Classicly

Seven of those years were the happiest of all my life, perhaps. Ruth and I dwelt quiet at home, and between whiles of the work my mother taught us much that we had never known else. She was of good family, of the Eastoun Errols, and how she came to love my father, who was rough and rude, was always something of a mystery to me. But love him she did, and he her, and it was a bad day for Fergus MacDonald when my mother died.

This happening took place seven years after the coming of Ruth, and was a sore grief to all of us. I never realized just how sore a grief it was to my father, Fergus, until later. She was buried beside those of the Covenant who had escaped the harrying to die in peace, and I mind me that it was on a cold, gray day which gave us little cheer.