“But we maunna blame Jock, for there wes a story fleein' aboot that the factor hed got a new fairmer for Burnbrae; he 'ill be the in-comin' tenant, a'm judgin'; he 'ill be comin' in as the factor gaes oot. “Speakin' aboot that, hae ye herd the new factor's name? they were keepin' it quiet on Friday,” and Jamie looked round with much interest. “Ye've a tongue, Jamie,” and Drumsheugh laughed aloud, a luxury hardly known in the Glen, while even Gormack himself made a joyful noise within like the running down of an eight-day clock. “It's an ill job weel ended,” resumed Hillocks, recalling the fathers to sobriety, “an' Burnbrae's gotten his fairm back; but it's bare the day, withoot a beast tae pit in the byres this winter, or a ploo tae turn the stubble. “Nae doot he hed a graund sale, and the fat cattle cowed a'thing for price, but stockin' ower again 'll be a heavy loss; it's a terrible peety his lordship wesna hame suner.” Then they went into matters thoroughly, and Drumsheugh gave judgment. “Gin he hed back his implements, and Jean's coos, an' some o' the auld horse, an' maybe a dozen stirk, h 'd come oot richt aifter a'; a' didna hear the dealers boastin' aboot their bargains laist Friday,” he added with satisfaction. There was a long pause in the conversation, during which Drumsheugh examined a loose slate on the roof of the church from three different points of view, and Jamie Soutar refreshed his remembrance of a neighbouring tombstone. “Div ye mean?” began Whinnie, but broke off at the contempt in Jamie's eye. “Sall,” Hillocks exclaimed in a little. “What think ye, Gormack?” “They 're no veeciously inclined fouk in the Glen,” responded that worthy man, with studied moderation. “A' wudna say but it micht be dune. Maist o' what we 're aifter is in the Glen, some hole or ither. It wud croon a',” and Gormack began to warm. “Nae fear o' the implements,” said Hillocks, in full scent, “nor the puckle young beasts, but a 'll no be satisfeed, neeburs, gin the gude wife disna get back her byre tae the last coo.” “A 've twa stirks,” interrupted Whinnie, taking in the situation at last. “Haud yir tongue till a' coont up the kye,” and Hillocks buckled to work. “It's an aucht byre, and Jean keepit ane; that leaves seeven tae collect; noo a' hae twa masel, an' Netherton bocht the quey; that's three a' richt. “Didna ye get the Angus doddie, Drumsheugh? weel, ye 'ill no be hard tae deal wi'; an' Bogie took anither--he's no here, but he's a cautious man, Bogie; there's nae fear o' him. That's five. “Whar's the lave? Ou aye, a' mind Mary Robertson scrapit up eneuch for the white coo, a fine milker; it wud hardly be richt, maybe, tae ask her--” “Ae coo as gude's anither tae Mary,” broke in Drumsheugh. “A 'll see she disna lose.” “Weel, that's a' richt,” Hillocks went on; “and we 've juist tae find anither, and that 's the hale hypothic.” “It 's no ill tae find,” said Jamie, “but it 'ill beat ye tae get her.”