine ee frae tears!"
The grandmother then approached, her strong face quivering with emotion.
"Your grandfaither has said what was in my mind to say. I will add only one thing. Pray to the great and gude Father that he will guide your feet in wisdom's ways, which are ways of pleasantness, and in her paths, which are paths of peace. Then shall we meet in that bonny warld, the shores o' which your grandparents are now nearing. Fare ye weel."
Robin was quite overcome; he could hardly trust his voice to reply. He stepped quickly from the door, said a last good-by, and drove away, not venturing to look back.
Separation from friends is often less felt by those who go out into the world than by those who remain at home. It was so in this case. Robin met Geordie McKay, as had been arranged, and the two young men set out together. Their minds were diverted by new scenes and bright anticipations; but it was not so at home. Annie McPherson gathered up every article that had been her son's, and laid them all away with tender touches, as if handling the relics of the dead. Many a sigh escaped her motherly bosom, and the very things he had often left in her way, and on account of which she had found fault with him, were now gently lifted, and invested almost with sacredness. All missed him as well as the mother. The father was unusually busy in order to divert his mind; the grandfather took his cane and walked far beyond the out-buildings—a thing he had not done for many a day; the grandmother lay down for her accustomed nap, but soon returned unrefreshed to her chair. "I canna sleep the day," she said. When evening came and all the household gathered around the hearth, Robin was their theme, and day after day the missing link of the family chain was held in remembrance and mentioned with tenderness.
When, however, there came a letter stating that he had arrived safely in New York, they felt relieved and comforted. He had written that he should start immediately for the broad West, to secure a home amid its fertile lands. And when he wrote that he and Geordie had each taken a homestead for almost nothing, and were living alone in a little log-cabin, and reported how easily they turned the soil, that there were no stones, that the climate was delightful, and that abundance of game could be had for the taking—those left at home began to think better of the venture. "Maybe," said they, "it wasna a fulish notion after a'."
Robin had indeed, in good earnest, set about making a home; but the second part of his vaunt, a wife to keep it, seemed less likely to be accomplished.
"Lassies are but few here," said Geordie. "I doot if ye find ane to suit your notion for a lang while, Robin."
"I wouldna want ane to come to this place just now," replied Robin. "I must first get my farm in good condition, and save my siller and build a house; then I would have a better chance wi' the lassies."
Geordie McKay was no whit behind Robin in industry and thrift. Both worked early and late. In a few years they had well-cultivated farms, horses and cattle, and each a very good house. Having prepared their cages, they were not long in finding birds to occupy them. A neighboring farmer who had two grown daughters soon became father-in-law to the two thrifty Scotchmen. Thus in the midst of abundance such as they had never seen in the old world did these two young men pass their days in cheerful labor, looking forward to the possibilities of the future, and glad that they had left a narrow world, too old to change its ways. Many a time, when venison, prairie-chicken, or a rabbit steamed on their well-supplied tables, did the circumstance of the stolen hare present itself to their memory, and Geordie thought of his pale, pinched mother, whose wants could not always be supplied.
Often did they talk of home, of bonny Scotland, and the friends they left behind them. Robin dearly loved his kindred across the water; and when he received tidings of the death of his grandfather, and afterwards of his grandmother, he sighed that he should have no more kindly messages from these aged relatives. He often wondered what his parents would say if they could see the great country in which he had chosen a home.
In his letters he pictured his surroundings in glowing colors. These letters were eagerly read and their contents told over. They fell on the ears of one more interested than the others, and that one was Davie Murdoch's Jamie. He knew that his parents would not care to have him feel any special interest in that subject, so he concealed his thoughts for a time, but they were like a smouldering fire in his bosom.
CHAPTER XXIV. OVER LAND AND SEA.
Four years after Robert Lindsay left home he returned for a visit. He was now a millwright. He had not only mastered his trade, but he had surprised his employers by his originality and inventive genius. Satisfied with what he had accomplished, he thought himself entitled to a holiday. There was joy in the old farmhouse when Robert arrived. After all the others had greeted him Annie came forward, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
"Now that is what I call a bit partial," said her cousin James, her warm friend and her unceasing tormentor. "Here I hae been gaen in and out o' this house for three years and mair, and Annie has never gien me a kiss."
"Ye will gang in and out three years mair and I winna do it," said she, laughing, while a blush mantled her cheek at Jamie's unexpected complaint.
"Na, Annie, I willna be here three years mair, kiss or no kiss. I will be awa to Robin in America."
"Ye are joking now," said Aunt Belle.
"Not a bit of it. There is nae need o' three strang lads hanging about one small hame. Wullie does the ploughing, Archie can take my place, and I can very well be spared. Ye should hear, Robert, how Robin writes about that country."
"Now, dinna put it into his heid next," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"If there is gude fortune to be had for the taking, I might as weel hae it as ither people," said Robert, casting a wistful glance at the supper table. Travelling had made him hungry, and a whiff from one of the steaming dishes sharpened his appetite.
The mother announced supper, and all gathered at the table. Robert was the hero of the evening: he talked while others listened. He told them how pleasantly Alice was situated, and spoke well of her husband.
"Alice deserves to do weel," said the mother. "She was aye a dutiful daughter, and I mak no doubt she is a gude wife as weel."
Robert's holidays passed so quickly that when they were gone all wished he had but just come.
"I am not done thinking about America," said he, as he was about to leave. "Here I may work for ither people all the days of my life; there I might build a mill, and own it myself in the bargain. If Jamie Murdoch goes he will not go alone."
