‘Although he pretended that he was heart-hale again, I cou’d see that the battle my poor laddie was fightin’ in his ain breast was owre hard for him. Two or three days after he was beyond his usual hour o’ comin’ in to his dinner, and I fand mysel’ unco uneasy about him, for he was aye particular to the hour. It was sax o’clock before he cam hame. “What keepit ye, my laddie?” says I, “ye’re far ayont your time.” “I was busy,” says he, careless like,—and I didna think ony mair about it. Next day he cam hame in the middle o’ the day, “What’s wrang now, Willie?” says I, “are ye no weel, that you are hame at this hour?” He sat for a long while without saying a word, and then burst into tears,—“O no, mother! I’m no weel, nor have na been weel this mony a day; but there will soon be an end o’t, for I’m gaun to leave the town.” “My goodness! laddie, whare are ye gaun? what do ye mean?” “I canna hide it ony langer, mother; 1 am listed for a soldier, and I have to march this night to join my regiment.” “Listed!” said I, and the word stuck in my throat, “O! no, Willie, that canna be sae;” but I could see by his face that it was owre true—he wasna guilty o’ telling lees. “O! then, for Godsake, for my sake, if ye dinna wish to send your auld mither to her grave, gang and gie them back their siller. I’ll sell every thing I hae to get ye free. O haste ye, William, and pay them the smart.” Willie shook his head,—“It’s owre late for that.” “Then ye’re lost, my bairn—my a’ that I have for your father—my only dependence! O! and where is your regiment?” “In Portugal.” I didna hear ony mair, my head grew dizzy, the cauld sweat broke on my face; I thought I was dyin’, and I was happy at it.