“Aye,” said Anna, “they cam’ and they gaed away to ither lasses that were readier to loe them. For I never saw a lad yet that I could like as well as my great silly brother who should be thinking more concerning his sermon-making than about putting daft thoughts into the heads of maidens.” After this there was silence between us for a while. We had been sitting in the barn with both doors open. The wide arch to the front, opening out into the quadrangle of the courtyard, let in a cool drawing sough of air, and the smaller door at the back let it out again, and gave us at the same time a sweet eye-blink into the orchard, where the apples were hanging mellow and pleasant on the branches, and the leaves hardly yet loosening themselves for their fall. The light sifted through the leaves from the westering sun, dappling the grass and wavering upon the hard-beaten earthen floor of the barn. “I am going over by to Earlstoun!” I said to Anna, without looking up. Anna and I spoke but half our talks out loud. We had been such close comrades all our lives that we understood much without needing to clothe our thoughts in words. Apparently Anna did not hear what I said, so I repeated it. “Dinna,” was all she answered. “And wherefore should I not?” I persisted, argumentatively. “The laird most kindly invited me, indeed laid it on me like an obligation that I should come.” “Ye are going over to Earlstoun to see the laird?” “Why, yes,” I said; “that is, he has a desire to see me. He is the greatest of all the Covenant men, and we have much in common to speak about.” “To-morrow he will be riding by to the market at Kirkcudbright, where he has business. Ye can ride with him to the cross roads of Clachan Pluck and talk all that your heart desires of Kirk and State.” “Anna,” said I, seriously, “I tell you again I am going to the house of Earlstoun to-morrow.” In a moment she dropped her pretence of banter. “Quintin, ye will only make your heart the sorer, laddie.” “And wherefore?” said I. “See the sparkle on the water out there,” she said, pointing to the bosom of Loch Ken far below us, seen through the open door of the barn; “it’s bonny. But can ye gather it in your hand, or wear it in your bosom? Dear and delightsome is this good smell of apples and of orchard freshness, but can ye fold these and carry them with you to the bare manse of Balmaghie for comfort to your heart? No more can ye take the haughtiness of the great man’s daughter, the glance of proud eyes, the heart of one accustomed to obedience, and bring them into subjection to a poor man’s necessities.” “Love can do all,” said I, sententiously. “Aye,” she said, “where love is, it can indeed work all things. But I bid ye remember that love dwells not yet in Mary Gordon’s breast for any man. Hers is not a heart to bend. For rank or fame she may give herself, but not for love.” “Nevertheless,” said I, “I will go to the house of Earlstoun to-morrow at ten o’ the clock.”