woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay.

"Our good friend himself!" ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise. "What has
turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here too! What has happened?"

"Where is my son John?" demanded Ramsay. "Are you followed?"

Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his eye, took
her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak.

"Oh, heaven have mercy on me!" screamed Mary Musgrove, as she threw
herself upon a bed, "something dreadful has happened."

"For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!" said David Ramsay,
instantly turning pale.

"John Ramsay is hurt," faintly articulated the mother, and Mary, rising
from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance on which was seated
the most agonizing attention. Andy, the hero of the exploit we have
heretofore related, also pressed into the presence of the same group,
and a death-like silence pervaded the whole party.

Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to
Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy
errand, and then flung himself into a chair.

"John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son,
mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories.
The heartiest curses upon them!"

"Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in
my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down
her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It
isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!"

At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her
father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At
length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was
followed by the most piteous wailing.

The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well
as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations,
accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier.

When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose
from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood
endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing
Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone,

"John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I
expected it! It was his failing to follow his