Ended, a
decent pause was made, then all took place, Jarvis Barrow and his
daughter and granddaughter, Robin Greenlaw, Thomas and Willy, Menie
and Merran. The cold meat, the bread, and other food were passed from
hand to hand, the ale poured. The Sunday hush, the Sunday voices,
continued to hold. Jarvis Barrow would have no laughter and idle
clashes at his table on the Lord's day. Menie and Merran and Willy
kept a stolid air, with only now and then a sidelong half-smile or
nudging request for this or that. Elspeth ate little, sat with her
brown eyes fixed out of the window. Robin Greenlaw ate heartily
enough, but he had an air distrait, and once or twice he frowned. But
Jenny Barrow could not long keep still and incurious, even upon the
Sabbath day.
"Eh, Robin, what was your crack with the laird?"
"He wants to buy Warlock for James Jardine. He's got his ensign's
commission to go fight the French."
"Eh, he'll be a bonny lad on Warlock! I thought you wadna sell him?"
"I'll sell to Glenfernie."
The farmer spoke from the head of the table. "I'll na hae talk, Robin,
of buying and selling on the day! It clinks like the money-changers
and sellers of doves."
Thomas, his helper, raised his head from a plate of cold mutton.
"Glenfernie was na at kirk. He's na the kirkkeeper his father was. Na,
na!"
"Na," said the farmer.
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