No man was better liked or more respected than Burnbrae, but the parish was not able to take more than a languid interest in the renewal of his lease, because it was understood that he would get it on his own terms.

Drumsheugh indeed stated the situation admirably one Sabbath in the kirkyard.

“Whatever is a fair rent atween man an' man Burnbrae 'ill offer, and what he canna gie is no worth hevin' frae anither man.

“As for buildings, he 'ill juist tell the factor onything that's needfu', an' his lordship 'ill be content.

“Noo, here's Hillocks; he'd argle-bargle wi' the factor for a summer, an' a'm no blamin' him, for it 's a fine ploy an' rael interestin' tae the pairish, but it's doonricht wark wi' Burnbrae.

“A 've kent him since he wes a laddie, and a tell ye there's nae dukery-packery (trickery) aboot Burnbrae; he's a straicht man an' a gude neebur. He 'ill be settlin' wi' the new factor this week, a' wes hearin'.”

Next Sabbath the kirkyard was thrown into a state approaching excitement by Jamie Soutar, who, in the course of some remarks on the prospects of harvest, casually mentioned that Burnbrae had been refused his lease, and would be leaving Drumtochty at Martinmas.

“What for?” said Drumsheugh sharply; while Hillocks, who had been offering his box to Whinnie, remained with outstretched arm.

“Naethin' that ye wud expeck, but juist some bit differ wi' the new factor aboot leavin' his kirk an' jining the lave o' us in the Auld Kirk. Noo, if it hed been ower a cattle reed ye cud hae understude it, but for a man——”

“Nae mair o' yir havers, Jamie,” broke in Drumsheugh, “and keep yir tongue aff Burnbrae; man, ye gied me a fricht.”

“Weel, weel, ye dinna believe me, but it wes the gude wife hersel' that said it tae me, and she wes terrible cast doon. They 've been a' their merried life in the place, an' weemen tak ill wi' changes when they're gettin' up in years.”

“A' canna believe it, Jamie”—although Drumsheugh was plainly alarmed; “a 'll grant ye that the new factor is little better than a waufie, an' a peetifu' dooncome frae Maister Leslie, but he daurna meddle wi' a man's releegion.

“Bigger men than the factors tried that trade in the auld days, and they didna come oot verra weel. Eh, Jamie, ye ken thae stories better than ony o' us.”

“Some o' them cam oot withoot their heads,” said Jamie, with marked satisfaction.

“Forby that,” continued Drumsheugh, gaining conviction. “What dis the wratch ken aither aboot the Auld Kirk or Free Kirk? if he didna ask me laist month hoo mony P. and O.'s we hed in the glen, meanin' U.P.'s, a'm jidgin'.

“He's an Esculopian (Episcopalian) himsel', if he gaes onywhere, an' it wud be a scannal for the like o' him tae mention the word kirk tae Burnbrae.”

“Ye never ken what a factor 'ill dae,” answered Jamie, whose prejudices were invincible, “but the chances are that it 'ill be mischief, setting the tenant against the landlord and the landlord against the tenant; tyrannising ower the ane till he daurna lift his head, an' pushioning the mind o' the ither till he disna ken a true man when he sees him.”

“Preserve 's!” exclaimed Hillocks, amazed at Jamie's eloquence, for the wrong of Burnbrae had roused our cynic to genuine passion, and his little affectations had melted in the white heat.

“What richt hes ony man to hand ower the families that hev been on his estate afore he wes born tae be harried an' insulted by some domineering upstart of a factor, an' then tae spend the money wrung frae the land by honest fouks amang strangers and foreigners?

“What ails the landlords that they wunna live amang their ain people and oversee their ain affairs, so that laird and farmer can mak their bargain wi' nae time-serving interloper atween, an' the puirest cottar on an estate hae the richt tae see the man on whose lands he lives, as did his fathers before him?

“A'm no sayin' a word, mind ye, against Maister Leslie, wha's dead and gaen, or ony factor like him; he aye made the maist he cud for his lordship, an' that wes what he wes paid for; but he wes a fair-dealin' and gude-hearted man, an' he 'ill be sairly missed an' murned afore we 're dune wi' his successor.

“Gin ony man hes sae muckle land that he disna know the fouk that sow an' reap it, then a'm judgin' that he hes ower muckle for the gude o' the commonwealth; an' gin ony landlord needs help, let him get some man o' oor ain flesh an' bluid tae guide his affairs.

“But div ye ken, neeburs, what his lordship hes dune, and what sort o' man he's set ower us, tae meddle wi' affairs he kens naethin' aboot, an' tae trample on the conscience o' the best man in the Glen? Hae ye heard the history o' oor new ruler?”

Drumtochty was in no mood to interrupt Jamie, who was full of power that day.

“A 'll tell ye, then, what a've got frae a sure hand, an' it's the story o' mony a factor that is hauding the stick ower the heids o' freeborn Scottish men.

“He's the cousin of an English lord, whose forbears got a title by rouping their votes, an' ony conscience they hed, tae the highest bidder in the bad auld days o' the Georges—that's the kind o' bluid that 's in his veins, an' it 's no clean.

“His fouk started him in the airmy, but he hed tae leave—cairds or drink, or baith. He wes a wine-merchant for a whilie an' failed, and then he wes agent for a manure company, till they sent him aboot his business.

“Aifterwards he sorned on his freends and gambled at the races, till his cousin got roond Lord Kilspindie, and noo he 's left wi' the poor o' life an' death ower fower pairishes while his lordship's awa' traivellin' for his health in the East.

“It may be that he hes little releegion, as Drumsheugh says, an' we a' ken he hes nae intelligence, but he hes plenty o' deevilry, an' he 's made a beginnin' wi' persecutin' Burnbrae.

“A'm an Auld Kirk man,” concluded Jamie, “an' an Auld Kirk man a 'll dee unless some misleared body tries tae drive me, an' then a' wud jine the Free Kirk. Burnbrae is the stiffest Free Kirker in Drumtochty, an' mony an argument a've hed wi' him, but that maks nae maitter the day.

“Ilka man hes a richt tae his ain thochts, an' is bund tae obey his conscience accordin' tae his lichts, an' gin the best man that ever lived is tae dictate oor releegion tae us, then oor fathers focht an' deed in vain.”

Scottish reserve conceals a rich vein of heroic sentiment, and this unexpected outburst of Jamie Soutar had an amazing effect on the fathers, changing the fashion of their countenances and making them appear as new men. When he began, they were a group of working farmers, of slouching gait and hesitating speech and sordid habits, quickened for the moment by curiosity to get a bit of parish news fresh from Jamie's sarcastic tongue; as Jamie's fierce indignation rose to flame, a “dour” look came into their faces, turning their eyes into steel, and tightening their lips like a vice, and before he had finished every man stood straight at his full height, with his shoulders set back and his head erect, while Drumsheugh looked as if he saw an army in battle array, and even Whinnie grasped his snuff-box in a closed fist as if it had been a drawn sword. It was the danger signal of Scottish men, and ancient persecutors who gave no heed to it in the past went crashing to their doom.

“Div ye mean tae say, James Soutar,” said Drumsheugh in another voice than his wont, quieter and sterner, “ye ken this thing for certain, that the new factor hes offered Burnbrae the choice atween his kirk an' his fairm?”

“That is sae, Drumsheugh, as a 'm stannin' in this kirkyaird—although Burnbrae himsel', honest man, hes said naething as yet—an' a' thocht the suner the pairish kent the better.”

“Ye did weel, Jamie, an' a' tak back what a' said aboot jokin'; this 'ill be nae jokin' maitter aither for the factor or Drumtochty.”

There was silence for a full minute, for Whinnie himself knew that it was a crisis in Drumtochty, and the fathers waited for Drumsheugh to speak.

People admired him for his sharpness in bargaining, and laughed at a time about his meanness in money affairs, but they knew that there was a stiff backbone in Drumsheugh, and that in any straits of principle he would play the man.

“This is a black beesiness, neeburs, an' nae man among us can see the end o't, for gin they begin by tryin' tae harry the Frees intae the Auld Kirk, the next thing they 'ill dae wull be tae drive us a' doon tae the English Chaipel at Kildrummie.”

“There's juist ae mind, a' tak' it, wi' richt-thinkin' men,” and Drumsheugh's glance settled on Hillocks, whose scheming ways had somewhat sapped his manhood, and the unfortunate land-steward, whose position was suddenly invested with associations of treachery. “We 'ill pay oor rent and dae oor duty by the land like honest men, but we 'ill no tak oor releegion, no, nor oor politics, frae ony livin' man, naither lord nor factor.

“We 're a' sorry for Burnbrae, for the brunt o' the battle 'ill fa' on him, an' he's been a gude neebur ta a' body, but there's nae fear o' him buying his lease wi' his kirk. Ma certes, the factor chose the worst man in the Glen for an aff go. Burnbrae wud raither see his hale plenishing gae doon the Tochty than play Judas to his kirk.

“It's an awfu' peety that oor auld Scotch kirk wes split, and it wud be a heartsome sicht tae see the Glen a' aneath ae roof aince a week. But ae thing we maun grant, the Disruption lat the warld ken there wes some spunk in Scotland.

“There 's nae man a' wud raither welcome tae oor kirk than Burnbrae, gin he cam o' his ain free will, but it wud be better that the kirk sud stand empty than be filled wi' a factor's hirelings.”

Domsie took Drumsheugh by the hand, and said something in Latin that escaped the fathers, and then they went into kirk in single file with the air of a regiment of soldiers.

Drumsheugh set in the “briest o' the laft,” as became a ruling elder, and had such confidence in the minister's orthodoxy that he was accustomed to meditate during the sermon, but on this memorable day he sat upright and glared at the pulpit with a ferocious expression. The doctor was disturbed by this unusual attention, and during his mid-sermon snuff sought in vain for a reason, since the sermon, “On the Certainty of Harvest, proved by the Laws of Nature and the Promises of Revelation,” was an annual event, and Drumsheugh, walking by faith, had often given it his warm approval. He had only once before seen the same look—after the great potato calamity; and when the elder came to the manse, and they had agreed as to the filling quality of the weather, the doctor inquired anxiously how Drumsheygh had done with his potatoes.

“Weel eneuch,” with quite unaffected indifference. “Weel eneuch, as prices are gaein', auchteen pund, 'Piggie' liftin' an' me cairtin'; but hevye heard aboot Burnbrae?” and Drumsheugh announced that the factor, being left unto the freedom of his own will, had opened a religious war in Drumtochty.

His voice vibrated with a new note as he stated the alternative offered to Burnbrae, and the doctor, a man well fed and richly coloured, as became a beneficed clergyman, turned purple.

“I told Kilspindie, the day before he left,” burst out the doctor, “that he had made a mistake in bringing a stranger in John Leslie's place, who was a cautious, sensible man, and never made a drop of bad blood all the time he was factor.

“'Tomkyns is a very agreeable fellow, Davidson,' his lordship said to me, 'and a first-rate shot in the cover; besides, he has seen a good deal of life, and knows how to manage men.'

