bare, heathy country with the breathing, winey air.  Presently White Farm could be seen among aspens, and beyond it the wooded mouth of the glen.  Some one, whistling, turned an elbow of the hill and caught up with the two.  It proved to be one several years their senior, a young man in the holiday dress of a prosperous farmer.  He whistled clearly an old border air and walked without dragging or clumsiness.  Coming up, he ceased his whistling.

“Good day, the both of ye!”

“It’s Robin Greenlaw,” said Alexander, “from Littlefarm.—­You’ve been to the wedding, Robin?”

“Aye.  Janet’s some kind of a cousin.  It’s a braw day for a wedding!  You’ve got with you the new laird’s nephew?—­And how are you liking Black Hill?”

“I like it.”

“I suppose you miss grandeurs abune what ye’ve got there.  I have a liking myself,” said Greenlaw, “for grandeurs, though we’ve none at all at Littlefarm!  That is to say, none that’s just obvious.  Are you going to White Farm?”

Alexander answered:  “I’ve a message from my father for Mr. Barrow.  But after that we’re going through the glen.  Will you come along?”

“I would,” said Greenlaw, seriously, “if I had not on my best.  But I know how you, Alexander Jardine, take the devil’s counsel about setting foot in places bad for good clothes!  So I’ll give myself the pleasure some other time.  And so good day!” He turned into a path that took him presently out of sight and sound.

“He’s a fine one!” said Alexander.  “I like him.”

“Who is he?”

“White Farm’s great-nephew.  Littlefarm was parted from White Farm.  It’s over yonder where you see the water shining.”

“He’s free-mannered enough!”

“That’s you and England!  He’s got as good a pedigree as any, and a notion of what’s a man, besides.  He’s been to Glasgow to school, too.  I like folk like that.”

“I like them as well as you!” said Ian.  “That is, with reservations of them I cannot like.  I’m Scots, too.”

Alexander laughed.  They came down to the water and the stepping-stones before White Farm.  The house faced them, long and low, white among trees from which the leaves were falling.  Alexander and Ian crossed upon the stones, and beyond the fringing hazels the dogs came to meet them.

Jarvis Barrow had all the appearance of a figure from that Old Testament in which he was learned.  He might have been a prophet’s right-hand man, he might have been the prophet himself.  He stood, at sixty-five, lean and strong, gray-haired, but with decrepitude far away.  Elder of the kirk, sternly religious, able at his own affairs, he read his Bible and prospered in his earthly living.  Now he listened to the laird’s message, nodding his head, but saying little.  His staff was in his hand; he was on his way to kirk session; tell the laird that the account was correct.  He stood without his door as though he waited for the youths to give good day and depart.  Alexander had made a movement in this direction when from beyond Jarvis Barrow came a woman’s voice.  It belonged to Jenny Barrow, the farmer’s unmarried daughter, who kept house for him.