The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in the summer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-coloured clouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of a gentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beech and hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowans hung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wild raspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooks the bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Nature provides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what of the more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which in September was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing in rich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! what indeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woeful drought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushed the reapers song into the stillness of despair? I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at a standstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone, but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, and Nithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, their only harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to the once fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastating breath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wrought this woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek. The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power over Scotland had been given, had swept the southern and western counties with a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went, and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of the soil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries of life, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come upon them, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives. And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered, whether life could be called a boon. It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar to the Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed their songs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice of the river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender and melancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, and the brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to the response of the whispering breeze.