White Farm. The house faced them, long and low, white among
trees from which the leaves were falling. Alexander and Ian crossed
upon the stones, and beyond the fringing hazels the dogs came to meet
them.

Jarvis Barrow had all the appearance of a figure from that Old
Testament in which he was learned. He might have been a prophet's
right-hand man, he might have been the prophet himself. He stood, at
sixty-five, lean and strong, gray-haired, but with decrepitude far
away. Elder of the kirk, sternly religious, able at his own affairs,
he read his Bible and prospered in his earthly living. Now he listened
to the laird's message, nodding his head, but saying little. His staff
was in his hand; he was on his way to kirk session; tell the laird
that the account was correct. He stood without his door as though he
waited for the youths to give good day and depart. Alexander had made
a movement in this direction when from beyond Jarvis Barrow came a
woman's voice. It belonged to Jenny Barrow, the farmer's unmarried
daughter, who kept house for him.

"Father, do you gae on, and let the young gentlemen bide a wee and
rest their banes and tell a puir woman wha never gaes onywhere the
news!"

"Then do ye sit awhile, laddies, with the womenfolk," said Jarvis
Barrow. "But give me pardon if I go, for I canna keep the kirk
waiting."

He was gone, staff and gray plaid and a collie with him. Jenny, his
daughter, appeared in the door.

"Come in, Mr. Alexander, and you, too, sir, and have a crack with us!
We're in the dairy-room, Elspeth and Gilian and me."

She was a woman of forty, raw-boned but not unhandsome, good-natured,
capable, too, but with more heart than head. It was a saying with her
that she had brains enough for kirk on the Sabbath and a warm house
the week round. Everybody knew Jenny Barrow and liked well enough
bread of her baking.

The room to which she led Ian and Alexander had its floor level with
the turf without the open door. The sun flooded it. There came from
within the sound, up and down, of a churn, and a voice singing:

"O laddie, will ye gie to me
A ribbon for my fairing?"

CHAPTER VI

It grew that Ian was telling stories of cities--of London and of
Paris, for he had been there, and of Rome, for he had been there. He
had seen kings and queens, he had seen the Pope--

"Lord save us!" ejaculated Jenny Barrow.

He leaned against the dairy wall and the sun fell over him, and he
loo