This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd wit of Jean, served but to establish her husband in his purpose. The good wife picked up her knitting again, and for a time there was no sound but the click of her needles. Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned to Mary who, in the semi-darkness, had stretched out her hand and touched mine gently and said: "Mary, licht the cruise and bring the Book." In this fashion I became a willing servant at Daldowie. The days passed pleasantly. Andrew took a pride in his farm. "A Paterson," he would say, "has farmed here since Flodden. Man, that was an awfu’ thrashin’ you English gi’ed us yonder; but we’ve paid ye back tenfold. We sent the Stuarts tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily. The original little parcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made to an Andrew Paterson after that fateful combat, and each succeeding generation of his descendants had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation a few more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now Daldowie was a heritage of which any man might be proud. The love of his land was a passion in Andrew’s blood. My desire to make myself of use impressed him, and he taught me much agricultural lore. I found, as I had long suspected, that under his dour exterior there was much native shrewdness, and not a little pawky humour. But of that gift he had not such a rich endowment as his wife. In his silent way, he cherished a great affection for her, and though he had never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any terms of endearment, I knew that in his heart of hearts he regarded her as a queen among women. Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the hill-men. Of the justice of their cause he was absolutely convinced, and now and then his devotion to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism. He could find no good word to say for the powers that were arraigned against the men of the Covenant, and once, in a burst of anger, he said: "I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin’ wi’ Lag is a disgrace to my hoose, and nae guid can come o’t. She thinks that wi’ him for a frien’ she’s protectin’ them she likes best, but I’m thinkin’ the Almichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book: ’Him that honoureth Me will I honour,’ and ye canna honour the Lord by feedin’ ane o’ His worst enemies on guid farles o’ oatcake--wi’ butter forby. Hooever, ye ken her weel enough to understaun’ how thrawn she is, and ony word frae me would only mak’ her thrawner. Ye’re no’ mairrit yoursel’, and I doot ye ken nocht o’ the ways o’ women, but that’s ane o’ them." I had enough mother-wit to hold my tongue. Autumn ebbed--and the purple moor turned to bronze.