“Mrs. Bonar, the ploughman’s wife who lives in the cottage up yonder on Bell’s Hill—­do you see it?—­told me she’d often seen the ghosts rising up through the water at night.  And I said to her, ’That’s most interesting.  And what do the ghosts look like?’ ’Och, the very dead spit of thon incandescent mantles my daughter has in her wee flat in Edinburgh.’  Was that not a fine way for a ghost to look?”

He laughed at that, but presently laughed at a private jest of his own, and so fell into disgrace.  For in answer to her enquiring gaze he said, “A reservoir with a churchyard at the bottom of it.  I wondered what cocktail Edinburgh took to keep itself so gay.”  To his surprise, tears came into her eyes.  “Oh, you English!” she snapped.  “Cackling at the Scotch is your one accomplishment.”

But they soon made friends.  The skies intervened to patch it up between them, for presently there broke out a huge windy conflagration of a sunset, which was itself so fine a scarlet show and wrought such magical changes on the common colour of things that she had constantly to call his attention by little intimate cries and tuggings at the sleeve.  This was not soft summer glow, no liquefaction of tints; but the world became mineral as they looked.  The field by the road was changed from a dull winter green to a greenish copper; the bramble bushes cast long steel-blue shadows, and their scarlet and purple leaves looked like snips of painted tin; and the Glencorse Burn on the other side of the field was overhung by bare trees of gold.  Every window of the farmhouse across the valley was a loophole of flame; and here it was evident, from the passing of a multitude of figures about the farm buildings and a babblement that drove in gusts across the valley, there was happening some event that matched the prodigiousness of the strange appearance lent it by the sunset.

“There’s an awful argy-bargying at Little Vantage,” said Ellen, “I wonder what’s going on.”

When they crossed over the burn and turned into the road that led back to the farmhouse they found the dykes plastered with intimations of a sale of live stock.  “Ah, it’s a roup!  Old Mr. Gumley must be dead, poor soul!” And indeed the road was lined with farmers’ gigs, paint and brass-work blazing with the evening light till they looked like fiery chariots that would presently lift to heaven.  About the yard gate there was a great press of hale farmers, gilt and ruddy from the sunset they faced, and vomiting jests at each other out of their great bearded mouths; and in the yard sheep with golden fleece and cattle as bright as dragons ran hither and thither before the sticks of boys who looked like demons with the orange glow on their faces, and who cursed and spat to show they would some-day be men.  Richard and Ellen had to stand back for a moment while a horse was led out; and as it passed a paunchy farmer jocularly struck it between the eyes and roared, “Ye’re no for me, ye auld mare, wi’ your braw beginnings of the ringbone!” And there was so much glee at the mention of deformity in the thick voice, and so much patience in the movement of the mare’s long unshapely head, that the incident was as unpleasing as if it had been an ill-favoured spinster who had been insulted.  Yaverland was roused suddenly by the tiniest sound of a whimper from Ellen.