Davie Murdoch soon became aware that his son was making plans to leave home and kindred and follow Robin to America. He was heavy-hearted, for he knew that Jamie would sooner or later accomplish what he had made up his mind to do.
"It has a' come o' Robin's roving notions," said he to his wife. "Hoo can I let Jamie gang? He is the cleverest lad I hae; and he is o'er young to gang that far."
"I would be muckle grieved to part wi' him," said Jeannie, "but I canna blame the lad. What would he do here but herd sheep, or haud the pleugh for ither people? while in America he could shear his ain sheep, and guide his ain pleugh on his ain land. If I was young I would gang mysel."
"Hoot, woman!" said Davie, "dinna let the lad hear ye talk in that fashion. I am glad I hae nae sic notions. I am content to live and dee as my faither did before me. If I am as muckle respeckit as he was, I shall hae honor eneuch, and I am sure we dinna suffer for ony o' the necessaries o' life."
"That is true, Davie, but young people canna be content wi' auld ways. If our sons could do better for themselves than we can do for them, I wouldna haud them back."
Davie heaved a sigh, put on his bonnet, and went out to his accustomed toil.
The subject of America was never long undiscussed in the little cottage circle. Every time Jamie came home he was sure to introduce it.
"Do ye not fare weel eneuch wi' Archie Lindsay?" asked his father.
"Ay, I fare weel eneuch," said Jamie, "but I can never make a step forward. Nothing but America will satisfy me. I am twa-and-twenty years of age, and I can make my way now if ever I can. Wages are good there—twa or three dollars a day in harvest, Robin says—and I could soon earn enough to buy a farm, and stock it too. There is but ane thing would keep me at hame, and that is if ye should say, 'Ye shallna gang.' In that case I think I would grieve mair than you would to let me hae my way."
"Ye will leave us wi' sair hearts if ye gang, Jamie," said his mother, "but I wouldna want a mither's feelings to stand in the way o' your success. If ye maun gang, ye hae my consent and my blessing," said she, wiping her eyes with her apron as she spoke.
Jamie caught the first shadow of consent, and resolved to go the following spring. Before that time his cousin, Robert Lindsay, the millwright, had decided to go with him. The young emigrants wrote to Robin that they were coming, and gained the necessary information in regard to the journey.
With dim eyes and trembling fingers Davie Murdoch counted from his little hoard a sum which, added to his son's earnings, made the amount sufficient to defray the expenses of the journey. "And take this besides," said he as, parent-like, he laid five pounds more on the pile. "Seckness may overtake you, my bairn."
On the day appointed for the departure Archie Lindsay, who was to take Jamie as well as his own son to a railway station, came to Davie's cottage, accompanied by his wife and daughter; they had come to take leave of Jamie. They had become much attached to him in the three years he had lived under their roof.
There were no dry eyes in the cottage that morning. Davie took his son's hand, held it some moments, shook his head sadly, then turned away; he could say nothing. The mother could scarcely do more. She spoke a few words of counsel; then her voice was choked with sobs. The sisters were in tears, and Jamie's own eyes began to fill. He kissed his mother, his sisters, and his aunt Belle. When he came to Annie she proffered a kiss likewise.
"Weel, I hae gained this muckle, at ony rate, by gaen awa. A kiss frae Annie is a thing to remember," said he, trying to make light of his sadness.
Time and railroad trains do not wait, and the two young men with Mr. Lindsay drove rapidly away. Davie and his remaining sons went to their work—one to follow the plough, the other to tend the sheep on the hillside.
In less than two weeks our travellers had landed in New York, purchased tickets for the West, and were speeding towards the setting sun as fast as steam could carry them. Across the Alleghanies, across rivers in comparison with which those of Scotland were mere brooks, across States as large as kingdoms, through flourishing towns and busy cities, over far-reaching, level prairies, they hurried forward day and night, till they reached the Father of Waters, and crossed it. Still westward pursuing their course a day's journey, they reached at last their destination.
If the parting with home and friends was sad, the meeting with their cousin in America was very joyful. Robin, with a fine pair of horses, was at the station awaiting their arrival. Taking them and their trunks into his wagon, he drove away across the level prairie towards his own home. To the new-comers the country seemed a paradise. Far as their sight could reach a vast expanse of living green met their delighted eyes. Fields of waving grain, miles in extent, gave varied tints to the verdant landscape. Herds of sleek-haired cattle grazed on the unfenced fields of luxuriant prairie-grass. All around them flowers of scarlet, purple, gold, pure white, and delicate intermediate tints dotted the green enamel, glowed in the sunlight, nodded a welcome, or bowed their graceful stems in the breeze that undulated the ocean of green. Never had they conceived that earth in her primeval garb was so magnificent. Beyond answering a few simple questions about the friends at home, they could talk and think of nothing but the beauties of nature spread out before them. Many miles they rode across this varying and yet uniform garden; and when at length they reached the homestead a warm Western welcome awaited them.
"It is a braw hame ye hae," said Jamie, "and I am muckle pleased wi' all I see. But how is it that ye dinna speak your ain language? Hae ye grawn ashamed of your mither-tongue? Naebody would ken ye were a Scotchman at a'."
"No, I am not ashamed of it," said Robin, with a smile; "but it wears away after a while, where no one speaks that way. You will lose your Scotch too, Jamie; but it has done me good to hear you talk. It seems like a bit of Scotland, and I like you better for it."