“It's all bad life he's seen,' I said, 'and it's not dining and shooting make a factor. That man 'ill stir up mischief on the estate before you come back, as sure 's your name's Kilspin-die,' but I never expected it would take this turn.

“Fool of a man,” and the doctor raged through the study, “does he not know that it would be safer for him to turn the rotation of crops upside down and to double every rent than to meddle with a man's religion in Drum-tochty?

“Drumsheugh,” said the doctor, coming to a stand, “I've been minister of this parish when there was only one church, and I've been minister since the Free Church began. I saw half my people leave me, and there were hot words going in '43; but nothing so base as this has been done during the forty years of my office, and I call God to witness I have lived at peace with all men.

“I would rather cut off my right hand than do an injury to Burnbrae or any man for his faith, and it would break my heart if the Free Kirk supposed I had anything to do with this deed.

“The factor is to be at the inn on Tuesday; I 'll go to him there and then, and let him know that he cannot touch Burnbrae without rousing the whole parish of Drumtochty.”

“Ye 'ill tak me wi' ye, sir, no tae speak, but juist tae let him see hoo the Auld Kirk feels.”

“That I will, Drumsheugh; there's grit in the Glen; and look you, if you meet Burnbrae coming from his kirk ye might just——”

“It wes in ma ain mind, doctor, tae sae a word for's a', an' noo a 'll speak wi' authority. The Auld and the Frees shoother tae shoother for the first time since '43—it 'ill be graund.

“Sall,” said Drumsheugh, as this new aspect of the situation opened, “the factor hes stirred a wasp's byke when he meddled wi' Drumtochty.” The council of the Frees had been somewhat divided that morning—most holding stoutly that Doctor Davidson knew nothing of the factor's action, a few in their bitterness being tempted to suspect every one, but Burnbrae was full of charity.

“Dinna speak that wy, Netherton, for it's no Christian; Doctor Davidson may be a Moderate, but he's a straicht-forward an' honourable gentleman, as his father wes afore him, and hes never said 'kirk' to ane o' us save in the wy o' freendliness a' his days.

“It 's no his blame nor Lord Kilspindie's, ye may lippen (trust) to that; this trial is the wull o' God, an' we maun juist seek grace tae be faithfu'.”

Every Sabbath a company of the Auld Kirk going west met a company of the Frees going east, and nothing passed except a no'd or “a wee saft,” in the case of drenching rain, not through any want of neighbourliness, but because this was the nature God had been pleased to give Drumtochty.

For the first time, the Auld Kirk insisted on a halt and conversation. It did not sound much, being mainly a comparison of crops among the men, and a brief review of the butter market by the women—Jamie Soutar only going the length of saying that he was coming next Sabbath to hear the last of Cunningham's “course”—but it was understood to be a demonstration, and had its due effect.

“A' wes wrang,” said Netherton to Donald Menzies; “they 've hed naething tae dae wi 't; a' kent that the meenute a' saw Jamie Soutar. Yon 's the first time a' ever mind them stop-pin',” and a mile further on Netherton added, “That's ae gude thing, at ony rate.”

Burnbrae and Drumsheugh met later, and alone, and there were no preliminaries.

“Jamie Soutar told us this mornin', Burnbrae, in the kirkyaird, and a 've come straicht the noo frae the doctor's study, and ye never saw a man mair concerned.

“He chairged me tae say, withoot delay, that he wud raither hae cut aff his richt hand than dae ye an ill, an' he 's gaein' this verra week tae gie his mind tae the factor.

“Man, it wud hae dune your hert gude gin ye hed heard Jamie this mornin' in the kirkyaird; he fair set the heather on fire—a'm no settled yet—we 're a' wi' ye, every man o's.

“Na, na, Burnbrae, we 're no tae lose ye yet; ye 'ill hae yir kirk and yir fairm in spite o' a' the factors in Perthshire, but a'm expeckin' a fecht.”

“Thank ye, Drumsheugh, thank ye kindly; and wull ye tell Doctor Davidson that he hesna lived forty years in the Glen for naethin”?

“We said this mornin' that he wud scorn tae fill his kirk with renegades, and sae wud ye a', but a' wesna prepared for sic feelin”.

“There's ae thing maks me prood o' the Glen: nae man, Auld or Free, hes bidden me pit ma fairm afore ma kirk, but a 'body expecks me tae obey ma conscience.

“A 've got till Monday week tae consider ma poseetion, and it 'ill depend on the factor whether a 'll be allowed tae close ma days in the place where ma people hae lived for sax generations, or gae forth tae dee in a strange land.”

“Dinna speak like that, Burnbrae; the doctor hesna hed his say yet; the 'll be somethin' worth hearin' when he faces the factor,” and Drumsheugh waited for the battle between Church and State with a pleasurable anticipation of lively argument, tempered only by a sense of Burnbrae's anxiety.

The factor, who was dressed in the height of sporting fashion and looked as if he had lived hard, received the doctor and his henchman with effusion.

“Doctor Davidson, Established Church clergyman of Drumtochty? quite a pleasure to see you; one of our farmers, I think; seen you before, eh? Drum, Drum—can't quite manage your heathenish names yet, d' ye know.

“Splendid grouse moor you 've got up here, and only one poacher in the whole district, the keepers tell me. D' you take a gun yourself, Doctor—ah—Donaldson, or does the kirk not allow that kind of thing?” and the factor's laugh had a fine flavour of contempt for a Scotch country minister.

“My name is Davidson, at your service, Mr. Tomkyns, and I've shot with Lord Kilspindie when we were both young fellows in the 'forties, from Monday to Friday, eight hours a day, and our bag for the week was the largest that has ever been made in Perthshire.

“But I came here on a matter of business, and, if you have no objection, I would like to ask a simple question.”

“Delighted, I'm sure, to tell you anything you wish,” said the factor, considerably sobered.

“Well a very unpleasant rumour is spreading through the parish that you have refused to renew a farmer's lease unless he promised to leave the Free Church?”

“An old fellow, standing very straight, with white hair, called—let me see, Baxter; yes, that's it, Baxter; is that the man?”

“Yes, that is the name,” said the doctor, with growing severity; “John Baxter of Bumbrae, the best man in the parish of Drumtochty; and I want an answer to my question.”

“You will get it,” and Tomkyns fixed his eye-glass with an aggressive air. “I certainly told Baxter that if he wanted to stay on the estate he must give up his dissenting nonsense and go to the kirk.”

“May I ask your reason for this extraordinary condition?” and Drumsheugh could see that the Doctor was getting dangerous.

“Got the wrinkle from my cousin's, Lord De Tomkyns's, land agent. He's cleared all the Methodists off their estate.

“'The fewer the dissenters the better,' he said to me, 'when you come to an election, d' you know.'”

“Are you mad, and worse than mad? Who gave you authority to interfere with any man's religion? You know neither the thing you are doing, nor the men with whom you have to do. Our farmers, thank God, are not ignorant serfs who know nothing and cannot call their souls their own, but men who have learned to think for themselves, and fear no one save Almighty God.”

The factor could hardly find his voice for amazement.

“But, I say, aren't you the Established Kirk minister and a Tory? This seems to me rather strange talk, don't you know.”

“Perhaps it does,” replied the doctor, “but there is nothing a man feels deeper than the disgrace of his own side.”

“Well,” said Tomkyns, stung by the word disgrace, “there are lots of things I could have done for you, but if this is your line it may not be quite so pleasant for yourself in Drumtochty, let me tell you.”

The doctor was never a diplomatic advocate, and now he allowed himself full liberty.

“You make Drumtochty pleasant or unpleasant for me!” with a withering glance at the factor. “There is one man in this parish neither you nor your master nor the Queen herself, God bless her, can touch, and that is the minister of the Established Church.

“I was here before you were born, and I 'll be here when you have been dismissed from your office. There is just one favour I beg of you, and I hope you will grant it”—the doctor was now thundering—“it is that you never dare to speak to me the few times you may yet come to the parish of Drumtochty.”

Drumsheugh went straight to give Burnbrae an account of this interview, and his enthusiasm was still burning.

“Naethin' 'ill daunt the doctor—tae hear him dress the factor wes michty; he hed his gold-headed stick wi' him, 'at wes his father's, an' when he brocht it dune on the table at the end, the eyegless droppit oot o' the waefu' body's 'ee, an' the very rings on his fingers jingled.

“The doctor bade me say 'at he hed pled yir case, but he wes feared he hed dune ye mair ill than gude.”

“Be sure he hesna dune that, Drumsheugh; a' didna expeck that he cud change the factor's mind, an' a'm no disappointed.

“But the doctor hes dune a gude wark this day he never thocht o', and that will bring a blessing beyond mony leases; for as lang as this generation lives an' their children aifter them, it will be remembered that the parish minister, wi' his elder beside him, forgot thae things wherein we differ, and stude by the Free Kirk in the 'oor o' her adversity.”

II.—THE ENDLESS CHOICE

It was known in the Glen that Burnbrae must choose on Monday between his farm and his conscience, and the atmosphere in the Free Church on Sabbath was such as might be felt. When he arrived that morning, with Jean and their three sons—the fourth was in a Highland regiment on the Indian frontier—the group that gathered at the outer gate opened to let them pass, and the elders shook Burnbrae by the hand in serious silence; and then, instead of waiting to discuss the prospects of the Sustentation Fund with Netherton, Burnbrae went in with his family, and sat down in the pew where they had worshipped God since the Disruption.

The cloud of the coming trial fell on the elders, and no man found his voice for a space. Then Donald Menzies's face suddenly lightened, and he lifted his head.

“'With persecutions' wass in the promise, and the rest it will be coming sure.”

“You hef the word, Donald Menzies,” said Lachlan; and it came to this handful of Scottish peasants that they had to make that choice that has been offered unto every man since the world began.

Carmichael's predecessor was minister of the Free Church in those days, who afterwards got University preferment—he wrote a book on the Greek particles, much tasted in certain circles—and is still called “the Professor” in a hushed voice by old people. He was so learned a scholar that he would go out to visit without his hat, and so shy that he could walk to Kildrummie with one of his people on the strength of two observations, the first at Tochty bridge and the other at the crest of the hill above the station. Lachlan himself did not presume at times to understand his sermons, but the Free Church loved their scholar, for they knew the piety and courage that dwelt in the man.

The manse housekeeper, who followed Cunningham with his hat and saw that he took his food at more or less regular intervals, was at her wit's end before that Sabbath.

“A 've hed chairge o' him,” she explained to the clachan, “since he wes a laddie, an' he 's a fine bit craiturie ony wy ye tak' him.

“Ye juist hammer at his door in the morning till ye 're sure he's up, an' bring him oot o' the study when denner's ready, an' watch he hesna a buke hoddit aboot him—for he's tricky—an' come in on him every wee whilie till ye think he's hed eneuch, an' tak' awa his lamp when it's time for him tae gang tae bed, an' it's safer no tae lat him hae mair than a can'le end, or he wud set tae readin' in his bed. Na, na, he's no ill tae guide.

