“Sae there was my braw beau, Lieutenant Lichtbody, sittin’ on his hunkers on the dyke tap girnin’ at Carlaverock Jock an’ the Boreland Hielantman on baith sides o’ him, an’ tryin’ tae hit them ower the nose wi’ the scabbard o’ his sword, for the whinger itsel’ had drappit oot in what ye micht ca’ the forced retreat.  It was bonny, bonny to see; an’ whan the three cam’ up the loanin’ the neist day, ‘Sirs,’ I said, ‘I’m thinkin’ ye had better be gaun.  I saw Carlaverock Jock the noo, fair tearin’ up the greensward.  It wudna be bonny gin his Majesty’s officers had twice to mak’ sae rapid a march to the rear—­an’ you, Lieutenant Lichtbody, canna hae a’thegither gotten the better o’ yer lang sederunt on the tap o’ the hill dyke.  It’s a bonny view that ye had.  It was a peety that ye had forgotten yer perspective glasses.’

“And wad ye believe it, lassie, the threesome turned on the braid o’their fit an’ marched doon the road withoot as muckle as Fair-guid-e’en or Fair-guid-day!”

“And what said ye, grannie dear?” said Winsome, who sat on a low seat looking up at her granny.

“O lassie, I juist set my braid hat ower my lug wi’ the bonny white cockade intil’t an’ gied them ‘The Wee, Wee German Lairdie’ as they gaed doon the road, an’ syne on the back o’t: 

    “‘Awa, Whigs, awa’! 
    Ye’re but a pack——­’”

But the great plaid-swathed figure of Winsome’s grandfather turned at the words of the long-forgotten song as though waking from a deep sleep.  A slumberous fire gleamed momentarily in his eye.

“Woman,” he said, “hold your peace; let not these words be heard in the house of Walter Skirving!”

Having thus delivered himself, the fire faded out of his eyes dead as black ashes; he turned to the window, and lost himself again in meditation, looking with steady eyes across the ocean of sunshine which flooded the valley beneath.

His wife gave him no answer.  She seemed scarce to have heard the interruption.  But Winsome went across and pulled the heavy plaid gently off her grandfather’s shoulder.  Then she stood quietly by him with one hand upon his head and with the other she gently stroked his brow.  A milder light grew in his dull eye, and he put up his hand uncertainly as if to take hers.

“But what for should I be takin’ delicht in speakin’ o’ thae auld unsanctified regardless days,” said her grandmother, “that ’tis mony a year since I hae ta’en ony pleesure in thinkin’ on?  Gae wa’, ye hempie that ye are!” she cried, turning with a sudden and uncalled-for sparkle of temper on her granddaughter; “There’s nae time an’ little inclination in this hoose for yer flichty conversation.  I wonder muckle that yer thouchts are sae set on the vanities o’ young men.  And such are all that delight in them.”  She went on somewhat irrelevantly, “Did not godly Maister Cauldsowans redd up [settle] the doom o’ such—­’all desirable young men riding upon horses—­’”