“Aweel, mother,” said Janet, mildly—“that may a’ be; but there is nae cause for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, for nae harm was meant. I only dinna wish Florence to be putting his life in jeopardy for neither end nor purpose. I’m sure I wish that oor nobility would keep to their bargain, and allow the queen, though she is but a lassie yet, to be married to young king Edward, and then we might hae peace in the land, and ither folk would be married as weel as them.”
“We shall be married, Janet, my doo,” said Florence, gazing on her tenderly—“only ye bide a wee.”
Now, it must not be thought that Janet loved her country less than did her mother or her betrothed husband; but, while the land of blue mountains was dear to her heart, Florence Wilson was yet more dear; and it was only because they were associated with thoughts of him that they became as a living thing, as a voice and as music in her bosom. For, whence comes our fondness for the woods, the mountains, the rivers of nativity, but from the fond remembrances which their associations conjure up, and the visions which they recall to the memory of those who were dear to us, but who are now far from us, or with the dead? We may have seen more stupendous mountains, nobler rivers, and more stately woods—but they were not ours! They were not the mountains, the rivers, and the woods, by which we played in childhood, formed first friendships, or breathed love’s tender tale in the ear of her who was beautiful as the young moon or the evening star, which hung over us like smiles of heaven; nor were they the fountains, the woods, and the rivers, near which our kindred, the flesh of our flesh, and the bone of our bone, sleep! But I digress.
“Tell me, Florence,” said Madge, “what mean ye by ‘bide a wee?’ Is there a concerted project amongst ony o’ ye, an’ are ye waiting for an opportunity to carry it into effect?”
“No,” answered he, “I canna say as how we hae devised ony practicable scheme o’ owrecoming our oppressors as yet; but there are hundreds o’ us ready to draw our swords an’ strike, on the slightest chance o’ success offering—and the chance may come.”
“An’ amongst the hundreds o’ hands ye speak o’,” returned Madge, “is there no a single head that can plot an’ devise a plan to owrecome an’ drive our persecutors frae the castle?”
“I doot it—at least I hae ne’er heard ony feasible-like plan proposed,” said Florence, sorrowfully.
Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, her chin resting on her hand. At length she inquired—“When go ye back to sell provisions to them again?”
“This day week,” was the reply.
“Then I shall tak my basket wi’ eggs an’ butter, an’ gae wi’ ye,” answered Madge.