“But keep's a', he's been sae crouse this week that he's fair gae'n ower me. He's been speakin' tae himsel' in the study, an' he 'll get up in the middle o' his denner an' rin roond the gairden.

“Ye ken the minister hardly ever speaks gin ye dinna speak tae him, though he's aye canty; bit this week if he didna stop in the middle o' his denner an' lay aff a story aboot three hun-der lads that held a glen wi' their swords till the laist o' them wes killed—a'm dootin' they were Hielan' caterans—an' he yokit on the auld martyrs ae nicht tae sic an extent that I wes near the greetin'.

“Ye wudna ken him thae times—he's twice his size, an' the langidge poors frae him. A' tell ye Burnbrae's on his brain, and ye 'll hae a sermon worth hearin' on Sabbath. Naebody kens the spirit 'at's in ma laddie when he's roosed,” concluded Maysie, with the just pride of one who had tended her scholar since childhood.

“What shall it profit a man,” was the text, and in all the sermon there was not one abusive word, but the minister exalted those things that endure for ever above those that perish in the using, with such spiritual insight and wealth of illustration—there was a moral resonance in his very voice which made men's nerves tingle—that Mrs. Macfadyen, for once in her life, refused to look at heads, and Donald Menzies could hardly contain himself till the last psalm.

It was the custom in the Free Kirk for the minister to retire first, facing the whole congregation on his way to the vestry at the back of the church, and Cunningham confided to a friend that he lost in weight during the middle passage; but on this Sabbath he looked every man in the face, and when he came to Burn-brae's pew the minister paused, and the two men clasped hands. No word was spoken, not a person moved around, but the people in front felt the thrill, and knew something had happened.

No one was inclined to speak about that sermon on the way home, and Netherton gave himself with ostentation to the finger-and-toe disease among the turnips. But the Free Kirk had no doubt what answer Burnbrae would give the factor, and each man resolved within his heart that he would do likewise in his time.

“It's michty,” was Jamie Soutar's comment, who had attended the Free Kirk to show his sympathy, “what can be dune by speech. Gin there wes a juitlin', twa-faced wratch in the kirk, yon sermon hes straichtened him oot an' made a man o' him.

“Maister Cunningham 's no muckle tae look at an' he 's the quietest body a' ever saw; but he's graund stuff every inch o' him, and hes the courage o' a lion.”

Burnbrae and Jean walked home that Sabbath alone, and the past encompassed their hearts.

The road they had walked since childhood, unchanged save for the gap where the old beech fell in the great storm, and the growth of the slowly maturing oaks; the burns that ran beneath the bridges with the same gurgling sound while generations came and went; the fields that had gone twelve times through the rotation of grass, oats, turnips, barley, grass since they remembered; the farmhouses looking down upon the road with familiar kindly faces—Gormack had a new window, and Claywhat another room above the kitchen—awoke sleeping memories and appealed against their leaving.

When they came below Woodhead, the two old people halted and looked up the track where the hawthorn hedges, now bright with dog-roses, almost met, and a cart had to force its way through the sweet-smelling greenery. It was in Woodhead that Jean had been reared, and a brother was still living there with her only sister.

“Div ye mind the nicht, Jean, that ye cam doon the road wi' me and a' askit ye tae be ma wife? it wes aboot this time.”

“It 'ill be forty-five year the mornin's nicht, John, and a' see the verra place fra here. It wes at the turn o' the road, and there's a rosebush yonder still.

“Ye pluckit me a rose afore we pairtit, an' a' hae the leaves o't in the cover of ma Bible, an' the rose at oor gairden gate is a cuttin' that a' took.”

The old school-house was not visible from the road, but on sight of the path that turned upwards to its wood, Jean looked at Burnbrae with the inextinguishable roguery of a woman in her eyes, and he understood.

“Aye, ye were a hempie o' a lassie, Jean, making faces at me as often as a' lookit at ye, an' crying, 'Douce John Baxter.' till a' wes near the greetin' on the wy hame.”

“But a' likit ye a' the time better than ony laddie in the schule; a' think a' luved ye frae the beginnin', John.”

“Wes't luve gared ye dad ma ears wi' yir bukes at the corner, and shute me in amang the whins? but ye'll hae forgotten that, wumman.”

“Fient a bit o' me; it wes the day ye took Meg Mitchell's pairt, when we fell oot ower oor places in the class. A' didna mind her bein' abune me, but a' cudna thole ye turnin' against me.”

“Hoo lang is that ago, Jean?”

“Sax and fifty year ago laist summer.”

The auld kirk stood on a bluff overlooking the Tochty, with the dead of the Glen round it; and at the look on Jean's face, Burnbrae turned up the kirk road along which every family went some day in sorrow.

The Baxters' ground lay in a corner, where the sun fell pleasantly through the branches of a beech in the afternoon, and not far from the place where afterwards we laid Dom-sie to rest. The gravestone was covered on both sides with names, going back a century, and still unable to commemorate all the Baxters that had lived and died after an honest fashion in Drumtochty. The last name was that of a child:

There was no “beloved” nor any text, but each spring the primroses came out below, and all summer a bunch of pinks touched the “Jean” with their fragrant blossoms.

Her mother stooped to pluck a weed from among the flowers and wipe the letters of the name where the moss was gathering, then she bent her head on the grey, worn stone, and cried, “Jeannie, Jeannie, ma bonnie lassie.”

“Dinna greet, Jean, as though we hed nae lassie,” said Burnbrae, “for there's naethin' here but the dust. Ye mind what the minister read that day, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'

“Be thankfu' we have the fower laddies spared, a' daein' weel, an' ane near ready for a kirk, an' you an' me thegither still. We 've hed mony mercies, Jean.”

“A 'm no denyin' that, John, an' a'm prood o' the laddies; but there 's no' a day a' dinna miss ma lassie, an' a' can hear her sayin' 'mither' still when ye 're a' in the fields and a'm alane.”

“Wae 's me, wha will care for her grave when we 're far awa an' no a Baxter left in the Glen? It's no lichtsome to leave the hoose whar we 've livit sae lang, an' the fields ye 've lookit at a' yir days, but it 's sairest tae leave yir dead.” The past with the tender associations that make a woman's life was tightening its hold on Jean, and when they looked down on the Glen from the height of Burnbrae, her voice broke again:

“It's a bonnie sicht, John, an' kindly tae oor eyes; we 'ill never see anither tae sateesfy oor auld age.”

“A've seen nae ither a' ma days,” said Burnbrae, “an' there can be nane sae dear tae me noo in this warld; but it can be boucht ower dear, lass,” and when she looked at him, “wi' oor souls, Jean, wi' oor souls.”

No Drumtochty man felt at ease on Sabbath, or spoke quite like himself at home, till he had escaped from his blacks and had his tea. Then he stretched himself with an air of negligence, and started on a survey of his farm, which allowed of endless meditation, and lasted in summer time unto the going down of the sun. It was a leisurely progress, in which time was of no importance, from field to field and into every corner of each field, and from beast to beast and round every beast to the completion of as many circles as there were beasts. The rate was about one and a half miles an hour, excluding halts, and the thumbs were never removed from the armholes except for experimental observations. No one forgot that it was Sabbath, and there were things no right-thinking man would do. Drumsheugh might sample a head of oats in his hand, in sheer absence of mind, but he would have been ashamed to lift a shaw of potatoes; and although Hillocks usually settled the price he would ask for his fat cattle in the midst of these reveries, he always felt their ribs on a Saturday. When the gudeman came in, he had taken stock with considerable accuracy, but he was justly horrified to find his wife asleep, with her head uncomfortably pillowed on the open family Bible.

With the more religious men these Sabbath evening walks had in them less of this world and more of that which is to come. Donald Menzies had seen strange things in the fading light as he wandered among the cattle, and this evening the years that were gone came back to Burnbrae. For a townsman may be born in one city and educated in a second, and married in a third, and work in a fourth. His houses are but inns, which he uses and forgets; he has no roots, and is a vagrant on the face of the earth. But the countryman is born and bred, and marries and toils and dies on one farm, and the scene he looks at in his old age is the same he saw in his boyhood. His roots are struck deep into the soil, and if you tear them up, his heart withers and dies. When some townsman therefore reads of a peasant being cast out of his little holding, he must not consider that it is the same as a tenant going from one street to another, for it is not a house this farmer leaves: it is his life.

Burnbrae passed through the kitchen on his way out, and an old chair by the fireside made him a laddie again, gathered with the family on a winter Sabbath evening, and he heard his father asking the “chief end of man.” The first gate on the farm swung open at a touch, and he remembered this was his father's idea, and he found the wedge that changed the elevation of the hinge. That was a dyke he built in his youth, and there was the stone he blasted out of the field, for the hole was still open. Down in that meadow there used to be a pond where he was almost drowned nearly seventy years ago, but he had drained it, and the corn upon the place was growing rank. This was the little bridge he had mended for the homecoming of his bride, and from that rock his old father had directed him with keen interest, and in that clump of trees, alone before the Eternal, the great event of his soul had come to pass. He had often thought that some day he would be carried over that bridge, and trusted he was ready, but he hoped he might be spared to see the Black Watch come home, and to hear his youngest son preach in Drumtochty Free Kirk. The agony of leaving came upon him, and Burnbrae turned aside among the trees.

He sought out Jean on his return, and found her in a little summer-house, which he had made the first year of their marriage. As they sat together in silence, each feeling for the other, Burnbrae's eyes fell on a patch of annuals, and it seemed to him as if they made some letters.

Burnbrae looked at his wife.

“Is that oor lassie's name?”

“Aye, it is. A 've sown it mony a year, but this is the first summer a' cud read it plain, and the last a 'll sow it in oor gairden; an' yon's the apple tree we planted the year she wes born, an' the blossom never wes sae bonnie as this year.

“Oh, John, a' ken we oucht tae dae what's richt, an' no deny oor principles; but a' canna leave, a' canna leave.

“It 's no siller or plenishing a'm thinkin' aboot; it's the hoose ye brocht me tae that day, an' the room ma bairns were born in, an' the gairden she played in, an' whar a' think o' her in the gloamin'.

“It 's mair than a' can bear tae pairt wi' ma hame, an' the kirkyaird, an' gang into a strange place where a' ken naebody and naebody kens us. It 'ill brak ma hert.

“Are ye fixed aboot this maitter, John?... there's no muckle difference aifter a'.... Dr. Davidson's a fine man, an' a've herd ye praise him yersel... if ye promised tae gang at a time, maybe....” And Jean touched Burnbrae timidly with her hand.

“A' want tae dee here and be beeried wi' Jeannie.”

“Dinna try me like this,” Burnbrae cried, with agony in his voice, “for the cross is heavy eneuch already withoot the wecht o' yir plead-in'.

“Ye dinna see the nicht what ye are askin', for yir een are blind wi' tears. If a' gied in tae ye and did what ye ask, ye wud be the sorriest o' the twa, for nane hes a truer hert than ma ain' wife.

