SUTOR’S SEAT. It was late on the evening of the first of June, sixteen hundred and seventy-nine, and the wife and family of Abel Armstrong, who resided in the parish of Closeburn, were engaged in offering up fervent supplications at the throne of mercy in behalf of all those who had gone forth to fight the battles of the Lord; but the face of the mother waxed pale, and her lips trembled with emotion as she prayed, more especially for the safety of her husband and her son, who had also enrolled themselves beneath the banners of the Covenant. While thus engaged, a low knocking at the outer door caused them to start hastily to their feet, and they stood gazing on each other with looks of eager alarm, at a loss to comprehend the meaning of this unwelcome summons. Again it was repeated; but this time a feeble voice was heard entreating for admission in the name of God. Unable to withstand this earnest appeal, Mrs. Armstrong ran to the door and undid the bar; it flew open, and an officer of dragoons staggered into the cottage. At the sight of the armed intruder, Mrs. Armstrong and her daughters uttered wild screams of alarm; while the sole male inmate of the kitchen, a youth of not more than fifteen years of age, darted to the farthest, corner where stood a loaded gun, and grasping it in his hand, gazed on the soldier with scowling brows, irresolute how to act. "Fear nought from me," faintly exclaimed the dragoon, observing the hostile attitude assumed by the boy; "I mean you no harm, nor have I the power to inflict an injury, even had I the inclination." As he spoke, a stream of blood, welling from a deep wound in his side, dyed the cottage floor with a crimson stain. "Water! water!" he murmured, and sank fainting into the nearest chair. With all their womanly sympathies aroused within them at the sight of the helpless condition of the stranger who had thus thrown himself upon their hospitality, Mrs. Armstrong and her eldest daughter, Lucy, ran to his assistance; the one to bathe his forehead with vinegar, and the other to fetch bandages to bind up anew his bleeding wound. "O but he has a bonnie sweet face o’ his ain!" said Mrs. Armstrong in pitying accents, as she undid his helmet and stroked down his long fair hair, which, in obedience to the prevailing custom of the Cavaliers, descended in ringlets to his shoulders, "and so young too! My poor lad, what could have tempted you to leave your home to engage in such unprofitable warfare?" As she spoke, a faint smile stole over the pallid features of the wounded dragoon; he opened his eyes, and warmly pressing the kind hand at that instant engaged in staunching the blood which still flowed from his side, he murmured the name of mother.