“Div ye expect the new wumman 'ill ken hoo mickle stairch tae pit in yir stock, an' hoo mickle butter ye like on yir chicken, an' when ye change yir flannels tae a day, an' when ye like anither blanket on yir bed, an' the wy tae mak the currant drink for yir cold?” “No, no, Rebecca, nobody will ever be so good to me as you've been”--the Doctor was getting very shaky. “Then what for wud ye send us awa, and bring in some handless, useless tawpie that cud neither cook ye a decent meal nor keep the Manse wise like? Is't for room? The Manse is as big as ever. Is't for meat? We'ill eat less than she 'ill waste.” “You know better, Rebecca,” said the Doctor, attempting to clear his throat; “it's because... because I cannot afford to...” “A ken very weel, an' John an' me hev settled that For thirty year ye've paid us better than ony minister's man an' manse hoosekeeper in Perthshire, an' ye wantit tae raise oor wages aifter we mairrit. Div ye ken what John an' me hev in the bank for oor laist days?” The Doctor only shook his head, being cowed for once in his life. “Atween us, five hundred and twenty-sax pund.” “Eleven an' sevenpence,” added John, steadying his voice with arithmetic. “It's five year sin we askit ye tae py naethin' mair, but juist gie's oor keep, an' noo the time's come, an' welcome. Hev John or me ever disobeyed ye or spoken back a' thae years?” The Doctor only made a sign with his hand. “We' ill dae't aince, at ony rate, for ye may gie us notice tae leave an' order us oot o' the manse; but here we stop till we're no fit tae serve ye or ye hae nae mair need o' oor service.” “A homologate that”--it was a brave word, and one of which John was justly proud, but he did not quite make the most of it that day. “I thank you from my heart, and... I'll never speak of parting again,” and for the first time they saw tears on the Doctor's cheek. “John,” Rebecca turned on her husband--no man would have believed it of the beadle of Drumtochty, but he was also... “what are ye stoiterin' roond the table for? it's time tae set the Doctor's denner; as for that chicken--” and Rebecca retired to the kitchen, having touched her highest point that day. The insurrection in the manse oozed out, and encouraged a conspiracy of rebellion in which even the meekest people were concerned. Jean Baxter, of Bumbrae, who had grasped greedily at the dairy contract of the manse, when the glebe was let to Netherton, declined to render any account to Rebecca, and the Doctor had to take the matter in hand. “There's a little business, Mrs. Baxter, I would like to settle with you, as I happen to be here.” The Doctor had dropped in on his way back from Whinny Knowe, where Marget and he had been talking of George for two hours. “You know that I have to be, eh... careful now, and I... you will let me pay what we owe for that delicious butter you are good enough to supply.”