“If it wes onything else ye askit, ye wud hae it, Jean, though it cost me a' my gear, but a' daurna deny my Lord, no even for yir dear sake.... He died for us... an' this is a' He asks....

“A' maun sae no tae the factor the mornin', an' if ye 're against me it 'ill be hard on flesh and blood.... Say yir wullin', an' a' fear nae evil, Jean.”

“A'm tryin' hard, John,” and they spoke together with a low voice, while the kindly darkness fell as a sacred cover round about them; and when they came into the light of the kitchen, where the family was waiting, there was victory on the face of Burnbrae and Jean his wife.

“Well, Baxter,” said the factor in his room next day, “your offer is all right in money, and we 'ill soon settle the building. By the way, I suppose you 've thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word to attend the Established Church, eh?”

“Ye may be sure that a've gien a' ye said ma best judgment, an' there's naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask a' canna grant.”

“Why not?” and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae contemptuously as he stood erect before him. “My groom tells me that there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland, and that the whole affair is just down-right bad temper, and I believe he 's right.”

“A' wudna say onything disrespectfu', sir, but it's juist possible that naither you nor your groom ken the history o' the Free Church; but ye may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak sic sacrifices for bad temper.”

“Come along, then,” and the factor allowed himself to be merry, “let's hear a sermon. You Scotchmen are desperate fellows for that kind of thing. Does the Free Kirk sing Psalms one way and the Established Kirk another? It's some stark nonsense, I know.”

“It may be to you, but it is not to us; and at ony rate, it is the truth accordin' tae ma licht, an' ilka man maun gae by that as he sall answer at the Judgment.”

“Don't stand canting here. Do you mean to say that you will lose your farm, and see your family at the door for a kirk? You can't be such a drivelling fool; and a fellow of your age too! Yes or no?”

“A' hae nae choice, then, but tae say No; an' that's ma laist word.”

“Then you and the rest of your friends will march, d' you understand? You may take this for notice at once—and I 'll get some tenants that have respect for—ah—for—in fact, for law and order.”

“Ye may clear the Free Kirk fouk oot o' Drumtochty, an' get new tenants o' some kind; but when ye hae filled the Glen wi' greedy time-servers his lordship 'ill miss the men that coonted their conscience mair than their fairms.”

“If you have quite finished, you may go,” said the factor; “leaving your farm does not seem to touch you much.”

“Sir,” replied Burnbrae with great solemnity, “I pray God you may never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.” Jean was waiting at the top of the brae for her man, and his face told her the event.

“Ye maunna be cast doon, Jean,” and his voice was very tender, “an' a' ken weel ye 'ill no be angry wi' me.”

“Angry?” said Jean; “ma hert failed last nicht for a whilie, but that 's ower noo an' for ever. John a' lu vit ye frae the time we sat in the schule thegither, an' a' wes a happy wumman when ye mairried me.

“A 've been lifted mony a time when a' saw how fouk respeckit ye, and abune a' when ye gaed doon the kirk with the cups in yir hands at the Saicrament, for a' kent ye were worthy.

“Ye 're dearer tae me ilka year that comes and gaes, but a' never lu vit ye as a' dae this nicht, an' a' coont sic a husband better than onything God cud gie me on earth.”

And then Jean did what was a strange thing in Drumtochty—she flung her arms round Burnbrae's neck and kissed him.

III.—A DISPLENISHING SALE

DRUMTOCHTY, hoeing the turnips for the second time on a glorious day in early August, saw the Kildrummie auctioneer go up the left side of the Glen and down the right like one charged with high affairs. It was understood that Jock Constable could ride anything in the shape of a horse, and that afternoon he had got ten miles an hour out of an animal which had been down times without number, and whose roaring could be heard from afar. Jock was in such haste that he only smacked his lips as he passed our public-house, and waved his hand when Hillocks shouted, “Hoo's a' wi' ye?” from a neighbouring field. But he dismounted whenever he saw a shapely gate-post, and spent five minutes at the outer precincts of the two churches.

“It 'ill be a roup,” and Hillocks nodded to his foreman with an air of certitude; “a' wun-ner wha 's it is; some Kildrummie man, maist likely.”

When the advertising disease first broke out in the country, a Muirtown grocer with local connections disfigured our main road with his list of prices, till in a moment of incredible audacity he affixed a cheap tea advertisement to the Parish Kirk door, and was understood to have escaped penal servitude by offering an abject apology to Doctor Davidson, and contributing ten pounds for the poor of the parish. Constable's announcements were the only mural literature afterwards allowed in the Glen, and Jock prided himself on their grandeur. They were headed in large type “Displenishing Sale,” and those imposing words, which had never been heard in the ordinary speech of the Glen within the memory of man, were supported in the body of the document by “heifers,” “fat oxen,” “draught horses,” “agricultural implements,” and “dairy apparatus.” Jock had “cereals” in one bill, but yielded to public feeling, and returned to “oats and barley” as a concession to the condition of a semieducated people.

Persons, without imagination, used to carp at the grand style and demand explanations, but short of “cereals,” Jock carried the community.

“What gars Jock aye say 'Displenishing Sale'?” inquired Hillocks one day, after he had given ten minutes to a bill and done the more ambitious words in syllables. “An' what dis he mean by 'heifer'? A' ken the beasts on Milton as weel as ma ain, an' a' never heard tell o' 'heifer' ootside o' the Bible.”

“Ye're a doited (stupid) body, Hillocks,” said Jamie Soutar, who was always much tickled by Jock's efforts; “ye wudna surely expeck an unctioneer tae speak aboot roups, and div ye think yersel that quey soonds as weel as heifer? Gin ye hed naething but oor ain words on a post, naebody wud look twice at it, but this kind o' langidge solemnises ye an' maks ye think.”

“Man Jamie, a' never thocht o' that,” for this argument touched Hillocks closely, “an' a'm no sayin' but ye 're richt. Jock 's a gabby body an' no feared o' words.”

Constable made a point of publishing on Saturday as late as light would allow, so that his literature might burst upon the Glen on Sabbath morning with all the charm of a surprise. Whether a man came east or west, he had the benefit of three bills before he reached the kirk and settled down quietly to the one on the right hand pillar of the kirkyard gate. Less than this number of wayside editions would not have served the purpose, because there was a severe etiquette in reading. When Whinnie emerged on the main road and caught sight of “Displenishing Sale,” he would have been ashamed to cross or show any indecent curiosity. He only nodded and proceeded to settle the farm in his mind. The second bill, whose geography he mastered without stopping, verified his conclusion and left him free to run over in his mind the stock and crops that would be offered. A pause not exceeding one minute was allowed for the head of the house at the third bill to detect any gross mistake in his general review, but the examination of minute details was reserved for the large paper edition at the kirkyard. This was studied from the first word to the last in profound silence, but was rigidly excluded from direct quotation on Sabbath. When Whinnie joined the fathers he only referred to Milton's roup as a rumour that had reached his ears, and might have been discussed at length on any other day.

Drumsheugh, waking, as it were, from a reverie:

“A' wudna wunner gin the Milton roup did come aff sune... there's twa acre mair neeps than a' expeckit.”

Then Hillocks would casually remark, as one forced into a distasteful conversation, “The gude wife keeps ae coo, a' hear; she 'ill be taking a pendicle at Kildrummie, a'm judg-in',” but any thorough treatment was hindered by circumstances.

The kirkyard was only once carried beyond itself by Jock's bills, and that was when he announced Burnbrae's sale.

“Keep's a', fouk, this is no lichtsome,” was all Whinnie could say as he joined the group, and the boxes were passed round without speech.

“Weel, weel,” Hillocks said at last, in the tone consecrated to funerals, “he 'ill be sair missed.”

It was felt to be an appropriate note, and the mouths of the fathers were opened.

“A graund fairmer,” continued Hillocks, encouraged by the sympathetic atmosphere; “he kent the verra day tae sow, an' ye cudna find a thistle on Burnbrae, no, nor a docken. Gin we a' keepit oor land as clean it wud set us better,” and Hillocks spoke with the solemnity of one pointing the moral of a good man's life.

“He hed a fine hert tae,” added Whinnie, feeling that Hillocks's eulogy admitted of expansion; “he cam up laist summer when George wes lying in the decline, and he says tae me, 'Whinnie, yir pasture is fair burnt up; pit yir coos in ma second cutting: George maun hae gude milk,' an' they fed a' the summer in Burnbrae's clover. He didna like sic things mentioned, but it disna maitter noo. Marget wes awfu' touched.”

“But ye cudna ca' Burnbrae a shairp business man,” said Jamie Soutar critically; “he keepit Jess Stewart daein' naethin' for five year, and gared her believe she wes that usefu' he cudna want her, because Jess wud suner hae deed than gaen on the pairish.

“As for puir fouk, he wes clean redeeklus; there wesna a weedow in the Glen didna get her seed frae him in a bad year. He hed abeelity in gaitherin', but he wes wastefu' in spendin'.

“Hooever, he 's gone noo, an' we maunna be sayin' ill o' the dead; it's no what he wud hae dune himsel. Whatna day's the beerial?” inquired Jamie, anxiously.

“Beerial? Losh preserve's, Jamie,” began Hillocks, but Drumsheugh understood.

“Jamie hes the richt o't; if Burnbrae hed slippit awa, yir faces cudna be langer. He's no oot o' the Glen yet, and wha kens gin he mayna beat the factor yet?

“It's no muckle we can dae in that quarter but there's ae thing in oor poor. We can see that Burnbrae hes a gude roup, an' gin he maun leave us that he cairries eneuch tae keep him an' the gude wife for the rest o' their days.

“There's a wheen fine fat cattle and some gude young horse; it wud be a sin tae let them gae below their price tae the Muirtown dealers. Na, na, the man that wants tae buy at Burn-brae's roup 'ill need tae pay.”

The countenance of the kirkyard lifted, and as Hillocks followed Drumsheugh into kirk, he stopped twice and wagged his head with marked satisfaction. Three days later it was understood at the “smiddy” that Burnbrae's roup was likely to be a success.

Thursday was the chosen day for roups in our parts, and on Monday morning they began to make ready at Burnbrae. Carts, engrained with the mud of years, were taken down to the burn, and came back blue and red. Burnbrae read the name of his grandfather on one of the shafts, and noticed it was Burnebrae in those days. Ploughs, harrows, rollers were grouped round a turnip sowing machine (much lent to neighbours), and supported by an array of forks, graips, scythes, and other lighter implements. The granary yielded a pair of fanners, half a dozen riddles, measures for corn, a pile of sacks, and some ancient flails. Harness was polished till the brass ornaments on the peaked collars and heavy cart saddles emerged from obscurity, and shone in the sunshine. Jean emptied her dairy, and ranged two churns, one her mother s, a cheese-press, and twenty-four deep earthenware dishes at the head of a field where the roup was to take place.

“Dinna bring oot yir dairy, Jean wumman,” Burnbrae had pleaded in great distress; “we 'ill get some bit placey wi' a field or twa, and ye 'ill hae a coo as lang as ye live. A' canna bear tae see ma wife's kirn sold; ye mind hoo a' tried tae help ye the first year, an' ye splashed me wi' the milk. Keep the auld kirn, lass.”

