This animating proposal was received with great applause by the younger part of the assemblage, when a whisper ran among them, “There’s Hobbie himsell, puir fallow! we’ll be guided by him.”

The principal sufferer, having now reached the bottom of the hill, pushed on through the crowd, unable, from the tumultuous state of his feelings, to do more than receive and return the grasps of the friendly hands by which his neighbours and kinsmen mutely expressed their sympathy in his misfortune.  While he pressed Simon of Hackburn’s hand, his anxiety at length found words.  “Thank ye, Simon—­thank ye, neighbours—­I ken what ye wad a’ say.  But where are they?—­Where are—­” He stopped, as if afraid even to name the objects of his enquiry; and with a similar feeling, his kinsmen, without reply, pointed to the hut, into which Hobbie precipitated himself with the desperate air of one who is resolved to know the worst at once.  A general and powerful expression of sympathy accompanied him.  “Ah, puir fallow—­puir Hobbie!”

“He’ll learn the warst o’t now!”

“But I trust Earnscliff will get some speerings o’ the puir lassie.”

Such were the exclamations of the group, who, having no acknowledged leader to direct their motions, passively awaited the return of the sufferer, and determined to be guided by his directions.

The meeting between Hobbie and his family was in the highest degree affecting.  His sisters threw themselves upon him, and almost stifled him with their caresses, as if to prevent his looking round to distinguish the absence of one yet more beloved.

“God help thee, my son!  He can help when worldly trust is a broken reed.”—­Such was the welcome of the matron to her unfortunate grandson.  He looked eagerly round, holding two of his sisters by the hand, while the third hung about his neck—­“I see you—­I count you—­my grandmother, Lilias, Jean, and Annot; but where is—­” (he hesitated, and then continued, as if with an effort), “Where is Grace?  Surely this is not a time to hide hersell frae me—­there’s nae time for daffing now.”

“O, brother!” and “Our poor Grace!” was the only answer his questions could procure, till his grandmother rose up, and gently disengaged him from the weeping girls, led him to a seat, and with the affecting serenity which sincere piety, like oil sprinkled on the waves, can throw over the most acute feelings, she said, “My bairn, when thy grandfather was killed in the wars, and left me with six orphans around me, with scarce bread to eat, or a roof to cover us, I had strength,—­not of mine own—­but I had strength given me to say, The Lord’s will be done!—­My son, our peaceful house was last night broken into by moss-troopers, armed and masked; they have taken and destroyed all, and carried off our dear Grace.  Pray for strength to say, His will be done!”

“Mother! mother! urge me not—­I cannot—­not now I am a sinful man, and of a hardened race.  Masked armed—­Grace carried off!  Gie me my sword, and my father’s knapsack—­I will have vengeance, if I should go to the pit of darkness to seek it!”