Geordie McKay was not slow to visit and welcome his fellow-countrymen. He, too, thought of his old home across the waves, and his heart warmed towards it as he heard the familiar speech of his boyhood.
The new-comers went to work with a will, and at the end of three years James Murdoch had a farm of his own. He had bought improved land near his cousin Robin's. Robert Lindsay had built or helped to build two mills, and then he had gone to a fine wheat-producing region, where he was building a mill for himself.
When Jamie had the deed of his farm in his hands he went to spend the evening at Robin's. "I have made the last payment to-day," said he. "I own a hundred and sixty acres of land, and I am a happy man."
"That is more than you would ever have called your own in the old country," said Robin.
"You are right in that. I have succeeded even beyond my expectation; nevertheless I long for a sight of the faces I left in the far-away cottage."
"And do you not think I too have such a longing?"
"I suppose you have; but you have a wife and bairns. You can scarcely miss the old friends as I do."
"You must take a wife too, Jamie."
"If I could find a lass as good and as bonny as my cousin Annie, I might try to win her hand."
"Cousin Annie—ay, she was but young when I left the old country; but I mind she was fair to look at, and a pleasant child too. I wonder how they all look there now."
Jamie was not very long in finding a lass who would have compared not unfavorably with his cousin Annie. She was a cousin of Robin's wife, and the beautiful affection cherished for each other by these two families of cousins could scarcely have been equalled by any two brothers in the land. The grass was not suffered to grow upon the path between their pleasant homes. They loved to meet and talk of their old homes across the waters—of their dead as well as of their living friends. Robin could well remember his grandfather, honest Wullie, but Jamie could recall him only in his last days. He remembered how Alice Lindsay had tried to comfort his brother Wullie and himself when they first knew they were to lose their grandfather. Often, when thinking and talking of such things, they formed plans to go and see their relatives and the dear familiar scenes so far away. The prospect was still in the distance; but when they should become sufficiently prosperous they expected to make the journey.
CHAPTER XXV. SUNDAY; THE LAST DAY WITH OUR FRIENDS.
It was Sunday in the early summer, and Sunday in Scotland means more than it does in some countries. Children go to church with their parents through summer's heat and winter's cold; and in many families the greater portion of the time after service is spent with Bibles or Psalm-books in hand.
Davie Murdoch had been to church with his family. As they returned home he and his wife walked together; Maggie and Nannie were some distance in advance of their parents, and still farther on were Wullie and Archie.
"I canna help feeling a bit proud o' the lassies," said Davie, "they look sae fresh and weel the day. Are they not as bonny and as sonsie as ony parent could wish?"
"Oh, ay, Davie, they are that. But it is strange ye arena thinking o' what the minister said, as is your wont."
"I mind weel what he said, wifie; but I hae been thinking a good deal o' late o' the time not far awa when the lassies will nae longer be ours as they hae been; when we shall walk withoot them to the kirk, and they will gang anither road, and nae mair ca' the auld cot hame. So I maun enjoy their stay wi' us while I may."
"They winna gang for some months yet; dinna fash yoursel aboot that the day. Ye couldna expect them to bide always wi' us. Wullie will soon bring a wife hame; and it is weel that the lassies hae sic gude prospects o' hames o' their ain."
"Ay, it is weel; but they hae always been a bit nearer my heart than the laddies. Jamie comes next; but he is awa. Jamie is doing weel, by what we hear."
"Noo, Davie, I am nae like that. Of course ane feels mair tender o' lassies than o' laddies. Then wi' Jamie bein' awa, I hae times when I feel a bit tenderer for him too; but I couldna wish better sons than Wullie and Archie. And gin onything happened to them, I think ye would find oot they are as dear to your heart as ony o' your bairns."
"Nae doot, nae doot. It is but a notion, after a'. Archie says he willna marry—leastways, while his parents live. He says he wants to be aye free to help us, s'ould there be ony need o' 't. Saw ye ever mair thoughtfulness than that, Jeannie?"
"May the Lord bless him for his dutiful regard for his auld faither and mither!" said Jeannie.
They had now reached the cottage. The daughters had spread the table, and as soon as all were rested a little they sat down to their frugal meal. Let us look in at the open cottage-door. As Davie doffs his bonnet we can see that time has not passed him by, although it has dealt him no heavy blows. The crown of his head is bald, and his locks are flecked with the frosts of age. His brow is furrowed, but not deeply.
Beside him sits Jeannie, her silver hair peeping from beneath her cap-border. Her cheerful face wears now a seriousness befitting the Sabbath day. She sits as erect as in her prime, save when grace is said; then all heads are bowed. The sons sit on one side of the table and the daughters on the other. Wullie is not remarkable for good looks, unless we take the adjective in its moral sense; then it certainly would apply to him, for his countenance indicates a good and upright character. Archie's form and features are more pleasing than his brother's. He is naturally cheerful and talkative; but every semblance of mirth is now under proper restraint through respect for the day, and he appears as sedate as though he never cracked a joke or teased his sisters in all his life.
Maggie, tall and well formed, is fair, with bluish gray eyes and wavy brown hair. She is less ruddy than her sister, whose red lips and rosy cheeks would give her the advantage in regard to beauty but for the plainly perceptible national mark—high cheek-bones. Otherwise there is a close resemblance between the two. "It is well there is some difference," Archie had remarked, "or your sweethearts would make funny mistakes sometimes."