“Na, na, John, it wud juist fret me tae see it wi' nae milk tae fill it, for it's no an ae-coo-kirn mine like a pendicler's (small farmer's), an' a' wud raither no look back aifter we 've awa',” but Jean's hands were shaking as she laid down the wooden stamp with which she had marked the best butter that went to Muirtown market that generation.

On Thursday forenoon the live-stock was gathered and penned in the field below the garden, where the dead lassie's name bloomed in fragrant mignonette. Burnbrae and Jean saw all their gear, save the household furniture, set out for sale. She had resolved to be brave for his sake, but every object in the field made its own appeal to her heart. What one read in the auctioneer's catalogue was a bare list of animals and implements, the scanty plenishing of a Highland farm. Jean saw everything in a golden mist of love. It was a perfectly preposterous old dogcart that ought to have been broken up long ago, but how often she had gone in it to Muirtown on market days with John, and on the last journey he had wrapped her up as tenderly as when she was a young bride. The set of silver-plated harness—but there was not much plating left—Jean had bought from a Muirtown saddler with savings from her butter money, and had seen the ostler fit on the old mare—her foal, old enough himself now, was to be sold to-day—against John's coming from the cattle mart. He was so dazzled by the sheen of the silver that he passed his own conveyance in the stable yard—he never heard the end of that—and he could only shake his fist at her when she came from her hiding-place, professing great astonishment. John might laugh at her, but she saw the people admiring the turnout as they drove along the street in Muirtown, and, though it took them three hours to reach Burnbrae, the time was too short for the appreciation of that harness. It seemed yesterday, but that was seven-and-twenty year ago.

“Come intae the hoose, Jean,” said Burnbrae, taking her by the arm; “it 's ower tryin' for ye; we maun hae oor half oor afore the roup begins.”

Burnbrae and Jean never said a word about such secret things, and indeed there was not in them a trace of Pharisee, but their children and the serving folk knew why the old people always disappeared after the midday meal.

“It's a black shame,” said Bell to her neighbour as they cut up cheese for the roup, “tae cast sic a gude man oot o' his hame; deil tak' them that dae 't.”

“Be quiet, wumman, or the maister 'ill hear ye; but ye 're richt aboot whar they 'ill gang for meddling wi' the elder”—for they had not learned the Shorter Catechism, without profit, in Drumtochty.

When Brunbrae went out again, Jock Constable had arrived, and an old mare was being run up and down the field at such speed as a limp allowed.

“Keep her rinnin', laddie,” Jock was shouting from the middle of the fat cattle; “she 'ill be as soople as a three-year-auld afore the fouk come.”

“What's this ye 're aifter wi' the mare, Jock?”

“Doctoring her stiffness, Burnbrae; it wears aff as sune as she gets warm, and the fouk micht as weel see her at her best.

“It 'ill pit a five-pund note on her,” continued Jock, “an' a'm no tae gie a warranty wi' onything the day.

“Man, hoo did ye no get the wricht tae gie those cairts a lick o' pent? They did it at Pit-foodles, and there wes an auld corn cairt went aff for new.”

“Ye may dae what ye like at Pit foodies, but ye 'll play nae tricks here, Jock,” and Burnbrae's eye had a dangerous gleam; “gin ye dinna tell the fouk that the mare hes a titch o' 'grease' on her aff hind-leg, a 'll dae it masel.”

Jock was much dashed, for he had intended some other legitimate improvements, and he carried his wrongs to Drumsheugh.

“There's sic a thing as bein' ower gude, an' a' dinna see ony use in startin' this roup; he micht as weel fling awa' his gear tae the first bidder. Wull ye believe it,” said Jock, in bitterness of soul, “that he hesna providit a drop o' speerits, an' is gaein' tae offer the fouk tea an' lime-juice—lime-juice,” and Jock dwelt on the word with scathing scorn.

Did ye ever hear o' a roup comin' aff on sic like drink? It's fifteen year sin a' took tae the unctioneerin' trade, an' a' tell ye nae man 'ill gie a bid worth mentionin' till he 's hed his tastin', an' there's nae spunk afore the third gless.

“Noo there wes Pitfoodles roup,” exclaimed Jock, harking back to high-water mark; “if a' didna send roond the glesses sax times, an' afore a' wes ower Lochlands bocht a geizened (leaky) water-cairt withoot wheels for aucht pund twal shillings, an' it's lying at Pitfoodles till this day. Ye'ill no see a roup like that twice in a generation. Lime-juice—it's a clean temptin' o' Providence.”

“Ye needna get in a feery-farry (commotion), Jock,” said Drumsheugh, eyeing the little man severely; “the 'ill be nae call for speerits the day. A'm no a jidge o' lime-juice masel, but it 'ill dae as weel as onything else, or water itsel for that maitter.

“Pitfoodles! Man, it 'ill no be mentioned wi' the prices ye 'ill get at Burnbrae, or a' dinna ken Drumtochty.”

“Div ye mean that Drumtochty's gaein' tae stand in?” said Jock, much cheered.

“A' mean what a' say, an' the suner ye begin the better. Ye 'ill be takin' the potatoes first,” and the gait of Drumsheugh as he moved off was that of a general on the morning of battle.

The dealers from Muirtown and outlying strangers from Kildrummie bore themselves after the time-honoured manners of a roup—a fine blend of jocose gaiety and business curiosity; but the Glen and stragglers from the upper districts were not in a roup mood, and seemed to have something on their minds. They greeted Burnbrae respectfully, and took a spare refreshment with marked solemnity. Their very faces chilled Jock when he began operations, and reduced to hopeless confusion an opening joke he had prepared on the way from Kildrummie. This severity was hard on Jock, for he was understood to have found his rÔle in auctioneering, and a roup was the great day of his life. He was marked out for his office by the fact that he had been twice bankrupt as a farmer, and by a gift of speech which bordered on the miraculous. There were times when he was so carried on political questions in the Muirtown Inn that the meat flew from the end of his fork, and a Drumtochty man, with an understood reference to Jock's eloquence, could only say “Sall” at the Junction, to which another would reply, “He 's an awfu' wratch.” This tribute to Jock's power rested, as is evident, less on the exact terms of the eulogy than on his monopoly of the Drumtochty imagination for two hours. His adroitness in throwing strong points into relief and infirmities into the shade, as well as his accurate knowledge of every man's farming affairs and his insight into their peculiarities as buyers, were almost Satanic. People who did not intend to buy, and would have received no credit if they had, went to hear Jock selling a horse, and left fully rewarded. Indeed, if Whinnie suddenly chuckled on the way home, and did not proceed farther than “It cowes a',” he was understood to be chewing the cud of Jock's humour, and was excused from impossible explanations.

Jock referred to the Burnbrae roup as long as he lived, and gave incidents with dramatic force in the train, but every one knows he had nothing to do with its success.

“Ye needna waste time speaking the day, Jock,” Drumsheugh advised before they began on the potatoes; “pit up the articles, and we 'ill see tae the bids.” Which Drumtochty did without one slack moment, from the potatoes, which fetched one pound an acre more than had been known in the parish, to a lot of old iron which a Kildrummie blacksmith got at something under cost price. People hesitated to award praise where all had done well, but the obstinacy of Hillocks, which compelled a Muirtown horse-dealer to give forty-two pounds for a young horse, and Whinnie's part in raising the prices for fat cattle, are still mentioned. When Jock came down from his table in the field, he was beyond speech, and Drumtochty regarded Drumsheugh with unfeigned admiration.

“Gude nicht tae ye, Burnbrae,” said that great man, departing; “if ye hae tae gang it 'ill no be empty-handed,” and although Burnbrae did not understand all, he knew that his neighbours had stood by him without stint that day.

For an hour the buyers were busy conveying away their goods, till at last the farm had been stripped of all the animal life that had made it glad, and those familiar articles that were each a link with the past. Burnbrae wandered through the staring sheds, the silent stable, the empty granary, and then he bethought him of his wife. When her kirn was put up he had been moved by a sudden emotion and bought it back, and he saw her face for an instant between the bushes of the garden. Where was Jean? He sought her in the house, in the garden, and could not find her. Then he heard the rattle of a chain in one of the byres, and understood. Jean's favourite cow had been kept, and she was sitting in the stall with her, as one left desolate. When Burnbrae entered, Brownie turned her head and looked at him with an intelligent understanding in her soft, motherly eyes.

“She's a' that's left o'ma byre,” and Jean burst into a passion of weeping. “Ye mind hoo they deed in the rinder-pest ane by ane, and were buried; juist Brownie cam through, and noo she's alane again.

“That wes the judgment o' the Almichty, and we daurna complain, but this wes the doin' o' man, an' ma hert is bitter.

“A' the beasts a' reared, an' the gear we githered, a' sold and carried off, till there's nae soond heard in the hooses, nae wark tae dae.”

Burnbrae sat down and flung his arm round her, and as the two old heads were bent together, the gentle animal beside them missed her companions and moaned.

After a while Burnbrae began:

“It 's a shairp trial, wife, an' hard tae bear. But dinna forget oor mercies. We hae oor fower laddies left us, an' a' daein' weel.

“We oucht tae be thankfu' that Sandie 's been kept in the battle. Think o' yir son win-nin' the Victoria Cross, wumman, an' ye 'ill see it on his breist.

“An' oor lassie's safe, Jean... in the Auld Hame, an'... we 'ill sune be gaein' oorsels an'... the 'ill be nae pairtin' there.

“Ye hae me, Jean, an' a' hae ma ain gude wife, an' luve is mair than a' the things a man can see wi' his een or haud in his hands. Sae dinna be cast doon, lass, for nae hand can touch oor treasures or tak awa' oor luve.”

When Jean was comforted, Burnbrae gathered his household together in the kitchen, and he chose the portion from the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel:

“Whosoever therefore shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.”

As Burnbrae read the last words he lifted up his head, and it seemed even unto the serving girls as if he had received a crown.

They had the right to occupy their old home till Martinmas, but Jean had begun to fret, wandering through the empty “houses” and brooding over the coming trial.

“A' canna help it, John; the Almichty made a woman different from a man, an' the 'ill be nae peace for me till we be oot o' Burnbrae.

“Ma wark here's feenished, an' it's no like hame ony mair. A' wish the flittin' were ower an' you an' me were settled whar we 'ill end oor days.”

Burnbrae had found a little place near Kildrummie that would leave him within reach of his kirk, which he had loved at a great cost, and his old neighbours, to whom he was knit with new ties.

“The Word can come onywhere tae the hert, an' the angel o' His Presence 'ill aye be wi' us, Jean, but there's nae place whar the Evangel 'ill ever soond sae sweet as in the Free Kirk o' Drumtochty.

“We 'ill traivel up as lang as we 're able, and see oor friends aince a week. It 'ill dae us gude, wumman, tae get a handshak frae Netherton and Donald Menzies, an' Lachlan himsel, though he be a stiff chiel” (for this was before the transformation).

