“No as if I was a better woman than my mother, or worthy o’ a better fate,” said the thoughtful mistress of Ramore; “for she was ane o’ the excellent of the earth, as a’body kens; and if ever a woman won to her rest through great tribulations, she was ane; and, if the Lord sent the cross, He would send the strength to bear it. But oh! Colin, my man, it would be kind to drown your mother in the loch, or fell her on the hill, sooner than bring upon her such great anguish and trouble as I have told you of this night.” “Now, wife,” said the farmer, interfering, “you’ve said your part. Nae such thought is in Colin’s head. Gang you and look after his kist, and see that a’ thing’s right; and him and me will have our crack the time you’re away. Your mother’s an innocent woman,” said big Colin, after a pause, when she had gone away; “she kens nae mair of the world than the bairn on her knee. When you’re a man you’ll ken the benefit of taking your first notions from a woman like that. No an imagination in her mind but what’s good and true. It’s hard work fechting through this world without marks o’ the battle,” said big Colin with a little pathos; “but a man wi’ the like o’ _her_ by his side maun be ill indeed if he gangs very far wrang. It mightna’ be a’ to the purpose,” continued the farmer, with a little of his half-conscious common-sense superiority, “as appeals to the feelings seldom are; but, Colin, if you take my advice, you’ll mind every word of what your mother says.” Colin said not a syllable in reply. He had got rid of the tears safely, which was a great deal gained: they must have fallen had the mistress remained two seconds longer looking at him with her soft beaming eyes; but he had not quite gulped down yet that climbing sorrow which had him by the throat. Anyhow, even if his voice had been at his own command, he was very unlikely to have made any reply.