class="left">  The Sword Unsheathed

202 CHAPTER IV.   The Prison and the Tomb 214 CHAPTER V.   Unwelcome Visitors 221 CHAPTER VI.   Defeat at Rullion Green 229 CHAPTER VII.   The Wanderer 232 CHAPTER VIII.   Victory of Drumclog, and Defeat at Bothwell Bridge   239 CHAPTER IX.   The Shepherd Smitten   247 CHAPTER X.   Bridal and Burial 253 CHAPTER XI.   The Last Drop in the Cup of Bitterness 265 CHAPTER XII.   Peace 269 CHAPTER XIII.   Conclusion 277

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SEQUEL: BY CHRISTIE SOMERVILLE.

CHAPTER XIV.	The Pen in Another Hand	281
CHAPTER XV.	A Visit to Aunt Margaret	289
CHAPTER XVI.	A Morning at the Manse	294
CHAPTER XVII.	At Cousin Christie's	302
CHAPTER XVIII.	Graham Place	309
CHAPTER XIX.	The Old Home and the New	314

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Honest Wullie.

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CHAPTER I. WULLIE AND RAB.

Among the hills that divide the county of Ayr from Kirkcudbright, and near the bonny Doon, lived, in the early part of this century, a man named William Murdoch, but who was called by all his neighbors "honest Wullie." He was a farm-laborer, and lived alone in a cottage which he rented. He feared God and regarded man. His word was indeed as good as his bond. He had been called honest Wullie while yet a boy, and by common consent he still retained the name. At the time our story opens he was about thirty-five years of age.

It was the morning of the first of January. The departing year had robed the earth in spotless white, that its successor might behold nothing but beauty and purity, and might begin its course with gladness. The rough places were made smooth and the waste places concealed. The sun shone brightly, and the earth glittered and sparkled as if nature had purposely arrayed herself in jewelled robes to welcome the coming year. But men looked out upon the frozen earth and saw only wastes of snow, and began to cut their way through it that they might look after their cattle and all that belonged to them. While all other hands were busy, Willie Murdoch's were not idle. He was shovelling paths about his door, and, while so employed, his thoughts were running in this manner.

"I suppose I shall hae to look after that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine. A man canna let his ain brither suffer, even if it s'ould be through his ain faut. Rab was aye a careless lad. He s'ouldna hae married withoot changing his ways. Hoo did he suppose he would support a wife and weans! He aye depends o'er muckle on me." While he was thus mentally soliloquizing his brother appeared, struggling through the snow.

"Weel, Wullie, ye are aye warking; ye are o'er industrious."

"A man canna sit in the hoose and be snawed in. Hae ye no made paths aboot your ain door?"

"I didna feel the courage to do it, the snaw is that deep. I am a'maist beat oot wi' coming here."

"What brings ye oot on sic a morning? Are ye no all weel at hame?"

"We are all weel, I am thankful to say, but I am in trouble aboot the rent. Ye ken it is due, and I hae na made oot to save it. I am sair set upon to pay it, and I cam to ask if ye could gie me a helping hand."

It seemed but natural for Robert to ask this help. As his brother had said, he depended on Willie. The two were all that were left of their family, or, rather, of two families; for, though brothers by adoption and affection, they were in reality cousins. Willie's parents had died when he was but a few months old, and his mother's only sister, then lately married to a brother of Willie's father, had taken the orphaned little one and brought him up as her own child. He had repaid her with all the devotion of a loving and thoughtful son; and on her death-bed she had given him, then only fifteen years of age, the charge of Robert, who was six years younger. Her other children had died in infancy, and she had been a widow several years.

"Wullie, ye are a douce lad, for ane o' your years," she had said. "Ye maun aye hae a care o' your brither, and if he doesna get on weel in the warld, dinna spare to lend him a hand.