"Here's ill tidings, Sir!" said Sam to Father. "Miss Flora's letter was brought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie's a' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. He brings news o' a gran' battle betwixt the Prince and yon loon they ca' Cumberland,--ma certie, but Cumberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!--and the Prince's army's just smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the Highlands. Ill luck tak' 'em!--though that's no just becoming to a Christian man, but there's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em off even wi' scissors. 'Twas at a place they ca' Culloden, this last week gane: and they say there's na mair chance for the Prince the now than for last year's Christmas to come again." Father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forth into the hall to speak with the horseman, whom Sam had served with a good supper. Ambrose followed, and so did my Aunt Kezia, for she said men knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not Bessy would take the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. Hatty was not in the room, and Flora had carried off her letter, which was from my Uncle Drummond. So Ephraim and I were left alone, for, somewhat to my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest. "Cary," he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "I have had news, also." It was bad news--in a moment I knew that. His tone said so. I looked up fearfully. I felt, before I heard, the terrible words that were coming. "Duncan Keith rests with God!" Oh, it was no wonder if I let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands, and wept as if my heart were breaking. Not for Colonel Keith. He should never see evil any more. For Annas, and for Flora, and for the stricken friends at Monksburn, and for my Uncle Drummond, who loved him like another son,--and--yes, let me confess it, for Cary Courtenay, who had just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it except with the outside pretence of something else. "Did you care so much for him, Cary?" What meant that intense pain in Ephraim's voice? Did he fancy--And what did it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears and speak. "Did you care so little?" I said, as well as I could utter. "Think of Annas, and his parents, and--And, Ephraim, we led him to his death--you and I!" "Nay, not so," he answered. "You must not look at it in that light, Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties by consequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poor souls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I would change with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary, somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either Miss Drummond or you." I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all were settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper person to write?