nd if I be a trifle
angered, in good faith it is not with thee. Come," and, as he spoke, he
stooped down and lifted her bodily from her saddle, and swung her up in
front of him on his great black horse. "Leave that stupid beast of thine
alone; 'twill find its way back to Elibank soon enough, I warrant. We
will go over the hill quicker in this fashion, and thou wilt have more
shelter from the rain. There is many a good nag on the hills at Harden,
and, when she hears of our wedding, I doubt not but that my mother will
have one trained for thee."

[Footnote 13: Cry.]

Poor Meg caught her breath. She did not feel so much afraid of her
husband now that she was close to him, and his arm was round her;
besides, the shelter from the rain was very pleasant; but still her
heart misgave her.

"Thy Lady Mother, she is very beautiful," she faltered, "and doubtless
she looked for beauty in her sons' wives."

Then, for ever and a day, all resentment went out of Willie of Harden's
heart, and pure love and pity entered into it.

"If her sons' wives are but good women, my mother will be well content,"
he said, and with that he kissed her.

And I trow that that kiss marked the beginning of Meg Scott's happiness.

For happy she always was. She was aye plain-looking--nothing on earth
could alter her features--but with great happiness comes a look of
marvellous contentment, which can beautify the most homely face, and she
was such a clever housekeeper (no one could salt beef as she could), and
so modest and gentle, that her handsome husband grew to love her more
and more, and I wot that her face became to him the bonniest and the
sweetest face in the whole world.

Sons and daughters were born to them, strapping lads and fair-faced
lassies, and, in after years, when old Wat o' Harden died, and Sir
William reigned in his stead, in the old house at the head of the glen,
he was wont to declare that for prudence, and virtue, and honour, there
was no woman on earth to be compared with his own good wife Meg.

DICK O' THE COW

"Now Liddesdale has layen lang in,
There is na ryding there at a';
The horses are a' grown sae lither fat,
They downa stir out o' the sta'.

Fair Johnie Armstrong to Willie did say--
'Billy, a riding we will gae;
England and us have lang been at feid;
Ablins we'll light on some bootie.'"

It was somewhere about the year 1592, and Thomas, Lord Scroope, sat at
e