What I shall do, perhaps I myself yet know not; but tempt me no farther by reproachful words--you have already made wounds more than you can ever heal." "It is well, my son," said Elspat, in reply.

"Expect neither farther complaint nor remonstrance from me; but let us be silent, and wait the chance which Heaven shall send us." The sun arose on the next morning, and found the bothy silent as the grave.

The mother and son had arisen, and were engaged each in their separate task--Hamish in preparing and cleaning his arms with the greatest accuracy, but with an air of deep dejection.

Elspat, more restless in her agony of spirit, employed herself in making ready the food which the distress of yesterday had induced them both to dispense with for an unusual number of hours.

She placed it on the board before her son so soon as it was prepared, with the words of a Gaelic poet, "Without daily food, the husbandman's ploughshare stands still in the furrow; without daily food, the sword of the warrior is too heavy for his hand.