"Whole stock!" growled one who did not relish such food, "whole stock! A
likely story! I daresay, if the truth was known, the old hag's feeding a
rebel she's got hidden away in some snug hole hereaway."
"'Deed, sirs, there's no rebels here. An' that's a' my son an' me has to
live on."
"How do you live in this outlandish spot all the year round, then,
mistress?"
"Indeed, sir," said the woman, "the cow and the kailyaird, and whiles a
pickle oat meal, wi' God's blessing, is a' my _mailen_. The Lord has
provided for the widow and the faitherless, and He'll aye provide."
"We'll soon see about that," said the ruffian. With his sabre, and
paying no heed to the helpless woman's lamentations or to the
half-hearted remonstrances of his comrades, he killed the poor widow's
cow; then going to the little patch of garden, he tore up and threw into
the burn all the stock of kail.
"There, you old rebel witch," said he, with a heartless laugh, as the
party set forward again, "you may live on God's blessing now."
It broke the poor toil-worn widow's heart, and she died ere the summer
was ended. Lost to the ken of his few friends, her boy wandered
sorrowfully to another part of the country, and winter storms soon left
but the crumbling walls and broken roof of what had been his home.
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