eriority
of her own common sense--in which, as in the case of all who pride
themselves in the same, there was a good deal more of the common
than of the sense--she had the deepest conviction of Janet's
goodness, and regarded her as a sort of heaven-favoured idiot, whose
utterances were somewhat privileged. Janet, for her part, looked
upon Jean as "an honest wuman, wha 'll get a heap o' licht some
day."

When they had eaten their breakfast, Robert took his pipe to the
barn, saying there was not much danger of fire that day; Janet
washed up the dishes, and sat down to her Book; and Jean went out
and in, attending to many things.

Mean time the rain fell, the wind blew, the water rose. Little
could be done beyond feeding the animals, threshing a little corn in
the barn, and twisting straw ropes for the thatch of the ricks of
the coming harvest--if indeed there was a harvest on the road, for,
as the day went on, it seemed almost to grow doubtful whether any
ropes would be wanted; while already not a few of last year's ricks,
from farther up the country, were floating past the Mains, down the
Daur to the sea. The sight was a dreadful one--had an air of the
day of judgment about it to farmers' eyes. From the Mains, to right
and left beyond the rising ground on which the farm buildings stood,
everywhere as far as the bases of the hills, instead of fields was
water, yellow brown, here in still expanse or slow progress, there
sweeping along in fierce current. The quieter parts of it were
dotted with trees, divided by hedges, shaded with ears of corn; upon
the swifter parts floated objects of all kinds.

Mr. Duff went wandering restlessly from one spot to another, finding
nothing to do. In the gloaming, which fell the sooner that a
rain-blanket miles thick wrapt the earth up from the sun, he came
across from the barn, and, entering the kitchen, dropped, weary with
hopelessness, on a chair.

"I can weel un'erstan'," he said, "what for the Lord sud set doon
Bony an' set up Louy, but what for he sud gar corn grow, an' syne
sen' a spate to sweem awa' wi' 't, that's mair nor mortal man can
see the sense o'.--Haud yer tongue, Janet. I'm no sayin' there's
onything wrang; I'm sayin' naething but the sair trowth, 'at I canna
see the what-for o' 't. I canna see the guid o' 't till onybody.
A'thing 's on the ro'd to the German Ocean. The lan' 's jist
miltin' awa' intill the sea!"

Janet sat silent, knitting hard at a stocki