Sunday was strictly observed by the Lindsays also; but only one of their children was at home on that day, or indeed on any day; that one was Annie. But the others had not forgotten their early training; and, scattered as they were, and charged with the cares and responsibilities of active life, they had all been in God's house. Alice, happy in her family, and satisfied with the allotments of Providence, is training up her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Alexander has finished his course of study, and is following his uncle's profession in the capital.
And where is Jennie MacDuff? She too has been at the old church with her husband to hear his aged father expound the Word of God. So Donald McPherson's pew was filled, although his father and mother had ceased to worship here below, and had joined the general assembly and church of the firstborn in heaven. Donald the third was the staff and stay of his parents, being all that they wished him to be.
Professor James Murdoch, with his wife, his nephew, and his two sons—one a barrister, the other a physician—worshipped in a costly edifice, very unlike the homely stone structure of his early recollections. But not less devout were his feelings, for he remembered all the way the Lord had led him and his kinsfolk, and he bowed in grateful acknowledgment of His goodness.
Across the sea were hearts that longed for a sight of the dear old kirk and of the familiar faces which on that day had turned towards the aged man of God, Rev. John MacDuff. Robin McPherson, Robert Lindsay, and James Murdoch had each joined God's worshippers in the land of their adoption on that Sabbath morning. In the afternoon Robin and James walked out "to meditate in the field at the eventide" and contemplate the goodness of Him who sends seedtime and harvest; and, meeting as if by mutual consent at the fence which separated their little domains, they talked of the day and its observance in Scotland, of their far-away friends, and of a future meeting with them, perhaps in this world; but if not, they hoped to spend with them a never-ending Sabbath.
And here I close my story. In tracing the life of this Scottish peasant I have endeavored to show that a righteous man, even in a humble sphere, exerts an influence for good which remains to bless those who come after him; and that not only is he blessed in his day and generation, but the blessing extends to children's children.
Effie Patterson's Story.
BY LYDIA L. ROUSE.
INTRODUCTION.
This book has been written with a view of helping to perpetuate the memory of those zealous and courageous sons of Scotland who in the seventeenth century, through the long period of fifty years, struggled for their inalienable rights and privileges—their civil and religious liberty. Although every reader of history is more or less familiar with the events which transpired during this struggle, it may be well, for the sake of our younger readers, to give something of an outline of their course, as well as of the causes which led to them.
The persecuted people of Scotland were Presbyterians, having embraced the doctrines of the great reformer John Knox. But they are widely known by the name of Covenanters, because on several distinct occasions they signed a solemn agreement, or covenant, to adhere to their religious principles and to defend them against all opposition. Successive kings endeavored to force them to admit the royal claim to supreme authority in matters of religion and to adopt the Episcopal form of church government and worship; but the Scotch were faithful to their conscience and their Covenant, and the attempted interference with their religion engendered bitter animosity which ripened into open hostility.
The kings under whose reigns the Covenanters suffered were Charles I., Charles II., and James II.; but as early as the reign of James I. the royal power was unfriendly to Presbyterianism as offering too formidable a check to kingly despotism.
The history of this time, as regards the treatment of the dissenting Scots, is the history of a succession of tyrannies and cruelties that culminated in the reigns of Charles II. and James II. Edicts having failed to accomplish the wish of the king and his advisers, armed men were sent into Scotland to enforce conformity with the sword. Some battles were fought, in which the persecutors were generally victorious.
The dissenting pastors were driven from the parish churches, and Episcopalian ministers, or curates, many of whom were ignorant and vicious, were placed in their pulpits. But the Scots had no mind to hear them, and rather than adopt doctrines and modes of worship which in any degree savored of popery, they followed their spiritual guides into the fields, and there heard the Word of God expounded as they had been wont. These field-meetings, called "conventicles," were contrary to the wishes of the king, and ministration or attendance at them was prohibited by law, and declared punishable by fine, imprisonment, or exile, and even in some cases death. But the liberty-loving, conscience-obeying Covenanters continued to hold them whenever opportunity offered, sometimes in remote districts, sometimes in almost inaccessible places.
The Covenanters suffered great loss of property through fines and taxations. Robberies and barbarities almost unparalleled were perpetrated by the Highland hordes that were quartered on the southwestern part of Scotland for three months in the beginning of 1678. Still, however, the brave hearts of the heaven-trusting Covenanters were unbroken and their spirit unsubdued. They were hunted like criminals; but they either evaded their pursuers or met death with composure and willingness, esteeming it preferable to apostasy. They have left us many striking proofs of God's sustaining grace.
Living in dens and caves of the earth, suffering from cold and hunger, cut off from intercourse with their families, and even with their fellow-beings, many of them became zealots, and advocated measures which the more prudent could not approve; and thus dissensions arose in their midst and increased the difficulties of their situation. We can scarcely be surprised at this state of things when we remember their privations, their solitude, and their sufferings; their ideas took color and shape from their surroundings. No wonder that some of them were extremists. The husband and father was no longer soothed by the music of the wife's soft lullaby to the infant resting on her knee, and the constant youth heard only in imagination the sweet sound of the voice he most loved. But their ears were assailed by the ungentle sound of the wintry wind as it roared in the tossing tree-tops or moaned over the dreary moors. With sad hearts they pictured their firesides as they had been in other days, and wondered if they should outlive the storm and again find rest in the peace of home.
We cannot read of these worthy people, who suffered so much for conscience' sake, without feeling thankful for the religious liberty which their struggles helped to secure for us, and rejoicing that the day of religious persecution is past. And when we consider the vast number that perished rather than barter the favor of God for that of an earthly sovereign, we are filled with admiration as well as sympathy.
