“The fairm is worth thirty pund mair rent, an' a' wud hae paid saxty rather than leave my auld hame; but the factor made it a condeetion tae gie up ma kirk.”
“Well, Burnbrae, I never thought you would have left me for a matter of kirks. Could you not have stretched a point for auld lang syne?” and Kilspindie looked hard at the old man.
“Ma Lord, there's naething a' wudna hae dune to stay in Burnbrae but this ae thing. Ye hae been a gude landlord tae me as the auld Earl wes tae ma father, an' it 'ill never be the same tae me again on anither estate; but ye maunna ask me tae gang back on ma conscience.”
The tears came to Burnbrae's eyes, and he rose to his feet.
“A' thocht,” he said, “when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither mind than yir factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi' guid news in ma mooth.
“Gin it be yir wull that we flit, a 'll mak nae mair complaint, an' there's nae bitterness in ma hert. But a' wud like ye tae ken that it 'ill be a sair pairtin'.
“For twa hundred years an' mair there's been a Baxter at Burnbrae and a Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin' farmer, an' the ither a belted earl, but gude freends an' faithfu', an' ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as dear tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.
“A' mind that day the Viscount cam o' age, an' we gaithered tae wush him weel, that a' saw the pictures o' the auld Hays on yir walls, an' thocht hoo mony were the ties that bund ye tae yir hame.
“We haena pictures nor gouden treasures, but there's an' auld chair at oor fireside, an' a' saw ma grandfather in it when a' wes a laddie at the schule, an' a' mind him tellin' me that his grandfather hed sat in it lang afore. It's no worth muckle, an' it's been often mended, but a 'll no like tae see it carried oot frae Burnbrae.
“There is a Bible, tae, that hes come doon, father tae son, frae 1690, and ilka Baxter hes written his name in it, an' 'farmer at Burnbrae,' but it 'ill no be dune again, for oor race 'ill be awa frae Burnbrae for ever.