“Weel,” resumed Drumsheugh, “there's anither neebur, an' a 'm telt that his prayer is little ahint the minister's at the Free Kirk meetin's, and a' believe it, for a gude life is bund tae yield a good prayer. Is there a man here that wudna be gled tae stand wi' Burnbrae in the Jidgment?” “A'm intendin' tae keep as close as a' can masel,” said Jamie, and there was a general feeling that it would be a wise line. “It's no Milton's preachin' Drumtochty disna like, but his leein', an' that Drumtochty canna abide. Nae man,” summed up Drumsheugh, “hes ony richt tae speak aboot re-leegion ye canna trust in the market.” So it came to pass that Milton counted Drumtochty as an outcast place, because they did not speak about the affairs of the life to come, and Drumtochty would have nothing to do with Milton, because he was not straight in the affairs of the life which now is. Milton might have gone down to the grave condemning and condemned had it not been for his sore sickness, which brought him to the dust of death, and afforded Drumsheugh the opportunity for his most beneficent achievement. “They think he may come roond wi' care,” reported Drumsheugh, “but he 'ill be wakely for twa month, an' he'ill never be the same man again; it's been a terrible whup.” But the kirkyard, for the first time in such circumstances, was not sympathetic. “It's a mercy he's no been taken awa,” responded Hillocks, after a distinct pause, “an' it 'ill maybe be a warnin' tae him; he's no been unco freendly sin he cam intae the Glen, either wi' his tongue or his hands.” “A'm no sayin' he hes, Hillocks, but it's no a time tae cuist up a man's fauts when he's in tribble, an' it's no the wy we've hed in Drumtochty. Milton's no fit tae meddle wi' ony-body noo, nor, for that maitter, tae manage his ain business. There's no mair than twa, acre seen the ploo; a'm dootin' the 'll be a puir sowin' time next spring at Milton.” “Gin he hedna been sic a creetical an' ill-tongued body the Glen wud sune hae cleared up his stubble; div ye mind when Netherton lost his horses wi' the glanders, an' we jined an' did his plooin'? it wes a wise-like day's wark.” “Yir hert's in the richt place,” said Drums-heugh, ignoring qualifications; “we'll haud a plooin' match at Milton, an' gie the cratur a helpin' hand. A'm willin' tae stand ae prize, an' Burnbrae 'ill no be behind; a' wudna say but Hillocks himsel micht come oot wi' a five shillin' bit.” They helped Milton out of bed next Thursday, and he sat in silence at a gable window that commanded the bare fields. Twenty ploughs were cutting the stubble into brown ridges, and the crows followed the men as they guided the shares with stiff resisting body, while Drumsheugh could be seen going from field to field with authority. “What's this for?” inquired Milton at length; “naebody askit them, an'... them an' me hevna been pack (friendly) thae laist twa years.”