“A' hae nae choice, then, but tae say No; an' that's ma laist word.”
“Then you and the rest of your friends will march, d' you understand? You may take this for notice at once—and I 'll get some tenants that have respect for—ah—for—in fact, for law and order.”
“Ye may clear the Free Kirk fouk oot o' Drumtochty, an' get new tenants o' some kind; but when ye hae filled the Glen wi' greedy time-servers his lordship 'ill miss the men that coonted their conscience mair than their fairms.”
“If you have quite finished, you may go,” said the factor; “leaving your farm does not seem to touch you much.”
“Sir,” replied Burnbrae with great solemnity, “I pray God you may never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.” Jean was waiting at the top of the brae for her man, and his face told her the event.
“Ye maunna be cast doon, Jean,” and his voice was very tender, “an' a' ken weel ye 'ill no be angry wi' me.”
“Angry?” said Jean; “ma hert failed last nicht for a whilie, but that 's ower noo an' for ever. John a' lu vit ye frae the time we sat in the schule thegither, an' a' wes a happy wumman when ye mairried me.
“A 've been lifted mony a time when a' saw how fouk respeckit ye, and abune a' when ye gaed doon the kirk with the cups in yir hands at the Saicrament, for a' kent ye were worthy.
“Ye 're dearer tae me ilka year that comes and gaes, but a' never lu vit ye as a' dae this nicht, an' a' coont sic a husband better than onything God cud gie me on earth.”
And then Jean did what was a strange thing in Drumtochty—she flung her arms round Burnbrae's neck and kissed him.