Scotchmen do not easily let down their hearts, so these men—and men they were in every sense of the word—sat there by the fire telling each other wild, weird forest tales and stories of folk-lore until at length the daylight streamed in at the window—cold and comfortless-looking—and almost put out the fire. “Will you have breakfast, laird, before you start?” The laird said, “Yes.”
The fire was replenished, and soon the keeper’s great kettle was boiling. Then in less than five minutes three huge dishes of oatmeal brose was made, and—that was the breakfast, with milk and butter.
Towsie Jock never moved from under the tree all the night long. Poor Miss Campbell was weary, tired, and cramped, but she dared not sleep. Once or twice she caught herself half-dreaming, and started up again in fright, and thanked Heaven she had not gone quite to sleep.
How long, long the stars seemed to shine, she thought! Would they never fade? Would morning never, never come?
But see, through the green leafy veil a glimmer of dawn at last, and she lifts up her thoughts in prayer to Him who has preserved them.
How soundly Harry sleeps in her arms! How beautiful the boy looks, too, in his sleep! The young image of his stalwart father.
The light in the east spreads up and up, and the stars pale before it, and disappear. Then the few clouds there are, begin to light up, and finally to glow in dazzling crimson and yellow.
She is wondering when assistance will come. But the sun shoots up, and help appears as far away as ever.
“Towsie, Towsie,” mutters the boy in his sleep, and smiles.