In the chill gray of an autumnal morning Janet McAdam awoke in her new home a few days after her father's burial. With the first dawning of consciousness came always the leaden weight of grief. But she had been prepared for changes the most dreadful; and with the remembrance of her loss came the comforting thought that her father had entered into his rest, though rough had been his exit from this world of trouble. In this thought she found some consolation. "No storm can reach him now in the calm haven he has entered," she murmured. She rose and dressed herself with her usual care; then, kneeling down, she asked for strength equal to her day.
In an adjoining room Bessie McDougal was already busy with her morning duties. With a huge pair of tongs she drew from the bed of ashes in the fireplace the brands she had buried the night before. These she placed close to the back-log, and, laying on some bits of wood, she soon had a blaze that crackled and roared in a right comfortable, homelike way. She was hanging the kettle over the fire when Janet entered the room.
"How hae ye sleepit, my bairn?" she asked.
"I have slept quite well, thank you. Can I help you now?"
"Nae, dearie, nae. The kettle will nae mair than boil before I am in frae the byre. Tak ye the Ward of God, and seek out a portion suited to your need."
Bessie went out to do the work that Robert would have done if he could have remained at home. She unfastened the door of the byre, went in, looked around to see that all was right, and gently patted the cow. "Puir beastie, I maunna forget ye amid a' the troubles," she said, thinking aloud. She fed her with a liberal hand, then scattered grain for the fowls. These were all she had to care for now, for the soldiers had taken from her whatever they liked. Having finished her work there, she returned to the house.
The kettle was already boiling. She prepared the morning meal, spread the table, and the two sat down. Short and simple was the prayer of thankfulness for daily bread which the good woman offered. For a while they ate in silence, for trouble aye makes us think more and speak less. Bessie's voice at length broke the stillness. Pointing to the head of the table, she said,
"It was there David aye sat, and there," pointing to the window-sill, "he laid his bonnet. And it was on that side Robert sat. Alas! the ane will come nae mair, and the ither maun steal his chance if he comes. These are times to try the strongest faith;" and she wiped her tearful eyes. Then observing that the other was taking very little food, she spoke more cheerfully:
"Janet, my bairn, ye maun do better than this at your meals, and graw stoot."