Shortly after this, I got a letter from Charles Malcolm, a very pretty letter it indeed was: he had heard of my Lord Eaglesham’s murder, and grieved for the loss, both because his lordship was a good man, and because he had been such a friend to him and his family. “But,” said Charles, “the best way I can show my gratitude for his patronage, is to prove myself a good officer to my king and country.” Which I thought a brave sentiment, and was pleased thereat; for somehow Charles, from the time he brought me the limes to make a bowl of punch, in his pocket from Jamaica, had built a nest of affection in my heart. But, oh! the wicked wastry of life in war. In less than a month after, the news came of a victory over the French fleet, and by the same post I got a letter from Mr. Howard, that was the midshipman who came to see us with Charles, telling me that poor Charles had been mortally wounded in the action, and had afterwards died of his wounds. “He was a hero in the engagement,” said Mr. Howard, “and he died as a good and a brave man should.”—These tidings gave me one of the sorest hearts I ever suffered, and it was long before I could gather fortitude to disclose the tidings to poor Charles’s mother. But the callants of the school had heard of the victory, and were going shouting about, and had set the steeple bell a-ringing, by which Mrs. Malcolm heard the news; and knowing that Charles’s ship was with the fleet, she came over to the manse in great anxiety to hear the particulars, somebody telling her that there had been a foreign letter to me by the postman. When I saw her I could not speak, but looked at her in pity, and, the tear fleeing up into my eyes, she guessed what had happened. After giving a deep and sore sigh, she enquired, “How did he behave? I hope well, for he was aye a gallant laddie!”—and then she wept very bitterly. However, growing calmer, I read to her the letter; and, when I had done, she begged me to give it to her to keep, saying, “It’s all that I have now left of my pretty boy; but it’s mair precious to me than the wealth of the Indies;” and she begged me to return thanks to the Lord for all the comforts and manifold mercies with which her lot had been blessed, since the hour she put her trust in him alone; and that was when she was left a penniless widow, with her five fatherless bairns. It was just an edification of the spirit to see the Christian resignation of this worthy woman. Mrs. Balwhidder was confounded, and said, there was more sorrow in seeing the deep grief of her fortitude than tongue could tell. [Picture: The Old Herd]