Jean was a hale, active woman of sixty, with a fine handsome face, but no figure to speak of--a hard-headed, hard-working, God-fearing Scotch woman. She had not married over young, but was five-and-thirty years of age, a sensible and settled person, when she bestowed herself and her savings on Andy Gowdy, a small farmer body, with a little money, and a keen desire to better his position. The couple had taken a long lease of Ardnashiel sheep farm, because being twenty miles from a railway it was cheap; there was plenty of water, fair grazing, and a comfortable stone house on the moor. Here for several years they struggled on bravely, through terrible winters and wet springs, and were at last beginning "to see their way." Unhappily, one dark morning, when the river was coming down in spate, Andy, in endeavouring to ford it, with his horse and cart, was drowned. The fierce mountain torrent turned over the cart, amidst the boulder stones, as if it were a child's toy, and despite of the desperate struggles of the fine young horse to effect a landing, he and his master were swept away to their death. The body of Andy was recovered three miles down the glen. There was loud lamentation for him among the neighbouring farmers and shepherds, and a great concourse from afar attended the funeral, when he was buried in an almost forgotten churchyard among the hills. The loss of a fine young horse, the marks of whose frantic hoofs were imprinted on the banks for years, was almost equally deplored. He had lately cost thirty pounds in Perth, and the tragedy was never related without due mention of his fate. Andy Gowdy was drowned, and his widow Jean reigned in his stead. The poor woman found it no easy matter to carry on the farm, and to give her children a bit of schooling; what with minding the bairns, the housework, and the sheep, she was often on the point of breaking down under her burthen, and it is a fact that only for the exertions of three notable collie dogs they might almost have starved. But Jean Gowdy, a woman of true Highland tenacity and indomitable courage, struggled on bravely. Her children throve, thanks to the keen mountain air and the good porridge and milk. The boys, Andrew and Jock, were now able-bodied men, and Maggie, their sister, was a fine sonsie lassie of two-and-twenty. She had received some sort of an education, for their mother had sent them by turns to an aunt in Stirling, and they were all great readers--what else was there to do in the long winter nights? even when their mother drove them to bed at eight o'clock and reminded them that their grandmother, who talked only Gaelic, had always retired at dark. But these were different days, they declared, and no Scotch folk would now consent to pass three-quarters of their time in bed--in order to save lamp oil!