“Come intae the hoose, Jean,” said Burnbrae, taking her by the arm; “it 's ower tryin' for ye; we maun hae oor half oor afore the roup begins.”
Burnbrae and Jean never said a word about such secret things, and indeed there was not in them a trace of Pharisee, but their children and the serving folk knew why the old people always disappeared after the midday meal.
“It's a black shame,” said Bell to her neighbour as they cut up cheese for the roup, “tae cast sic a gude man oot o' his hame; deil tak' them that dae 't.”
“Be quiet, wumman, or the maister 'ill hear ye; but ye 're richt aboot whar they 'ill gang for meddling wi' the elder”—for they had not learned the Shorter Catechism, without profit, in Drumtochty.
When Brunbrae went out again, Jock Constable had arrived, and an old mare was being run up and down the field at such speed as a limp allowed.
“Keep her rinnin', laddie,” Jock was shouting from the middle of the fat cattle; “she 'ill be as soople as a three-year-auld afore the fouk come.”
“What's this ye 're aifter wi' the mare, Jock?”
“Doctoring her stiffness, Burnbrae; it wears aff as sune as she gets warm, and the fouk micht as weel see her at her best.
“It 'ill pit a five-pund note on her,” continued Jock, “an' a'm no tae gie a warranty wi' onything the day.
“Man, hoo did ye no get the wricht tae gie those cairts a lick o' pent? They did it at Pit-foodles, and there wes an auld corn cairt went aff for new.”