oad for Edinburgh; which
city I reached within less than three hours; and before I had been in it
twenty minutes I was a soldier. I was afraid to write home, lest ye would
take steps to buy me off. On the fourth day after my enlisting I was landed
at Chatham, where I was subjected to a perpetual drill; and within thirty
hours after landing, I again embarked with my regiment; and when I wished
to have written, I had not an opportunity. Since then, I have been in two
general engagements and several skirmishes, in all of which I have escaped
unwounded. I have found that to read of a battle, and to be engaged in a
battle, are two very different things. The description is grand, but the
sight dismal. I trust that my behaviour as a soldier has been
unimpeachable. It has obtained for me the notice of our colonel, who has
promoted me to the rank of corporal, with the promise of shortly making me
a sergeant; and I am not without hopes, before the war is over, (of which
there at present is no prospect), of obtaining a commission; though it
certainly is not one in a thousand that has such fortune. Hoping,
therefore, my dear parents, that, under the blessing of Providence, this
will find you well, as it leaves me, and that I will live to return to ask
your forgiveness, I remain your affectionate and dutiful son,

"ROBERT GOLDIE."

* * * * *

Such was Robin's letter. "Read it again," said mother--and I read it again;
and when I had done so, she took it in her hand and pressed it to her lips
and to her breast, and wept for "her poor bairn." At last, in a tone of
despondency, she said--"But, oh, he doesna once particularly mention his
mother's name in't."

"He surely does," said I; "I think he mentions us both."

So I took the letter again into my hand, and, at the foot corner of the
third page, I saw what I had not observed before, the letters and
words--"_P.S. Turn over_."

"P.S." said his mother; "who does that mean?"

"Oh!" said I, "it means nobody. It means that we have not read all the
letter."

"Read it a', then--read it a'!" she cried.

And I turned to the last page, on the fold above the direction, and read--

"P.S.--But how am I to ask the forgiveness of my dear mother, for all the
distress and anxiety that my folly and disobedience must have occasioned
her. I start in my very sleep, and think that I hear her yearning and
upbraiding. If she knew how deep my repentance is, and h