ll about the
journey? And if I do not, it will look like a great gap in my tale.
Well, my Uncle Drummond took us to Hawick--but stop! I have not left
Abbotscliff yet, and here I am coming to Hawick. That won't do. I must
begin again.

Mr Keith and Angus marched on Thursday night, with a handful of
volunteers from Tweedside. It was hard work parting. Even I felt it,
and of course Angus is much less to me than the others. Mr Keith said
farewell to my Uncle and me, and he came last to Flora. She lifted her
eyes to him full of tears as she put her hand in his.

"Duncan," she said, "will you make me a promise?"

"Certainly, Flora, if it be anything that will ease your mind."

"Indeed it will," she said, with trembling lips. "Never lose sight of
Angus, and try to keep him safe and true."

"True to the Cause, or true to God?"

"True to both. I cannot separate between right and right."

I thought there was just one second's hesitation--no more--before Mr
Keith gave his solemn answer.

"I will, so help me God!"

Flora thanked him amidst her sobs. He held her hand a moment longer,
and I almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. But
suddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes,
and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than--"God bless you,
dear Flora. Farewell!"

Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye:
but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith's, which he had not
spoken, and I wondered what it was.

We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o'clock next morning. Flora and I
were in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird's
servant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, and
Wedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, and
nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, "Take care of my
bairn. The Lord's taking them both from their auld father. If I be
bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

"The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend," said my Uncle Drummond.
"Surely you see the need to part with them?"

"Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to be
lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss." Then he turned
to Annas. "God be with thee, my bonnie birdie," he said: "the auld
Grange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a word
of thy welfare as oft as thou canst."

"As often as ever I can, dear