“Forbye the Auld Kirk folk, for a' dinna deny, Jean, aifter a' that's happened, that it 'ill be pleasant tae meet them comin' wast, wi' Drumsheugh at their head.

“Ma hert's warm tae a' body in the Glen, and a'ken they'ill no forget us, Jean, in oor bit hoosie at Kildrummie.”

One Thursday afternoon—the flitting was to be on Monday—Burnbrae came upon Jean in the garden, digging up plants and packing them tenderly with wide margins of their native earth.

“A' cudna leave them, John, an' they 'ill mak oor new gairden mair hame-like. The pinks are cuttin's a' set masel, an' the fuchsias tae, an' Jeannie carried the can and watered them that simmer afore she deed.

“When Peter Robertson wes warnin' us no tae meddle wi' ony fixture for fear o' the factor, a' askit him aboot the floors, an' he said, 'Gin a' hed plantit them masel, they micht be lifted.' Gude kens a' did, every ane, though it 's no mony we can tak; but preserve's, wha's yon?”

It was not needful to ask, for indeed only one man in the parish could walk with such grave and stately dignity, and that because his father and grandfather had been parish ministers before him.

“This is rael neeburly, Doctor, an' like yer-sel tae come up afore we left the auld place. Ye 're welcome at Burnbrae as yir father wes in ma father's day. Ye heard that we 're flittin' on Monday?”

“Ye're not away yet, Burnbrae, you're not away yet; it's not so easy to turn out a Drumtochty man as our English factor thought: we 're a stiff folk, and our roots grip fast.

“He was to rule this parish, and he was to do as he pleased with honest men; we 'll see who comes off best before the day is done,” and the Doctor struck his stick, the stick of office with the golden head, on the gravel in triumph.

“You v'e just come in time, Mrs. Baxter”—for Jean had been putting herself in order—“for I want to give you a bit of advice. Do not lift any more of your plants—it 's bad for their growth; and I rather think you 'll have to put them back.”

Jean came close to Burnbrae's side, and watched the Doctor without breathing while he placed the stick against a bush, and put on his eye-glasses with deliberation, and opened out a telegram and read aloud: “'Paris. Your letter found me at last; leave London for home Thursday morning; tell Burnbrae to meet me in Muirtown on Friday. Kilspindie.'

“My letter went to Egypt and missed him, but better late than never, Burnbrae... that's a wonderful plant you have there, Mrs. Baxter,” and he turned aside to study a hydrangea Jean had set out in the sun; for with all his pompous and autocratic ways, the Doctor was a gentleman of the old school.

When he departed and Jean had settled down, Burnbrae thought it wise to moderate her joy lest it should end in bitter disappointment.

“The Doctor hes dune his pairt, and it wes kind o' him tae come up himsel ane's errand tae tell us. Ye didna see his face aifter he read the message, but it wes worth seein'. There 's no a soonder hert in the Glen.

“A' kent this thing wudna hae happened gin his Lordship hed been at hame, an' a 'm thinkin he wud dae his best tae repair it.

“Maybe he'ill gie's the first chance o' a vacant fairm, but a' doot we maun leave Burn-brae; they say 'at it 's as gude as let tae a Netheraird man.”

“Dinna say that, John, for it's no anither fairm, it's Burnbrae a' want. A 'll be watchin' the mornin's evening when ye come up the road, an' a 'll see ye turnin' the corner. Ye 'll wave yir airm tae me gin a' be richt, an' Jean-nie's floors 'ill be back in their beds afore ye be hame.”

When Burnbrae appeared at Kildrummie station next morning, Drumtochty, who happened to be there in force on their last Muirtown visit before harvest, compassed him with observances, putting him in the corner seat, and emphasising his territorial designation.

“That wes michty news aboot the Sergeant, Burnbrae,” began Jamie Soutar; “it spiled a nicht's sleep tae me readin' hoo he stude ower the Colonel and keepit the Afghans at bay till the regiment rallied. Wes 't four or sax he focht single-handed?”

“He barely mentioned the maitter in his letters, but his captain wrote tae the gude wife, which wes rael thochtfu'; he made it sax, an' he said the regiment wes prood o' Sandie.” For an instant Burnbrae drew himself up in his corner, and then he added, “But it's no for his father tae be speakin' this wy. Sandie did naethin' but his duty.”

“For doonricht leein',” said Jamie meditatively, “a' never kent the marra (equal) o' thae London papers; they made oot that Sandie wes a hero, and we cleaned the Muirtown book-stall lest Friday a week. A' never saw the Kildrummie train in sic speerits; it's awfu' hoo country fouk are deceived.”

“Piggie Walker cam up on Monday” (Hillocks seemed to be addressing some person above Burnbrae's head), “and he wes tellin' me they hed a by-ordinar' sermon frae the student. 'A wished Burnbrae hed been there,' Piggie said; 'he wes boond tae be lifted. He 'ill sune hae a kirk, yon lad, an' a gude ane.' Piggie's a body, but he's coonted the best jidge o' sermons in Kildrummie.”

Drumsheugh alone did not join in those kindly efforts, but struck out a manner of his own, chuckling twice without relevancy, and once growing so red that Hillocks ran over his family history to estimate the risk of a “seizure.”

“Is that you, Burnbrae? Come in, man; come in. It's a pleasure to see a Drumtochty face again after those foreign fellows,” and Lord Kilspindie gripped his tenant's hand in the factor's office. “Sit down and give me all your news.

“Th 'ill be no speaking to Mrs. Baxter now after this exploit of the Sergeant's! When I read it on my way home I was as proud as if he had been my own son. It was a gallant deed, and well deserves the Cross. He 'ill be getting his commission some day. Lieutenant Baxter! That 'ill stir the Glen, eh?

“But what is this I hear of your leaving Burnbrae? I don't like losing old tenants, and I thought you would be the last to flit.”

“Did the factor not tell you, my Lord——”

“I 've only seen him for five minutes, and he said it had nothing to do with rent; it was some religious notion or other. Is that so?”

“The fairm is worth thirty pund mair rent, an' a' wud hae paid saxty rather than leave my auld hame; but the factor made it a condeetion tae gie up ma kirk.”

“Well, Burnbrae, I never thought you would have left me for a matter of kirks. Could you not have stretched a point for auld lang syne?” and Kilspindie looked hard at the old man.

“Ma Lord, there's naething a' wudna hae dune to stay in Burnbrae but this ae thing. Ye hae been a gude landlord tae me as the auld Earl wes tae ma father, an' it 'ill never be the same tae me again on anither estate; but ye maunna ask me tae gang back on ma conscience.”

The tears came to Burnbrae's eyes, and he rose to his feet.

“A' thocht,” he said, “when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither mind than yir factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi' guid news in ma mooth.

“Gin it be yir wull that we flit, a 'll mak nae mair complaint, an' there's nae bitterness in ma hert. But a' wud like ye tae ken that it 'ill be a sair pairtin'.

“For twa hundred years an' mair there's been a Baxter at Burnbrae and a Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin' farmer, an' the ither a belted earl, but gude freends an' faithfu', an' ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as dear tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.

“A' mind that day the Viscount cam o' age, an' we gaithered tae wush him weel, that a' saw the pictures o' the auld Hays on yir walls, an' thocht hoo mony were the ties that bund ye tae yir hame.

“We haena pictures nor gouden treasures, but there's an' auld chair at oor fireside, an' a' saw ma grandfather in it when a' wes a laddie at the schule, an' a' mind him tellin' me that his grandfather hed sat in it lang afore. It's no worth muckle, an' it's been often mended, but a 'll no like tae see it carried oot frae Burnbrae.

“There is a Bible, tae, that hes come doon, father tae son, frae 1690, and ilka Baxter hes written his name in it, an' 'farmer at Burnbrae,' but it 'ill no be dune again, for oor race 'ill be awa frae Burnbrae for ever.

“Be patient wi' me, ma Lord, for it's the lest time we 're like tae meet, an' there's anither thing a' want tae say, for it's heavy on ma hert.

“When the factor told me within this verra room that we maun leave, he spoke o' me as if a' hed been a lawless man, an' it cut me mair than ony ither word.

“Ma Lord, it's no the men that fear their God that 'ill brak the laws, an' a ken nae Baxter that wes ither than a loyal man tae his King and country.

“Ma uncle chairged wi' the Scots Greys at Waterloo, and a' mind him tellin', when a' wes a wee laddie, hoo the Hielanders cried oot,

'Scotland for ever,' as they passed.

“I needna tell ye aboot ma brither, for he wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol, and the letter ye send tae Burnbrae is keepit in that Bible for a heritage.

“A 'll mention naethin' aither o' ma ain laddie, for ye've said mair than wud be richt for me, but we coont it hard that when oor laddie hes shed his blude like an honest man for his Queen, his auld father and mither sud be driven frae the hame their forbears hed for seeven generations.”

Lord Kilspindie rose to his feet at the mention of Sebastopol, and now went over to the window as one who wished to hide his face.

“Dinna be angry with me, ma Lord, nor think a'm boastin', but a' cudna thole that ye sud think me a lawbreaker, wha cared naither for kirk nor commonweal,” and still his Lordship did not move.

“It gaes tae ma hert that we sud pairt in anger, an' if a 've said mair than a' oucht, it wes in sorrow, for a'll never forget hoo lang ma fouk hae lived on yir land, and hoo gude ye hae been tae me,” and Burnbrae turned to the door.

“You 're the dullest man in all Drumtochty,” cried Kilspindie, wheeling round—one might have fancied—but that is absurd—“and the truest. Did you think that a Hay would let a Baxter go for all the kirks that ever were built? You supposed that I wanted you to play the knave for your farm, and this was the news you were to carry home to Jean; it's too bad of you, Burnbrae.”

“Ma Lord, a'... ye ken—”

“It's all right, and I'm only joking; and the play was carried on a bit too long for both of us, but I wanted to hear your own mind upon this matter,” and Kilspindie called for the factor.

“Is the Burnbrae lease drawn up?”

“It is, at an advance of sixty pounds, and I've got a man who will sign it, and says he will give no trouble about kirks; in fact, he 'll just do... ah... well, whatever we tell him.”

“Quite so; most satisfactory sort of man. Then you 'll reduce the rent to the old figure, and put in the name of John Baxter, and let it be for the longest period we ever give on the estate.”

“But, Lord Kilspindie... I... did you know—”

“Do as I command you without another word,” and his Lordship was fearful to behold. “Bring the lease here in ten minutes, and place it in Mr. Baxter's hands. What I've got to say to you will keep till afterwards.

“Sit down, old friend, sit down;... it was my blame.... I ought to be horse-whipped.... Drink a little water. You 're better now.... I 'll go and see that fellow has no tricks in the conditions.” But he heard Burnbrae say one word to himself, and it was “Jean.”

“There are mony things a' wud like tae say, ma Lord,” said Burnbrae before he left, “but a full hert maks few words. Gin lifting a dark cloud aff the life o' a family an' fillin' twa auld fouk wi' joy 'ill gie ony man peace, ye 'ill sleep soond this nicht in yir castle.

