“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?” “I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.” Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home. “I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.” Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and drop his eyes. “Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. “The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt. “Only a matter of £4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.” “An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.” “Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will pay you; only give him time.” “Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh. Squire Armour laughed derisively. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially when ye have naught to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered sarcastically, turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, ye ungrateful minx.” Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless with indignation. Presently he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians! A sneaking, crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed upon her. “I’ve had enough of your blasphemy, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”