A rank whiff of tobacco came on the hot air, and a man of fifty crossed the bright yard and entered the dairy. She did not stop churning. “Put that pipe out, Henry Butler; I’ll ha’ no reek i’ my dairy,” she cried; “I had a kern o’ butter as rank as owd hippins last week wi’ one o’ yon gormless wenches settin’ a stinkin’ cheese o’ th’ shelf; th’ De’il himself couldna watch some o’ ye.--An’ what brings ye up fro’ th’ Cotes?” “I put a owd apron ower th’ horse’s head an’ rade up,” said the farmer, mopping his brow with an old snuff-handkerchief; “it’s blistering hot!” “If ye cam’ thro’ th’ Cotes to tell me that I’m obliged to ye, but I kenned it, thank ye.” “Nay, I come for a bit crack wi’ ye, Harriet, aboot yon lad o’ mine.” “Ay?--Tak’ a turn at th’ kern, for ye could wring my shift.” The farmer took the poss-stick in his knotted hands, and she mopped her freckled brow with her apron; then she sat a-straddle on the corner of the stone table and said: “what’s wrang wi’ Harry?” “Wrang?” said the farmer, making the churn rock with his energy. “And what should be wrang wi’ short o’ ane-and-twenty but ye perdition women?” “Ay,” said Harriet composedly, “we’re winsome things, an’ ye canna resist us; not that I’ve seen ye sweat overmuch wi’ trying. Is’t----?” “Ay, is’t: yon black-haired besom, Bessie Wyatt; but th’ sullen trash is packing to-neet.” “Packin’! An’ what’s Harry say?” Farmer Butler scowled out over the hot stackyard. “’Tis what I cam’ to talk to ye aboot.--Now i’ one word, Harriet: wad ye ha’ him?” A little blood came into her dry cheeks. “Ha’ him? Dost mean wed him?” “Ay, and join the farms--there wadna be another property like it this side o’ Pateley Brigg.” “He’s not sent thee?--Not he,” she said sourly; “I’d liefer he did his own courtin’.” The farmer churned angrily, and she watched him keenly. “Then by ----, he shall,” he cried, “or I’ll sell out and build a kirk!”