“When ye pass below Burnbrae on yir way to the Lodge and see the smoke curlin' up through the trees, ye 'ill ken a family's livin' there that bless yir name, and will mention it in their prayers.”

The first man Burnbrae met when he came out with the lease in his pocket was Drumsheugh, whose business that particular day had kept him wandering up and down the street for nearly an hour.

“Keep's a', Burnbrae, is that you? a' thocht ye were dune wi' that office noo. It's a puir market the day; the dealers are getting the fat cattle for naethin'.” But Drumsheugh's manner had lost its calm finish.

“A've something tae tell,” said Burnbrae, “an' ye sud be the first tae hear it. Lord Kilspindie's hame again, and hes settled me and mine in the auld place for a tack that 'ill laist ma days and descend tae ma son aifter me.

“This hes been a shairp trial, and there were times a' wes feared ma faith micht fail; but it's ower noo, and there's twa men Jean an' me 'ill remember wi' gratitude till we dee; ane is Doctor Davidson an' the ither is yersel. Ye brocht us through at ween ye.”

“Come awa this meenut tae the 'Kilspindie Airms.'” and Drumsheugh seized Burnbrae; “a' ken ye wunna taste, but a 'll dae it for ye; and ye 'ill eat, at ony rate,” and Drumsheugh, who was supposed to dine in secret places at not more than a shilling, ordered a dinner fit for Lord Kilspindie. He did his best to get full value for his money, but before and after, and between the courses, he let himself go at large.

“Ane and twenty year at a hundred and auchty pund; man, ye 'ill have eneuch tae stock a fairm for Jamie and furnish the student's manse.

“His Lordship wes lang o' comin' hame, but, ma certes, he's pit things richt when he did come. It's naethin' short o' handsome, an' worthy o' the Earl.

“Me,” resumed Drumsheugh, “a' hed nae-thin' tae dae wi't; it wes the Doctor's letter 'at did the business; here's tae his health; is yir soda water dune yet?

“The factor tried tae mak licht o' him that day, an' spak as if he wes abune a' body in Drumtochty; he threatened the minister tae his face; a' herd him, the upsettin', ill-mannered wratch.

“'Dinna be cast doon,' says the Doctor tae me ootside; 'ye hevna seen the end o' this game.' The man disna live 'at can beat the Doctor when his birse is up, an' a' never saw him sae roosed afore!

“Whar's the factor noo?” burst out Drumsheugh afresh. “Man, a' wud hae liked tae see him when he brocht in the lease. 'I wes here before ye, and I will be here aifter ye,' said the Doctor. It 'ill come true; a' gie the factor a month, no anither week.

“It's wersh drink ye hae, but dinna spare it. This is no an ordinar' day. A' wish we were at the Junction.”

Drumsheugh restrained himself till the Dunleith train had fairly gone—for he knew better than to anticipate an occasion—and then he gathered Drumtochty round him.

“Ye herd that the factor ordered Burnbrae tae leave his kirk, weel, it 'ill be a while or he meddle wi' anither man: an' Burnbrae wes tae be turned oot o' his fairm, it's the factor, a'm judgin', an' no Burnbrae, 'at 'ill need tae seek a hame; an' the factor wudna gie a lease for fifteen year, he's hed tae mak it oot for ane and twenty; an' he wudna tak a rack rent o' saxty pund increase tae let Burnbrae bide in his hoose, an' his Lordship 'ill no tak a penny mair than the auld rent. That's ma news, fouk, an' it's the best a've herd for mony a day.”

Then they all shook hands with Burnbrae, from Netherton to Peter Bruce, and they called in an outer fringe of Kildrummie to rejoice with them; but Burnbrae could only say:

“Thank ye, freends, frae ma hert; ye've been gude neeburs tae me and mine.”

“It's been a michty victory,” said Jamie Soutar, as they moved to the third, “but a' can see drawbacks.”

“Ay, ay,” which was a form of inquiry with Hillocks.

“Naebody 'ill be able tae tell a lee or play a Judas trick in Drumtochty for the space of a generation.”

V.—THE REPLENISHING OF BURNBRAE

When Hillocks arrived at the kirkyard on the Sabbath after Caesar's judgment, he found Jamie Soutar removing the last trace of Burn-brae's Displenishing Sale from the pillars of the gate.

It was the fragment with “John Baxter, outgoing tenant,” and Jamie was careful to preserve it entire.

“It 'ill be a relic,” he explained afterwards to the fathers, who were tasting the occasion in a pregnant silence, “like a Russian gun frae Alma. We 'ill no see anither fecht like it in oor day.

“Jock wes a wee hasty wi' his 'out-going,' but ye cudna expect a Kildrummie man tae ken ony better. He's gotten the gift o' the gab maist awfu', but an unctioneer sudna tak tae propheceein'; it's no cannie.

“But we maunna blame Jock, for there wes a story fleein' aboot that the factor hed got a new fairmer for Burnbrae; he 'ill be the in-comin' tenant, a'm judgin'; he 'ill be comin' in as the factor gaes oot.

“Speakin' aboot that, hae ye herd the new factor's name? they were keepin' it quiet on Friday,” and Jamie looked round with much interest.

“Ye've a tongue, Jamie,” and Drumsheugh laughed aloud, a luxury hardly known in the Glen, while even Gormack himself made a joyful noise within like the running down of an eight-day clock.

“It's an ill job weel ended,” resumed Hillocks, recalling the fathers to sobriety, “an' Burnbrae's gotten his fairm back; but it's bare the day, withoot a beast tae pit in the byres this winter, or a ploo tae turn the stubble.

“Nae doot he hed a graund sale, and the fat cattle cowed a'thing for price, but stockin' ower again 'll be a heavy loss; it's a terrible peety his lordship wesna hame suner.”

Then they went into matters thoroughly, and Drumsheugh gave judgment.

“Gin he hed back his implements, and Jean's coos, an' some o' the auld horse, an' maybe a dozen stirk, h 'd come oot richt aifter a'; a' didna hear the dealers boastin' aboot their bargains laist Friday,” he added with satisfaction.

There was a long pause in the conversation, during which Drumsheugh examined a loose slate on the roof of the church from three different points of view, and Jamie Soutar refreshed his remembrance of a neighbouring tombstone.

“Div ye mean?” began Whinnie, but broke off at the contempt in Jamie's eye.

“Sall,” Hillocks exclaimed in a little. “What think ye, Gormack?”

“They 're no veeciously inclined fouk in the Glen,” responded that worthy man, with studied moderation. “A' wudna say but it micht be dune. Maist o' what we 're aifter is in the Glen, some hole or ither. It wud croon a',” and Gormack began to warm.

“Nae fear o' the implements,” said Hillocks, in full scent, “nor the puckle young beasts, but a 'll no be satisfeed, neeburs, gin the gude wife disna get back her byre tae the last coo.”

“A 've twa stirks,” interrupted Whinnie, taking in the situation at last.

“Haud yir tongue till a' coont up the kye,” and Hillocks buckled to work.

“It's an aucht byre, and Jean keepit ane; that leaves seeven tae collect; noo a' hae twa masel, an' Netherton bocht the quey; that's three a' richt.

“Didna ye get the Angus doddie, Drumsheugh? weel, ye 'ill no be hard tae deal wi'; an' Bogie took anither—he's no here, but he's a cautious man, Bogie; there's nae fear o' him. That's five.

“Whar's the lave? Ou aye, a' mind Mary Robertson scrapit up eneuch for the white coo, a fine milker; it wud hardly be richt, maybe, tae ask her—”

“Ae coo as gude's anither tae Mary,” broke in Drumsheugh. “A 'll see she disna lose.”

“Weel, that's a' richt,” Hillocks went on; “and we 've juist tae find anither, and that 's the hale hypothic.”

“It 's no ill tae find,” said Jamie, “but it 'ill beat ye tae get her.”

“Ye're no meanin'—man,—ye hev it; the body did buy ane, an' he 'ill be wantin' twa or three notes on the bargain; Milton's a fair scannal in the Glen,” and Hillocks's countenance, a near enough man in season himself, was full of scorn.

“A'm astonished at ye,” and Jamie eyed Hillocks with severity; “div ye no ken that Milton is the only man in the Glen that hes ony licht ava? he's sae releegious that a' never herd o' him daein' a dirty trick, but his conscience telt him. It 'ill cost five notes tae mak his duty plain.”

“If Milton disna gie back the beast at the roup price, in the circumstances-”

“Aye, aye, Drumsheugh,” said Hillocks encouragingly.

“Weel, he needna show his face in the Kil-drummie train, that's a'; ye have yir aucht complete noo, Hillocks, an' a 'll cast ma mind ower the implements in the sermon.”

“A 'll drive doon the twa stirks the mom's morn,” for Whinnie was anxious to show his zeal.

“Ye 'll dae naethin' o' the kind,” responded Jamie. “Burnbrae's plenishing gaed awa in a day, and it 'ill gae back in a day. Drumsheugh, ye begun the wark, and ye 'ill hae tae feenish it.”

“A 'll dae the Glen by Wednesday nicht, arf a'thing 'ill need tae be hame by Thursday, or Burnbrae'ill be in at Muirtown on Friday githerin' stock. Ye 'ill keep a quiet tongue, neeburs.”

“Lippen (trust) tae that, Drumsheugh,” Jamie answered; “it's easier than speakin' in Drumtochty.”

Drumsheugh was wrapped in thought till the Doctor came to the application, when his face lightened, and he took snuff with leisurely satisfaction.

“There wes a set o' harrows,” he admitted to Jamie afterwards, “near beat me; they're doon Dunleith wy, but a'll hae a haud o'them.”

For three days the Glen was full of mystery, and the latest news of the campaign could be had at the smiddy.

Saunders, Drumsheugh's foreman, came with some machine teeth on Monday evening, and brought the first intelligence.

“The maister's in frae the wast end, and he's no hed a single refusal; yon Dunleith fairmer that cam on the dun sheltie (pony) wes that pleased at Brunbrae getting his fairm again, he offered back the harrows himsel, and is tae send up a single ploo an' a pair o' fanners 'at gied doon yon wy.

“Drumsheugh's tae be oot at five the morn, an' he's expeckin' tae sweep the Glen,” and Saunders struck a match with emphasis.

“It beats a',” said the smith, amazed at Saunders's continued speech; “the Glen's fair roosed.”

On Wednesday evening Drumsheugh was his own messenger, but would only speak in parables.

“Gin this weather keeps on, they 'ill be cuttin' roads for the machines by the end o' the week.... A 'll need tae be aff, it's gettin' late, and a've hed twa days o't.... There 's a fell puckle fairms in the pairish, aince ye gae roond them....

“Na, na, there's waur fouk in the coonty than oor neeburs,” and now every one listened with both his ears; “the fac is, there's no ae disobleeging, ill-condeetioned wratch in Drumtochty, or ane that wudna dae his pairt by a gude man.” Whereupon the smith struck a mighty blow, and the sparks flew to the roof in celebration of a great achievement.

