Her heart has been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her love, her first-born girl and boy.

Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale cheek,--yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow speak, too, of inward care?
It is the father of Hector and Catharine.

Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly, as they lean across the rail fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on their arms; they have been reaping.

They hear the sudden barking of Bruce and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they display.
An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French ditty; he raps at the open door.

The Highlander bids him welcome, but starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper.
"Ha, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this way." The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.
"How is ma chere mere, and the young ones ?" asked the old man, in a husky voice--his kind heart was full.