“‘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 gowden 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 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’ll no’ be dune again, for oor race ’ill be awa frae Burnbrae for ever.
“‘Be patient wi’ me, ma Lord, for it’s the laist time we’re like tae meet, an’ there’s anither thing A want tae say, for it’s heavy on ma hert.
“‘When the factor told me within this verra room that we maun leave, he spoke o’ me as if A hed been a lawless man, an’ it cut me mair than ony ither word.
“‘Ma Lord, it’s no’ the men that fear their God that ’ill brak the laws, an’ A ken nae Baxter that wes ither than a loyal man tae his King and country.
“‘Ma uncle chairged wi’ the Scots Greys at Waterloo, and A mind him tellin’, when A wes a wee laddie, hoo the Hielanders cried oot, “Scotland for ever,” as they passed.
“‘A needna tell ye aboot ma brither, for he wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol, and the letter ye sent tae Burnbrae is keepit in that Bible for a heritage.
“‘A’ll mention naething aither o’ ma ain laddie, for ye’ve said mair than wud be richt for me, but we coont it hard that when oor laddie hes shed his blude like an honest man for his Queen, his auld father and mither sud be driven frae the hame their forebears hed for seeven generations.’”
What a family! The sergeant with the V. C., ma uncle who chairged wi’ the Scots Greys, and ma brither who wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol, and, of course, the Bible has to be lugged in. What wonder that at this outburst of Scottish reticence, so to say, Lord Kilspindie rose to his feet. In the twinkling of a paragraph or two the shallow, monstrous, black-hearted English factor is, need one say, coming in for a bit of his Lordship’s mind.