“Na, na, there's waur fouk in the coonty than oor neeburs,” and now every one listened with both his ears; “the fac is, there's no ae disobleeging, ill-condeetioned wratch in Drumtochty, or ane that wudna dae his pairt by a gude man.” Whereupon the smith struck a mighty blow, and the sparks flew to the roof in celebration of a great achievement. “It's a broon and white caufie ye hev, smith,” were Drumsheugh's last words. “Ye micht bring it up the mornin's aifternoon aboot fower, and slip it intae the park afore the hoose.” “That's the stiffest job Drumsheugh ever pit his hand tae, an' he's dune it weel,” and then the smith meditated, “hoo did he ever get roond Milton?” Hillocks came in late and threw some light on that problem. “A' met Drumsheugh comin' doon frae Milton, and a' lookit at him. “The 'ill be nane o' Jean's byre missin' the morn, Hillocks.” “That's a' he said, but his face wes as red as the harvest mune, and you wud hae thocht tae see his walk that he wes the Earl o' Kilspindie.” Burnbrae was afterwards amazed at the duplicity of Drumtochty, which compassed him with lies and befooled him on every hand, in his local efforts to restock his farm. Hillocks declined to treat for restoration till he knew how prices stood on Friday, and Netherton, his fellow-elder, was doubtful whether he could let him have two carts, while Drumsheugh refused politely but firmly to cancel his purchase in cows. Drumtochty was triumphant over Burnbrae's victory, and full of sympathy with him in his position, but there were limits to kindness, and the Glen meant to stick by their bargains. “It's no what a' wud hae expeckit o' the neeburs, an' least o' a' frae Drumsheugh,” Jean complained, as she sat on Thursday afternoon in the garden. Burnbrae had just returned from a very disappointing visit to Donald Menzies, who expounded a recent conflict with the devil in minute detail, but would not come within a mile of business. “We maunna judge the fouk hardly,” said Burnbrae; “a bargain 's a bargain; they gave top prices, an' nae doot they wantit what they bocht. They did their pairt at the roup, an' it wud be unreasonable tae ask mair,” but Burnbrae was inwardly perplexed. An hour afterwards James Soutar explained to Jean that he happened to be passing, and thought he would give them “a cry,” and ended by dragging Burnbrae off to the most distant field on the farm to decide when a patch of oats he had bought in the roup would be ready for the scythe. He then settled on a dyke, and for two hours fought the great war over again from beginning to end, with a keen dramatic instinct and an amazing flow of caustic commentary. “A 'll no deny,” when Burnbrae compelled him to return for tea, “that a'm disappointed in the fouk sin laist Friday. They micht hae let their bargains gae an' sent ye up the rough o' the stockin'.