without a word to us
of where we're to go to, and commenting most unfeelingly on all our
failings...."

"You funny person," he murmured, "you're tired. Probably hungry. Where's
that cottage you talked about where they'll give us tea?"

"Over yonder," she quavered, "but I'm not wanting any tea."

But just then a gig drew up beside them, driven by an old man and laden
with a couple of tin trunks and a cornucopia of a woman, who had
snatched the reins out of the old man's hands. "What's this? A roup at
Little Vantage! Feyther, what's happened?" The old man shook his head.
"Feyther, ye niver ken onything." She raised a megaphonic voice.
"Moggie! Moggie Gumley!" A fat young woman with a soap-shining face ran
out of the farmhouse. "Wha's calling me? Och, it's you, Mistress
Cairns!" "Ay, it's me. What's ta'en ye all here? I've been awa' for two
months keepin' hoose for ma brither Jock while his wife's been in the
Infirmary wi' her chumer. I didn't think I'd come back to find a roup at
Little Vantage." "So ye've not haird?" gasped the fat young woman
delightedly. "Feyther's deid o' his dropsy, and Alec and me's awa' to
Canady this day fortnight." She panted it out with so honest a joy in
the commotion, so innocent a disregard of the tragedy of death and
emigration, that Yaverland and Ellen had to turn away and laugh; and he
drew her across the road to the cottage.

The door was opened before they got there. "It's me, Mrs. Lawson!" said
Ellen. "Indeed, I kenned that!" replied the housewife. "I was keeking
out of the window when you came up the road, and I said to masel',
'There's Miss Melville, and she'll be wanting her tea,' so I awa' and
popped the kettle on. Bring your gentleman in. He's a new face, but he's
welcome. Ye'll pardon the parlour being a' of a reek wi' tobaccy, but
Mr. Laidlaw and Mr. Borthwick cam' in and had a cup o' tea and a bit of
a crack. They were both bidding at the roup and some business thegither.
I think Mr. Laidlaw means to buy Cornhaven off Mr. Borthwick and give it
to his son John, wha's married on a Glasca girl, a shelpit wee thing wi'
a Glesca accent like skirling pipes played by a drunken piper." They
watched her while she set the table with tea and scones and strawberry
jam and cheese, and smiled rather vacantly at her stream of gossip,
their natural liking for the woman struggling against their sense of the
superfluity of everybody on earth except each other. When she left them
they ate and