EFFIE PATTERSON'S STORY.
CHAPTER I. THE HOME CIRCLE.
Long have I been called by my neighbors "Auld Effie," and yet I am but threescore and seven years old. But I have lived in troublous times, and am older than my years. And although the Kirk of Scotland has had rest these many years, Auld Effie's heart is still sore. My kinsfolk need not now lay down their lives for conscience' sake; but, alas! few of them were left to me when those years of bloodshed were overpast. It is for those dear friends who were cut down in the bloom of youth, in manhood's prime, and even in old age, that I often make moan. And I hold it to be a sacred duty to keep in remembrance our martyred kindred and countrymen. It is with the wish and hope that the tales I have to tell may help to keep before the minds of Scotland's sons and daughters the value of their religious privileges that I have in this the evening of my days taken upon myself the task to write as best I can, with my poor wit, my own experience and the sufferings of my family and friends during those terrible years.
I was born in 1646 in the county of Ayr; here have I lived, and here, may it please God, I will die. My father, John Patterson, was the schoolmaster in our village. My mother was one Christie Henderson, from Dumfries. Her parents came to our town when she was a grown lass; two years later she wedded my father. I was the youngest bairn born to them. Three sons and a daughter besides myself completed our family. My sister's name was Mary, and my brothers were named James, Richard and Stephen; but to us they were Jamie, Richie, and Steenie.
My father was a man of strictest integrity, firm and stern. Perhaps the habit of ruling his little school made him more stern than he naturally was; at any rate, he seldom smiled, and he never indulged in frivolous conversation. Our noisy play was instantly checked when our father entered the house; not so much from fear as from respect, for my father was a man to command respect. After the lapse of so many years I still think of him as the embodiment of all that is good, true, and noble. But we look at our friends with partial eyes, and I doubt not many have thought as well of their own father.
My mother was truly a fit companion for him, although she thought him far superior to herself. She had a profound respect for him at all times; almost every important question concerning the management of domestic affairs she brought to him for his opinion or decision. "Use your own judgment, Christie," he would often say; "it will never lead you far astray."
It is surprising what cheerfulness and comfort my mother diffused throughout our household. She was constantly employed; and I may say without exaggeration that, owing to her tact and taste, no family of our means made so decent an appearance in the kirk as did ours. Nothing could be more serene than her own face as with her whole family she sat in the kirk listening to the Word of God as it was read and expounded by our spiritual leader. I could not but steal looks at her sometimes when she thought my eyes were where hers were—on the face of the speaker. She was not what one would call bonnie, but it was a right motherly face she had.
The children were early sent to school, for my father sought to impress our minds with the idea that we were in the world to be useful workers, and not idlers; and to fit us for usefulness he held education to be the chief means. When not in school we were always busy in the house or in the garden, for all the work of the family was done by its own members. Our home was well out of the village; we owned a house and garden, and rented some land forbye, for we aye kept cows and sheep. My mother had been reared in the country. She made butter and cheese; she spun and wove the wool of our flocks into cloth, and made the garments for our family with her own hands until her daughters were old enough to help her. My father worked in the garden; and he early taught his sons to handle the spade and the hoe. All worked from dawn to dark; and when the evening lamp was lighted my father or one of the lads read, while my mother sewed and Mary and I were busy with the family knitting.
We were kept in school longer than most children were, for my father thought it a shame for any one to be ignorant, and would not be satisfied till all his children could write their mother-tongue as it should be written.
Ours was a well-ordered home, and a happy one, till the troubles of the times brought sorrow into almost all the homes of Scotland.
CHAPTER II. THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS.
While I was yet young I often heard people talk about the troubles that had beset, and were likely still to befall, the Kirk of Scotland. As I grew older I comprehended what was meant by the troubles of the kirk, for it was my lot to live through one period of her persecution, and to see her deliverance in the Lord's own good time. Troubles assailed the kirk during the greater part of the long reign of James VI. of Scotland and I. of England. He had no love for Presbyterianism, and endeavored to establish Episcopacy among us; and many a faithful minister bore imprisonment or banishment for the truth and conscience' sake. Charles I. was even more self-willed than his father. He could not endure that we should have a church different from his own, or that the king's will should not rule in all things. In 1637 he ordered a new and popish Service-Book to be used in the Scottish churches instead of the liturgy of John Knox, which had been in use for many years. Our people could not accept it. They humbly petitioned the king that they might be allowed to worship God in their own way; but he paid no heed to their petition, except to strive the more to force Episcopacy upon us.
Seeing that our religious liberty was threatened, the Scottish people signed a solemn agreement, called "the National Covenant," pledging themselves before God to adhere to the pure doctrine of his Word as confessed by the Scottish Kirk, and to defend it and each other against all attacks. This Covenant was first signed in Grayfriars Kirk and kirkyard in Edinburgh on February 28 of the year 1638.
My father was in the prime of life at the time of the signing of the Covenant. He did not go to Edinburgh with the vast throng that came from far and near to sign it—and folk say that many of them wrote their names with their own blood—but that did not prevent him from putting his name to it, for copies of it were carried through the whole country. Gentle and simple signed it, and he was not slow to set his name with those of so many of his fellow-countrymen. From this time a cloud of war began to form and gather blackness.
When it appeared that the king was resolved to enforce obedience to himself by the sword, our people, convinced of their duty to obey God rather than man, made preparations to insure their liberty of conscience.