“It's a broon and white caufie ye hev, smith,” were Drumsheugh's last words. “Ye micht bring it up the mornin's aifternoon aboot fower, and slip it intae the park afore the hoose.”

“That's the stiffest job Drumsheugh ever pit his hand tae, an' he's dune it weel,” and then the smith meditated, “hoo did he ever get roond Milton?”

Hillocks came in late and threw some light on that problem.

“A' met Drumsheugh comin' doon frae Milton, and a' lookit at him.

“The 'ill be nane o' Jean's byre missin' the morn, Hillocks.”

“That's a' he said, but his face wes as red as the harvest mune, and you wud hae thocht tae see his walk that he wes the Earl o' Kilspindie.” Burnbrae was afterwards amazed at the duplicity of Drumtochty, which compassed him with lies and befooled him on every hand, in his local efforts to restock his farm. Hillocks declined to treat for restoration till he knew how prices stood on Friday, and Netherton, his fellow-elder, was doubtful whether he could let him have two carts, while Drumsheugh refused politely but firmly to cancel his purchase in cows. Drumtochty was triumphant over Burnbrae's victory, and full of sympathy with him in his position, but there were limits to kindness, and the Glen meant to stick by their bargains.

“It's no what a' wud hae expeckit o' the neeburs, an' least o' a' frae Drumsheugh,” Jean complained, as she sat on Thursday afternoon in the garden. Burnbrae had just returned from a very disappointing visit to Donald Menzies, who expounded a recent conflict with the devil in minute detail, but would not come within a mile of business.

“We maunna judge the fouk hardly,” said Burnbrae; “a bargain 's a bargain; they gave top prices, an' nae doot they wantit what they bocht. They did their pairt at the roup, an' it wud be unreasonable tae ask mair,” but Burnbrae was inwardly perplexed.

An hour afterwards James Soutar explained to Jean that he happened to be passing, and thought he would give them “a cry,” and ended by dragging Burnbrae off to the most distant field on the farm to decide when a patch of oats he had bought in the roup would be ready for the scythe. He then settled on a dyke, and for two hours fought the great war over again from beginning to end, with a keen dramatic instinct and an amazing flow of caustic commentary.

“A 'll no deny,” when Burnbrae compelled him to return for tea, “that a'm disappointed in the fouk sin laist Friday. They micht hae let their bargains gae an' sent ye up the rough o' the stockin'.

“Noo gin a' hed been the like o' Drumsheugh,” and Jamie again came to a halt, “a' wud hae scorned tae keep onything ye needed, but they 're grippy, there's nae doot o' that, in Drumtochty; a've thocht mony a time... is yon a cairt comin' up the road?

“If it's no a load o' implements and cairt-harness! It's terribly like Saunders frae Drumsheugh, but there's nae use cryin', for he 'ill no lat on he hears.

“Sall,” continued Jamie, as they struck the track, “there's been mair than ae cairt up here; an' a' didna see ye hed cattle in the gairden field as we passed.”

“Naither a' hev; there's no aleevin' beast on the place forbye puir Brownie. A' canna mak it oot!” and Burnbrae quickened his steps.

Donald Menzies's son passed with a bridle, as if he had left a horse “behind him, and Gormack met them on horseback, as if he had come with a cart, but, beyond the weather, they had nothing to say. Whinnie was wrestling with two stirks to get them into a field—with the result that one went up the road and another down, after the manner of their kind—and had no leisure for conversation. A large roller had stuck in the last gate, and young Netherton was not in a mood to answer questions.

“Ask Drumsheugh,” was all that could be got out of him as he backed his horse first one way and then the other.

“Ma opeenion,” said Jamie solemnly, “is that Drumtochty's gaen geit (crazy). Did ye ever see the like o' that?”

The farmhouse and other buildings made a square, and Burnbrae stood beyond speech or motion at the sight which met his eyes. The “ports” of the cart-shed, that had been a yawning void when he left, were filled once more with two carts in each—his own well-mended carts—the one behind, with the trams on the ground and the one before, suspended from the roof by the chain saddle; and if Piggie Walker was not unharnessing a pony from the old dogcart in the turnip-shed. 'The greys that made the second pair—but they were really white—and which he had grudged selling far more than the young horses, came up from the water and went sedately into the stable. Through the door he could see that Jean's byre was nearly full, and outside two calves had settled down to supper upon a guano bag with much relish. Saunders, Baxter and Tammas Mitchell were shouldering the fanners into the corn room, while the servant lassies, quite off their heads with excitement, were carrying in the dairy dishes that some cart had left. The courtyard was strewn with implements, and in the centre stood Drumsheugh full of power and forcible speech, a sight never to be forgotten.

“Hurry up wi' the fanners, lads, and yoke on the ploos, pit the harrows in the cairt-shed, an' hang thae saidles in the stable; ye micht gie the horses a feed, and see the coos hae a bite o' grass.

“Cairry that harness into the hoose, Piggie, the wife keeps it hersel; man, a' forgot tae gie ye a word; hoo did ye hear? onywy, it wes neeburly tae gie back the auld dogcairt.

“Jamie Soutar hes wiled the gude man oot o' the road, but he 'ill sune be back, an' we maun hae the place snod afore he comes.”

Then he saw Burnbrae and Jamie, and raged furiously.

“It's maist aggravatin' that some fouk 'ill come when they 're no wantit, an' stan' glowerin' till ye wud think they hed never seen a fairm toon redd (cleaned) up in their life.

“The fac is,” and Drumsheugh relapsed into private life, “the neeburs thocht ye micht be the better of some o' yir plenishin' back tae begin wi', an' the maist o' what's in the Glen 'ill be here afore nicht.

“Dinna say a word aboot it; it wud hae been a disgrace tae see ye buyin' in the Muirtown market, an' yir goods on oor fairms. We're hard, but we 're no sae mean as that. Whup that reapin' machine oot o' the road, Tammas,” shouted Drumsheugh, creating a skilful diversion for Burnbrae's benefit.

Two cows came round the corner, and made for their byre with the air of persons glad to find themselves in familiar surroundings after discomposing adventures in foreign parts. Hawkie stepped aside at the door to allow Queenie to enter first, for there is a strict order of precedence among cows, and however it might have been disregarded in strange byres, good manners must be observed at home.

Three minutes later Hillocks sauntered in with explanations.

“They kent their ain road as sune as we got sicht o' the hooses; it 's a fine hairst day, Drumsheugh; is the byre fillin'?”

“It's full, man; the laist coo 's in, and Burnbrae 's aff tae tell the gude wife; naebody hes failed, Hillocks, an' a'm expectin' the ministers up every minute.”

Jean was utterly dazed, and Burnbrae knew not what to do with her. Between the going and the coming her strength had given, and she could only sit motionless except when she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“If Doctor Davidson isna comin' up the near road wi' Maister Cunningham. Drumsheugh's telt them, a'll wager, and they're comin' tae wush us weel.

“It's a terrible peety, Jean, ye 're no able tae see them,” continued Burnbrae, with great cunning; “they wud nearly need tae get their tea comin' sae far, an' Drumsheugh tae, for he's hed an aifternune.

“But it canna be helpit noo, an' of coorse the'ill be naethin' for them; a 'll juist say ye 're no yersel the day, an' tell the lassies tae bring in a jug o' milk,” and Burnbrae made for the door.

“Wud ye daur tae send onybody awa frae oor hoose this day withoot brakin' bread, tae say naethin'o' the ministers?” and Jean was already hunting for her best dress. “Gae doon this meenut an' show them ower the place, an', John, man, keep them awa for an 'oor.”

When the party returned from their round all things were ready, and Jean received the company in her black silk and a cap that called forth the warm congratulations of the doctor.

It was a meal to be remembered, and remained a date for calculation while the old people lived. Twenty times at least did Jean apologise for its imperfection—the scones which wanted more firing and the butter that was soft through heat—and as many times did the doctor declare with solemnity that he never expected to taste the like again till he returned to Burnbrae. Seven times exactly did Jean go out to supplement the table with forgotten dainties, and once she was so long away that Drumsheugh accused her of visiting the byre.

“No likely wi' this goon on. It's plain ye ken little o' women fouk, Drumsheugh.”

“Ye juist keekit in, a'm thinking tae see that the hale aucht were in their sta's, eh, gude wife?” and when Jean's face pled guilty, Burnbrae laughed joyfully, and declared that “the elder wes comin' on,” and that “they micht see a mistress in Drumsheugh yet.”

They all did their part, but it was agreed that the doctor excelled beyond competition. He told his best stories in a way that amazed even his faithful elder, while Drumsheugh and Burnbrae watched for the coming point to honour it with vociferous applause, and again would deploy in front to draw forth another favourite. No one could have felt happy if Mr. Cunningham had taken to anecdotage, but his honest effort to follow the lead and be in at the death with each story was delightful. Once also he threw in a quotation from the Georgies, which the doctor declared the cleverest thing he had ever heard, and the abashed man became the object of silent admiration for sixty seconds. One of the lassies, specially dressed for the occasion, was continually bringing in hot water and reserve tea-pots, till the doctor accused Drumsheugh of seven cups, and threatened him with the session for immoderate drinking; and Drumsheugh hinted that the doctor was only one short himself. Simple fooling of country folk, that would sound very poor beside the wit of the city, but who shall estimate the love in Burnbrae's homely room that evening?

When at last the doctor rose to go, in spite of Jean's last remonstrance that he had eaten nothing, Burnbrae said he would like the ministers to take the reading that night, and then they all went into the kitchen, which had been made ready. A long table stood in the centre, and at one end lay the old family Bible; round the table gathered Burnbrae's sons and the serving lads and women. Doctor Davidson motioned to the Free Church minister to take his place at the head.

“This is your family, and your elder's house.” But Cunningham spoke out instantly with a clear voice:

“Doctor Davidson, there is neither Established nor Free Church here this night; we are all one in faith and love, and you were ordained before I was born.”

“I thank you, sir, for this honour,” said the doctor, and Drumsheugh said that he had never seen him look so pleased.

He was already selecting the psalm, when Burnbrae asked leave to say a word, and there was such a stillness that the ticking of the clock in the lobby was heard over the kitchen.

“It isna needfu' for me tae tell ye, freends, that my mind is wi' the Free Kirk in her contention, and a' houp for grace tae obey ma licht as lang as a' live.

“Nae man's conscience, hooever, is a law tae his neebur, but every man maun follow the guidance o' the Speerit; an' gin a' hev said a hasty or bitter word against the Auld Kirk, or called her ony unworthy name thae past years, a' want tae say that nane regrets it mair than a' dae masel, and it becomes me, this nicht, tae ask yir pardon.”

“You never did anything of the kind, Burnbrae,” said the doctor huskily. “I wish to God we were all as good men,” and the Free Kirk elder and the Moderate minister clasped hands across the open Bible. Then the doctor cleared his throat with great majesty, and gave out the Hundred-and-thirty-third Psalm:

And the sweet sound of Eastgate floated out on the peaceful air of the Glen, where the harvest moon was shining upon fields of gold.