purple leaves looked like
snips of painted tin; and the Glencorse Burn on the other side of the
field was overhung by bare trees of gold. Every window of the farmhouse
across the valley was a loophole of flame; and here it was evident, from
the passing of a multitude of figures about the farm buildings and a
babblement that drove in gusts across the valley, there was happening
some event that matched the prodigiousness of the strange appearance
lent it by the sunset.

"There's an awful argy-bargying at Little Vantage," said Ellen, "I
wonder what's going on."

When they crossed over the burn and turned into the road that led back
to the farmhouse they found the dykes plastered with intimations of a
sale of live stock. "Ah, it's a roup! Old Mr. Gumley must be dead, poor
soul!" And indeed the road was lined with farmers' gigs, paint and
brass-work blazing with the evening light till they looked like fiery
chariots that would presently lift to heaven. About the yard gate there
was a great press of hale farmers, gilt and ruddy from the sunset they
faced, and vomiting jests at each other out of their great bearded
mouths; and in the yard sheep with golden fleece and cattle as bright as
dragons ran hither and thither before the sticks of boys who looked like
demons with the orange glow on their faces, and who cursed and spat to
show they would some-day be men. Richard and Ellen had to stand back for
a moment while a horse was led out; and as it passed a paunchy farmer
jocularly struck it between the eyes and roared, "Ye're no for me, ye
auld mare, wi' your braw beginnings of the ringbone!" And there was so
much glee at the mention of deformity in the thick voice, and so much
patience in the movement of the mare's long unshapely head, that the
incident was as unpleasing as if it had been an ill-favoured spinster
who had been insulted. Yaverland was roused suddenly by the tiniest
sound of a whimper from Ellen.

"What's the matter?" he asked tenderly.

"Nothing," she quivered. "There's something awful sad about the evening
sometimes. I've got an end of the world feeling." And indeed there was
something awesome and unnatural about this quiet hour in which there was
so much light and so little heat, in this furnace of the skies from
which there flowed so glacial a wind. "Supposing the end of the world is
like this," said Ellen, nearly crying. "A lot of beefy, red-faced angels
buying us up and taking us off to their own places