“What’s the matter?” he asked tenderly.

“Nothing,” she quivered.  “There’s something awful sad about the evening sometimes.  I’ve got an end of the world feeling.”  And indeed there was something awesome and unnatural about this quiet hour in which there was so much light and so little heat, in this furnace of the skies from which there flowed so glacial a wind.  “Supposing the end of the world is like this,” said Ellen, nearly crying.  “A lot of beefy, red-faced angels buying us up and taking us off to their own places without a word to us of where we’re to go to, and commenting most unfeelingly on all our failings....”

“You funny person,” he murmured, “you’re tired.  Probably hungry.  Where’s that cottage you talked about where they’ll give us tea?”

“Over yonder,” she quavered, “but I’m not wanting any tea.”

But just then a gig drew up beside them, driven by an old man and laden with a couple of tin trunks and a cornucopia of a woman, who had snatched the reins out of the old man’s hands.  “What’s this?  A roup at Little Vantage!  Feyther, what’s happened?” The old man shook his head.  “Feyther, ye niver ken onything.”  She raised a megaphonic voice.  “Moggie!  Moggie Gumley!” A fat young woman with a soap-shining face ran out of the farmhouse.  “Wha’s calling me?  Och, it’s you, Mistress Cairns!” “Ay, it’s me.  What’s ta’en ye all here?  I’ve been awa’ for two months keepin’ hoose for ma brither Jock while his wife’s been in the Infirmary wi’ her chumer.  I didn’t think I’d come back to find a roup at Little Vantage.”  “So ye’ve not haird?” gasped the fat young woman delightedly.  “Feyther’s deid o’ his dropsy, and Alec and me’s awa’ to Canady this day fortnight.”  She panted it out with so honest a joy in the commotion, so innocent a disregard of the tragedy of death and emigration, that Yaverland and Ellen had to turn away and laugh; and he drew her across the road to the cottage.

The door was opened before they got there.  “It’s me, Mrs. Lawson!” said Ellen.  “Indeed, I kenned that!” replied the housewife.  “I was keeking out of the window when you came up the road, and I said to masel’, ‘There’s Miss Melville, and she’ll be wanting her tea,’ so I awa’ and popped the kettle on.  Bring your gentleman in.  He’s a new face, but he’s welcome.  Ye’ll pardon the parlour being a’ of a reek wi’ tobaccy, but Mr. Laidlaw and Mr. Borthwick cam’ in and had a cup o’ tea and a bit of a crack.  They were both bidding at the roup and some business thegither.  I think Mr. Laidlaw means to buy Cornhaven off Mr. Borthwick and give it to his son John, wha’s married on a Glasca girl, a shelpit wee thing wi’ a Glesca accent like skirling pipes played by a drunken piper.”  They watched her while she set the table with tea and scones and strawberry jam and cheese, and smiled rather vacantly at her stream of gossip, their natural liking for the woman struggling against their sense of the superfluity of everybody