My father's occupation prevented him from enrolling his name as a soldier. But he was no disinterested spectator of his country's troubles. Many were the consultations held under our own roof at the time of the first uprising of the Covenanters; many a "God-speed" did he bid those who went, and many a prayer did he put up for those who should stand in battle.
The first army was soon disbanded, as you will remember; for King Charles, seeing our forces so strong, made concessions to meet the demands of our people, though that these were made in good faith it would be difficult to believe. Peace, indeed, lasted but a short time. The king, displeased with the decision of the General Assembly condemning Episcopacy in Scotland, gathered another army; and again the Covenanters took the field. This time they advanced into England, and their success prepared the way for a treaty with the king, which was concluded in 1641.
Meanwhile the great conflict ending in civil war broke out between Charles and the English Parliament, and gave him something to do nearer home; and the spread of Presbyterianism in England, together with the "Solemn League and Covenant" for its defence and for the protection of the liberties of the kingdoms which the English Parliament and its adherents made with our Scotch nobles and people in 1643, freed our kirk from molestation during a period of several years.
On the civil struggles of that period, and on the dissensions within the kirk itself, between the stricter and the laxer Covenanters, which followed the lamented execution of King Charles, the coronation of his son in Scotland, his defeat and flight, and the establishment of Cromwell in power over Scotland as over England, I will not dwell. With the welcome period of civil peace between 1652 and 1660 begin my recollections.
Between these peaceful years my brothers Jamie and Richie married. Jamie was a stonemason. He bought a lot in the village and built a comfortable house for himself, so that he took his bonnie bride to a home of her own. Richie followed his father's profession. He and his wife lived seven miles away from us. Mary was betrothed to our own parish minister, Alexander Ramsay by name; and in June, 1659, a year before Charles II. was restored to his father's throne, they two were married.
Steenie and I were then left to each other, and well were we satisfied with each other's companionship. At the time of my sister's marriage I was a strong, well-grown lass of thirteen, and Steenie was nearly two years older. Oh, when I think of those early years, and remember all that Steenie and others were to me, I feel that my heart has long lain low with them in the darkness of the grave. No days now are like those days; no sunshine so bright, no air so soft and balmy. Even the flowers seem changed. I think of those dear friends as I sit alone in the gloaming, and my tears often fall fast, although I feel sure that theirs are dried for ever. But human nature is weak, you know, and God knows it too; this is my comfort, for he will not think that my tears are rebellious.
I cannot pass over that pleasant period of our lives without again speaking in detail of our family as it then was. My father was slightly bent, though more with a scholar's stoop than under the weight of years. His locks were silvered, but his eye was bright and his judgment sound. He still taught the lads and lassies of the village, and he ruled them well.
My mother showed age less than my father. I remember well how all our family looked when Jamie's firstborn was first taken to the kirk. My mother appeared saintly in her peacefulness. Margaret, the bairn's mother, was much affected with the solemnity of the occasion—bringing her young bairn for the first time up to the house of God. Her heart was full of prayer that grace might be given her to bring him at last to the home of the blest above. Margaret and my mother were much alike, and were drawn together sympathetically.
Richie and Ellen, his bride, were also there. She wore a white dress and a knot of wild roses at her throat. She looked very sweet and innocent.
Sister Mary had dressed with unusual care. She wore blue; it suited her well. She could see that in the wee mirror that hung in our own tidy room. Besides, had not Alexander Ramsay told her so? and was not that enough for Mary? Dear Mary! Hers was a winsome smile, and her step was like the fall of the snowflake, as my mother well said. I can see her now with my mental vision, as by the side of Alexander she walked that day from the kirk to Margaret's door. Poor gentle one! she was a sweet blossom tenderly nourished, only to be rudely crushed in the freshness of her bloom.
In summer we sometimes spent the time between the morning and afternoon service in the kirkyard. Many a time have Steenie and I strayed side by side to its farthest limits deciphering the quaint epitaphs on the rough, weather-beaten stones, only recalled from our ramble by a sight of the blue bonnet of the tall bell-ringer as he passed to his duty. Ay, ay, those Sabbaths, how they throng in my memory! Peacefully they began, peacefully they ended, the busy weeks intervening—busy, but not wearisome, for willing hands make labor light.
Often when our work was done Steenie and I rambled far away at the sunset hour, for we loved to watch the setting from the brae on the farther side of the great hill that rises to the west of us. Sometimes, in returning, we went to David McDougal's. His was a good and happy family, and none better knew their Bibles. But after our sister was married we oftener turned our steps towards the manse, the abode of peace, love, and contentment. I often think Eden is most nearly restored to us in the homes of well-ordered families, where industry and unity of purpose prevail, where God is feared, and mankind regarded as a brotherhood.
I would fain linger amid these pleasant scenes, but I cannot. The peaceful years sped on far too fast for what was to follow.
CHAPTER III. THE SWORD UNSHEATHED.
Soon after Charles II. was seated on the throne troubles began to thicken around us. Our kirk was early made to feel that it must either come under the yoke of a king as faithless and despotic and as determined to enforce the royal supremacy and Episcopacy as his father and grandfather, or struggle for its independence, or rather, its liberty to regard and obey our Lord Jesus Christ as the true and only Head of the church.
The Marquis of Argyle, one of the noblest supporters of our cause, was arrested, condemned, and beheaded on the 27th of May, 1661. The excellent minister, James Guthrie, was executed a few days later. This was the commencement of deeds so foul that even the stoutest of heart must ever sicken at their rehearsal.
