“Na, na, John, it wud juist fret me tae see it wi' nae milk tae fill it, for it's no an ae-coo-kirn mine like a pendicler's (small farmer's), an' a' wud raither no look back aifter we 've awa',” but Jean's hands were shaking as she laid down the wooden stamp with which she had marked the best butter that went to Muirtown market that generation. On Thursday forenoon the live-stock was gathered and penned in the field below the garden, where the dead lassie's name bloomed in fragrant mignonette. Burnbrae and Jean saw all their gear, save the household furniture, set out for sale. She had resolved to be brave for his sake, but every object in the field made its own appeal to her heart. What one read in the auctioneer's catalogue was a bare list of animals and implements, the scanty plenishing of a Highland farm. Jean saw everything in a golden mist of love. It was a perfectly preposterous old dogcart that ought to have been broken up long ago, but how often she had gone in it to Muirtown on market days with John, and on the last journey he had wrapped her up as tenderly as when she was a young bride. The set of silver-plated harness--but there was not much plating left--Jean had bought from a Muirtown saddler with savings from her butter money, and had seen the ostler fit on the old mare--her foal, old enough himself now, was to be sold to-day--against John's coming from the cattle mart. He was so dazzled by the sheen of the silver that he passed his own conveyance in the stable yard--he never heard the end of that--and he could only shake his fist at her when she came from her hiding-place, professing great astonishment. John might laugh at her, but she saw the people admiring the turnout as they drove along the street in Muirtown, and, though it took them three hours to reach Burnbrae, the time was too short for the appreciation of that harness. It seemed yesterday, but that was seven-and-twenty year ago. “Come intae the hoose, Jean,” said Burnbrae, taking her by the arm; “it 's ower tryin' for ye; we maun hae oor half oor afore the roup begins.” Burnbrae and Jean never said a word about such secret things, and indeed there was not in them a trace of Pharisee, but their children and the serving folk knew why the old people always disappeared after the midday meal. “It's a black shame,” said Bell to her neighbour as they cut up cheese for the roup, “tae cast sic a gude man oot o' his hame; deil tak' them that dae 't.” “Be quiet, wumman, or the maister 'ill hear ye; but ye 're richt aboot whar they 'ill gang for meddling wi' the elder”--for they had not learned the Shorter Catechism, without profit, in Drumtochty. When Brunbrae went out again, Jock Constable had arrived, and an old mare was being run up and down the field at such speed as a limp allowed. “Keep her rinnin', laddie,” Jock was shouting from the middle of the fat cattle; “she 'ill be as soople as a three-year-auld afore the fouk come.”