“When a' wes a laddie, the doctor's father wes in the poopit, an' Dominie Cameron wes in the schule, an' yir father rode up an' doon the Glen, an' they 're a' gane. A' can see at a time in kirk the face that used tae be at the end of ilka seat, an' the bairns in the middle, an' the gude wife at the top: there's no ane a' canna bring up when the doctor's at the sermon. “Wae's me, the auld fouk that were in Burnbrae, an' Hillocks, an' Whinny Knowe are a' dead and buried, ma ain father an' mother wi' the lave, an' their bairns are makin' ready tae follow them, an' sune the 'ill be anither generation in oor places.” He paused, but Maclure knew he had not finished. “That's no the warst o't, for naebody wants tae live ower lang, till he be cripple an' dottle (crazy.) A' wud raither gang as sune as a' cudna manage masel, but... we hev nae word o' them. They've said gude-bye, and gane oot o' the Glen, an' fouk say they 're in the land o' the leal. It 's a bonny song, an' a' dinna like onybody tae see me when it's sung, but... wha kens for certain... aboot that land?” Still Maclure made no sign. “The sun 'ill come up frae Strathmore, and set abune Glen Urtach, an' the Tochty 'ill rin as it dis this nicht, an' the 'ill be fouk sowin' the seed in spring and githerin' in the corn in hairst, an' a congregation in the kirk, but we 'ill be awa an'... Weelum, wull that be... the end o' us?” And there was such a tone in Drumsheugh's voice that the dog whined and licked his hand. “No, Drumsheugh, it 'ill no be the end,” said the doctor in a low, quiet voice, that hardly sounded like his own. “A've often thocht it's mair like the beginnin'. Oor forbears are oot o' sicht, an' a' wudna want tae hae them back, but nae man 'ill ever gar me believe the kirkyaird hauds Drumtochty. “Na, na, a've watched the Glen for mony a year, an' the maist hertsome sicht a' hae seen is the makin' o' men an' weemen. They're juist thochtless bairns tae begin wi', as we were oorsels, but they 're no dune wi' schule aifter they leave Domsie. “Wark comes first, and fechtin' awa wi' oor cauld land and wringin' eneuch oot o't tae pay for rent and livin' pits smeddum (spirit) into a man. Syne comes luve tae maist o's, an' teaches some selfish, shallow cratur tae play the man for a wumman's sake; an' laist comes sorrow, that gars the loudest o's tae haud his peace. “It's a lang schulin', but it hes dune its wark weel in Drumtochty. A'm no sayin' oor fouk are clever or that they haena fauts, but a'm prood to hev been born and lived ma days in the Glen. A' dinna believe there's a leear amang us--except maybe Milton, an' he cam frae Muirtown--nor a cooard wha wudna mak his hand keep his head; nor a wastrel, when Charlie Grant's in Ameriky; nor a hard-herted wratch 'at wudna help his neebur.