Constable made a point of publishing on Saturday as late as light would allow, so that his literature might burst upon the Glen on Sabbath morning with all the charm of a surprise. Whether a man came east or west, he had the benefit of three bills before he reached the kirk and settled down quietly to the one on the right hand pillar of the kirkyard gate. Less than this number of wayside editions would not have served the purpose, because there was a severe etiquette in reading. When Whinnie emerged on the main road and caught sight of “Displenishing Sale,” he would have been ashamed to cross or show any indecent curiosity. He only nodded and proceeded to settle the farm in his mind. The second bill, whose geography he mastered without stopping, verified his conclusion and left him free to run over in his mind the stock and crops that would be offered. A pause not exceeding one minute was allowed for the head of the house at the third bill to detect any gross mistake in his general review, but the examination of minute details was reserved for the large paper edition at the kirkyard. This was studied from the first word to the last in profound silence, but was rigidly excluded from direct quotation on Sabbath. When Whinnie joined the fathers he only referred to Milton's roup as a rumour that had reached his ears, and might have been discussed at length on any other day. Drumsheugh, waking, as it were, from a reverie: “A' wudna wunner gin the Milton roup did come aff sune... there's twa acre mair neeps than a' expeckit.” Then Hillocks would casually remark, as one forced into a distasteful conversation, “The gude wife keeps ae coo, a' hear; she 'ill be taking a pendicle at Kildrummie, a'm judg-in',” but any thorough treatment was hindered by circumstances. The kirkyard was only once carried beyond itself by Jock's bills, and that was when he announced Burnbrae's sale. “Keep's a', fouk, this is no lichtsome,” was all Whinnie could say as he joined the group, and the boxes were passed round without speech. “Weel, weel,” Hillocks said at last, in the tone consecrated to funerals, “he 'ill be sair missed.” It was felt to be an appropriate note, and the mouths of the fathers were opened. “A graund fairmer,” continued Hillocks, encouraged by the sympathetic atmosphere; “he kent the verra day tae sow, an' ye cudna find a thistle on Burnbrae, no, nor a docken. Gin we a' keepit oor land as clean it wud set us better,” and Hillocks spoke with the solemnity of one pointing the moral of a good man's life. “He hed a fine hert tae,” added Whinnie, feeling that Hillocks's eulogy admitted of expansion; “he cam up laist summer when George wes lying in the decline, and he says tae me, 'Whinnie, yir pasture is fair burnt up; pit yir coos in ma second cutting: George maun hae gude milk,' an' they fed a' the summer in Burnbrae's clover. He didna like sic things mentioned, but it disna maitter noo. Marget wes awfu' touched.”