heart, without
a word of thinking, spreading light and shadow there, and the soft
delight of sadness. Nevertheless, I would it were the savage snow around
me, and the piping of the restless winds, and the death of everything.
For in those days I had Lorna.

Then I thought of promise fair; such as glowed around me, where the
red rocks held the sun, when he was departed; and the distant crags
endeavoured to retain his memory. But as evening spread across them,
shading with a silent fold, all the colour stole away; all remembrance
waned and died.

'So it has been with love,' I thought, 'and with simple truth and
warmth. The maid has chosen the glittering stars, instead of the plain
daylight.'

Nevertheless I would not give in, although in deep despondency
(especially when I passed the place where my dear father had fought in
vain), and I tried to see things right and then judge aright about them.
This, however, was more easy to attempt than to achieve; and by the time
I came down the hill, I was none the wiser. Only I could tell my mother
that the King was dead for sure; and she would have tried to cry, but
for thought of her mourning.

There was not a moment for lamenting. All the mourning must be ready (if
we cared to beat the Snowes) in eight-and-forty hours: and, although
it was Sunday night, mother now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with
Lizzie, cutting patterns, and stitching things on brown paper, and
snipping, and laying the fashions down, and requesting all opinions, yet
when given, scorning them; insomuch that I grew weary even of tobacco
(which had comforted me since Lorna), and prayed her to go on until the
King should be alive again.

The thought of that so flurried her--for she never yet could see a
joke--that she laid her scissors on the table and said, 'The Lord
forbid, John! after what I have cut up!'

'It would be just like him,' I answered, with a knowing smile: 'Mother,
you had better stop. Patterns may do very well; but don't cut up any
more good stuff.'

'Well, good lack, I am a fool! Three tables pegged with needles! The
Lord in His mercy keep His Majesty, if ever He hath gotten him!'

By this device we went to bed; and not another stitch was struck until
the troopers had office-tidings that the King was truly dead. Hence the
Snowes beat us by a day; and both old Betty and Lizzie laid the blame
upon me, as usual.

Almost before we had put off the mourning, which as loyal subjects we