Most of our ministers were ejected from their churches and driven from their parishes, Alexander Ramsay with the rest. He and Mary and his father and mother took refuge at our house. Curates were placed in the vacant churches, and a tax was soon imposed on all who did not go to hear them. Absences were not uncommon, for we all felt as did Bessie McDougal, who said she "couldna thole sic preaching as thae curates gie us." Accordingly we went to hear our own ministers in the field. The royal bloodhounds, as they have been well called, were for some time kept at bay by the payment of fines; but there came a time when nothing would satisfy them but the slaughter of the Lord's chosen ones.
We knew that gangs of men were scouring the country, imprisoning, and sometimes even slaying, those who would not renounce the Covenant, now declared treasonable; and we knew not how soon we might fall into their hands.
My father was one day returning from school, leading Jamie's wee lad by the hand, when five of his countrymen, who had been bribed to do evil deeds, rode past him. Suddenly they wheeled about, faced him, and eyed him sharply.
"By my faith," said one of their number, "we hae lighted on rare game the day. Now we hae the auld deil himsel," mistaking father for Donald Ramsay, who had been a bearer of the blessed tidings of the gospel for more than forty years in our kirk.
It was vain for father to tell them that he was the village schoolmaster. They would not believe him. He had a learned look, and piety was stamped on every lineament of his face. The persecutors were not slow to discern between the true and the false. Those who counted the cause of Christ dearer than life showed in their countenances something of the holy zeal that lifted them above fear.
"Ye say ye are nae auld Ramsay; then where is he? for it is hereabouts he bides," said the same ruffian.
Father was silent.
"If ye canna tell where he is, we will hae to think ye are auld Ramsay yoursel. Ye may as weel gang to prayer, for if ye dinna gie up your obstinacy ye may soon measure your length here on the heath."
Wee Jamie did not fully comprehend; but thinking that evil was about to befall his grandfather because he was taken for another, he called out, "Auld minister Ramsay bides wi' us, down at grandfather's."
"Do ye tell us fause, ye young whelp?" said one, and he shook the bairn roughly.
"Alas! Jamie, you should have held your peace," said my father.
"Ye needna chide the bairn, for we will hunt out a' the ranting Covenanters in Ayrshire, that I can pledge ye," said another.
"That is, if you will be allowed," said father.
"Haud your auld tongue!" he retorted.
Father had a mind to turn in another direction, and so lead the soldiers away from his own house. He stood a moment irresolute. But Jamie, anxious to escape, ran forward, calling out, "Are ye nae coming home, grandfather?"
"Follow the lad," said the leader, "and we will hae to sharpen the auld man's wits wi' the prick o' a lance, since he doesna ken the raud hame."
Suiting the action to the word, he wounded father's right arm. All this was told us afterwards.
Mother saw them in the distance, and comprehended that the king's soldiers were abroad doing deeds of violence; but she did not know that her husband was a prisoner, and that they were coming directly to our house.
"What shall we do if they come here!" she exclaimed.
But we could do nothing but commend ourselves to the care of the heavenly Keeper.
Alexander was studying against the field-meeting on the Sabbath; his father was straining his feeble sight to read the Psalms of David, and his mother sat knitting long, warm stockings against the winter's cold. Mary's deft fingers were fast plying the needle, and I was seated at the wheel, the buzzing of which mingled with the sounds that came from the reapers in a neighboring field. This scene of industrious, peaceful home-life was at once changed to one of anxiety and alarm.
My own mind was distracted with gloomy apprehensions. What was about to take place I knew not; but I had every reason to fear the worst. There too was my good, gentle sister, in regard to whose health we were already anxious. And there was Steenie, impetuous and bold, and most likely to anger the soldiers against himself. For myself I did not think to fear.
I begged Mary that she would hide herself, so that, if they invaded our home, she might escape the scene of disturbance and excitement; and we all joined in entreating the aged man of God to seek safety also. But he refused. I have never forgotten his look at that time. He rose and made a gesture that we should cease pleading with him.
"Wherefore should I flee?" said he. "Have I not bided safely under the shadow of the Almighty more than threescore and ten years? No, I will not leave this roof. With the help of God, Donald Ramsay will not fear to face these workers of iniquity. Besides, it may be that I shall have a word given to me to speak in season to even these, the enemies of our church and Covenant. In the meantime let none be fearful. Oh, who of us, think you, is worthy to suffer for Christ's sake? Who would not, if need be, lay down his life to win a 'well done' from the Master?"
We all gazed at him. It seemed to me that he looked like one of the old prophets. His hoary head was raised; his eyes were bright with enthusiasm; no, it was not that: it was holy zeal, it was holy fire. His usually pale cheek glowed; his tongue was loosed; his burning words went to our souls as he continued:
"Oh, shall any of us this day be glorified? Shall any of us for this day's work wear a martyr's crown throughout eternity? Is any one among us faint-hearted? God is with us and for us; therefore lift up the hands that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees. God never sends his children to do his work without giving them strength sufficient for their needs; and offences must come. Ah, when shall the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms of our God!"
Assuming the attitude of prayer, he raised his hand towards heaven, and with solemn voice he said, "Let us call upon the Lord in our time of trouble.
