I thought we were tolerably warm about the Prince's landing, at Abbotscliff; but when I got to Monksburn, I found the weather still hotter. The Laird is almost beside himself; Mr Keith as I never saw him before. Annas has the air of an inspired prophetess, and even Lady Monksburn is moved out of her usual quietude, though she makes the least ado of any. News came while we were there, that Sir John Cope had been so hard pressed by the King's army that he was forced to fall back on Inverness; and nothing would suit the Laird but to go out and make a bonfire on the first hill he came to, so as to let people see that something had happened. The Elector, we hear, has come back from Hanover, and his followers are in a panic, I hope they will stay there. Everybody agrees that the army will march southwards at once after this victory, and that unless my journey could take place directly, I shall have to stay where I am, at least over the winter. The Laird wishes he could get Annas out of the way. If I were going, I believe he would send her with me, to those friends of Lady Monksburn in the Isle of Wight. I thought Lady Monksburn looked rather anxious, and wistful too, when he spoke about it. Annas herself did not seem to care. "The Lord will not go to the Isle of Wight," she said, quietly. Oh, if I could feel as they do--that God is everywhere, and that everywhere He is my Friend! And then, my Uncle Drummond's words come back upon me. But how do you trust Christ? What have you to do? If people would make things plain! Well, it looks as if I should have plenty of time for learning. For it seems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that I am a fixture at Abbotscliff. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one's mind that they are not going to happen? About ten o'clock this morning, Flora and I were sewing in the parlour, just as we have been doing every day since I came here. My Uncle Drummond was out, and Angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet. Helen Raeburn put in her head at the door. "If you please, Miss Cary," said she, "my cousin Samuel wad be fain to speak wi' ye." For one moment I could not think who she meant. What had I to do with her cousin Samuel? And then, all at once, it flashed upon me that Helen's cousin Samuel was our own old Sam. "Sam!" I almost screamed. "Has he come from Brocklebank? Oh, is anything wrong at home?" "There's naething wrang ava, Miss Cary, but a hantle that's richt--only ane thing belike--and that's our loss mair than yours. But will ye see Samuel?" "Oh, yes!" I cried. And Flora bade Helen bring him in. In marched Sam--the old familiar Sam, though he had put on a flowered waistcoat and a glossy green tie which made him look rather like a Merry Andrew. "Your servant, ladies! Your servant, Maister Angus! I trust all's weel wi' ye the morn?"