"'Our Father who art in heaven,' in these, the words of thy holy Son, we come to thee, for it was he who taught us to call thee Father. And since thou art our Father, and art more willing to give good gifts unto us than earthly parents are to give them to their children, help us, at this time, to feel assured that thou hast our best interests lying on thy fatherly heart. O thou who canst control the hearts of all men, thou who canst even be a wall of fire about thy children, look in compassion upon us this day. We are come into deep waters. The enemies of thine own church are even now at the thresholds of our homes. But we know well that thou art still nearer, even in the heart of every believing child of thine. And should there be any one here that fears them that can kill the body only, let such a one prove steadfast to Him whose power extends to both body and soul. Oh, fill us all with power from on high, so that we may, if called upon, even desire to suffer for Christ's sake, that we may be glorified with him. And oh, thou Holy One, who didst of thine own free will lay down thy life for the sins of the world, help us that we, thy followers, may none of us shame thee this day. So fill us with thy strength that we may be lifted far above all mortal fear. And should we have to seal our testimony with our blood, let us do it joyfully. O thou Blessed One, open thine arms to receive us as we come to the vale of shadows, and let all the mist and darkness flee away, that thou mayest stand revealed to us in all thy beauty; for thou wilt be there, according to thy word. Then, leaning on thee, we shall go to our heavenly inheritance; so shall we be for ever with the Lord. Amen."
When the prayer was ended we hastened to the window. They were very near, and what was our surprise and alarm to see father and wee Jamie driven before them. My courage seemed for a moment to fail me. "O Steenie, what will they do with father?" I asked.
"God only knows, Effie," replied he.
Pale and dumb we waited for the end.
"It is useless to contend with them," said Alexander. "Any act of self-defence would be deemed open rebellion. One must either take flight like a guilty wretch, or stand at his post a target for bullets, for aught he knows. But we have the promise of eternal life beyond, and that more than compensates for any ill that can befall us here."
Mary, who had been standing motionless with amazement, now uttered a cry of anguish as she saw her bleeding father led up the walk. Alexander put his arm protectingly about her.
They opened the door and entered. I sprang towards my father. "Are you much hurt?" I asked.
"Awa wi' ye!" said a soldier. "He will hae mony a waur scratch before we are dune wi' him."
Notwithstanding, as no further opposition was offered, I remained near my father. He stooped and kissed my forehead. Then I gave way to tears.
"Do not weep, my bairn," said he; "some good will come from all this seeming evil, since God allows it to be so."
"Little good, I am thinking. But I, for ane, hae nae mind for this kind o' work; and if ye will recant, ye can be set free," said one, less fierce than his fellows.
"It would not be wise to barter the favor of God for that of an earthly king," replied my father.
My mother, overcoming her fears, came forward and stood beside us. Father pressed a kiss on her pale cheek, and she leaned her head on his breast. "Alas! alas! the evil hour has come!" she exclaimed. "God help us!"
"Let the gudeman go," she said, addressing the ruffians. "What harm has he ever done to living mortal?"
"We will think twice before we grant your request, gudewife. But, if I dinna mistake, I see anither that we want still mair than him," and the speaker sharply eyed Donald Ramsay.
The aged man advanced to meet them. "Whom are you seeking?" he asked with fearless dignity.
"We seek auld Ramsay," they replied.
"I am he," he answered. "If your business is with me, let these go their way."
"You are the king's prisoner," said one of the gang, as he laid hands on him.
Then, to our great surprise, the aged wife rose and stood beside her husband.
"Forty-and-five years have we bided happily together," said she. "Let not death divide us. Where he goes I will go."
"Take the auld wife awa; we dinna want her," said the leader.
But she refused to leave her husband's side.
"Harl her awa!" said the same voice.
Her son advanced and entreated her.
"Be it so," said she. "It will be only for a wee while. Fare ye weel, Donald, till we meet in the kingdom of our God."
"Hae ye onything to settle wi' your Maker, Ramsay?" asked the leading voice. "If ye hae, ye maun be aboot it, for we'll mak quick wark wi' ye."
"Trusting in the merits of Christ, I am ready. I have lived these many years in daily communion with him. But how is it with you? Think of that. Take heed to your ways lest ye die in your sins. You go about seeking to slay the Lord's chosen. What will you say when their blood is required at your hands? Let me entreat you to turn from your evil ways and seek forgiveness; for no sins are so great that the blood of Christ cannot atone for them."
"Haud your ranting tongue!" shouted the leader.
But lest the words of the man of God should unnerve his men, he turned to them and gave his orders.
"Ye hae listened to this fulishness long enough. Gang to your wark."
But not one of the men moved.
"Ye ken weel what ye came here for," he continued. "Wha will lay low the enemy of his country and his king?"
On hearing this the aged man made his defence.
"Why should I be accounted an enemy of the king? He who is not true to the King of kings cannot be true to an earthly king. I hold that you are not true to him yourselves, since you encourage him to foul his hands with the blood of the saints."
"Shoot him!" cried the leader.
The order was not obeyed, and he who gave it shot him down with his own hand.
"Father, lay not this sin to their charge," said the dying man.
Alexander was at his side in a moment.
"Let me go to my old friend," entreated my father.
"Ye needna be in haste; ye will go to him soon enough," said the leader.
"Rejoice, O my friend, that you have been accounted worthy to suffer for Christ's sake," said my father.
The wounded man turned his eyes towards his wife, who had fallen into her chair. A faint smile mingled with his look of mortal agony as he whispered, "She is going too."
And so it proved. The shock had been too much for her feeble constitution; and though she still breathed, she never recovered consciousness, but passed away at set of sun.
So it indeed happened that Donald and Grisell Ramsay were not divided even in death.